Those powerful thighs, that broad, masculine chest
Doctors at a besieged innercity clinic wrestle with the decision to condemn children to a future without hope.
Marino sipped cold coffee from a white styrofoam cup. He stood in his corner of the office he shared with the clinic staff. A bricked up fireplace ran along the wall nearest his desk, his clarinet on the mantle. Each day started with a little klezmer or polka, something to amuse the staff before the day began.
He nodded and smiled as they came in – “Morning, Dr. Marino”, “Morning, Janet.”, “Yo, Peter.”, “Yo yourself, Brian.” – performing a headcount.
He was one shy. Who…
Pahtmus’ and Officer Houle’s voices rose above the chants and hollers of protesters outside the clinic, beyond the perimeter fencing.
“You know you can’t park here?”
“I work here. You’ve seen me every day this week.”
“How come you don’t have a sticker on your car?”
“This is the first day I drove my car.”
“You got a sticker?”
Marino nodded to one of the new volunteers, “Vicki, could you run out with a parking permit for Dr. Pahtmus, please.”
He met Pahtmus in the entranceway. “Pretty loud today,” Marino said.
“Ah. You heard.”
“A little. You’re in triage today.”
Pahtmus nodded and shuffled off to the waiting and reception area.
“Wait a second. You’ll need this.” Marino held out a folding chair.
“Uncomfortable and austere is not chic, my friend.” Pahtmus waded into the sea of too many people and too much noise.
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