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my name it said, “Hippie health nut; hard drug symptoms.” I’d put it down and was puzzling over some possible “hard drug symptoms” when he came back with a vial of Gaudium and told me to eat, even if I wasn’t hungry. Then he walked into the next examining room, where reclined the sveltest of the svelte. I was so stunned I missed what was surely a terrific shot at her pudenda. Driving home, I regained my composure enough to be pissed off. I gave the capsules to Otto. He loves that shit. Pops those things like Life Savers and still he eats like a catfish.
    I’d figured I would hit it off with a nutritionist, that I’d develop some rapport and go back to him for the two physicals I’d need for the season. You have to get one before the first league match, and then you have to get another one if you plan to drop down a weight when the classes come up.
    Dad’s doctor is a myopic old fart who laughs like hell at me anytime I use a medical term or ask a medical question. He makes me feel about as intelligent as a grapefruit. But he set Mom straight as an arrow, so I don’t mind going to him instead of a nutritionist. I don’t know the extent to which he relies on God’s healing powers. Lucky for me I went to see him. He had this medical student with him from some place in Ohio, doing what they call a “preceptorship,” which is a brief practical introduction to the kind of medicine you intend to practice. You live with the doctor and see what it’s really like to be one.
    The medical student’s name was Max Mokeskey. Max was doing his preceptorship in Spokane so he could hike in themountains and fish in the lakes and streams and hunt birds in the Palouse. I liked him. He laughed at me and told me I was full of shit and that I’d surely die if I tried to hit 147. I told him I’d already come down from 176 to the 155 I weighed then. That impressed him. We talked for a couple hours. Old Dr. Livengood wanted him to get to know patients. He said that was the essence of a successful family practice. We talked about my plans and his plans and about hiking and fishing and hunting birds. While we talked I got my physical and was informed I have a roving testicle. Max called my exobiology idea bullshit. He said few specialists in any field of medicine have time to do anything but read their journals and be present at the auditing of their taxes. He said family practice gives you at least a little time to yourself and a chance to have relationships with your patients as people instead of just diseases. He also said there were few trout streams out in space, where exobiology will be practiced when I finish med school. He didn’t actually convince me, but he sure was a lot better example of a physician than that nutritionist.
    I don’t know what kind of doctor I want to be. For now I’ve got to be a teratologist and study that monster Shute.
    Whatever kind of doctor I become, I hope I always make time to read and see movies and talk about them with my friends. I hope I meet people in college who like to do this. When I get home tonight I’ll proofread a paper I wrote on The Water-Method Man , a novel by John Irving, who is a former wrestler. The paper is for a course I’m taking by mail from Eastern Washington State College. I wrote my last one onDon Delillo’s End Zone . I got a B. The instructor wrote that my approach was too personal and that I misunderstood the book. He said it was a metaphor, not about football at all. Beats me what it would be a metaphor for. Carla thought it was about how living with the bomb fucks us up. I still think it was about football.
    I’m almost a college sophomore in terms of credits. I hope to be one by the time I graduate. They don’t let you take premed courses by mail, so I’m getting some other basic stuff out of the way. I finished my high school biology, chemistry, physics, and calculus