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have . . . No,
ma’am, that’s the left side again. Honestly, I have no clue why your husband
told you that . . . Well, you married him, dear.”
    Sanjay Patel, the floor manager
whose cubicle is located to the left of Jacob’s workplace leaned back into his
neighbor’s sight-line and desperately signaled him to be polite.
    Jacob Cope offered Sanjay a
thumbs-up. “My apologies, Mrs. Badcock, I’m sure your husband is . . .”
He listened to her gruff reply. “No, ma’am, I said Babcock.” He lowered the
volume on his headphones as the woman’s rants grew louder. “Ma’am . . .excuse
me . . . I understand, it was an honest mistake. But
seriously, either way, there’s still a cock in your name-- that’s not my doing.
Hello? Hello? Geez, some people get so touchy.”
    Sanjay stared at him,
slack-jawed. “Jacob, these are paying clients. You cannot treat them in this
manner.”
    “It was an honest mistake. Some
people, no matter what you do . . . they’re gonna hate you.
And another thing -- all this apologizing . . . it’s
un-American. Believe me, my people don’t like it. It makes us feel uneasy.
We’re calling to get our computer running again and some foreign guy I don’t
even know keeps apologizing . . . for what? True story:
Back in Manhattan some chick gave me crabs and she never apologized, and I had
to shave my balls. First time you do that – it’s scary as shit. I still dated
her, though . . . damn, she was hot.”
    “Jacob, being polite is simply a
means of showing respect to our—”
    “Hold that thought.” Jacob’s cell
phone vibrated in his pants pocket. He waited until the second tingle before
answering it. “What’s up, big brother?”
    “Listen carefully and tonight you
could be balls-deep inside something with a pulse. Her name’s Nancy and she’s
the sister of one of my patients . . . I mean, she’s the
girlfriend’s sister—anyway, she’s very cute and we’re all going bowling tonight
at eight. Go home, shower, trim the bird’s nest you’ve got growing on your
face, then pick me up at my office at seven-thirty in your van and we’ll ride
over to the bowling alley together.”
    “Vin, you hate my van. You won’t
even let me park it in the driveway.”
    “Shut up and pay attention.
Helen’s meeting us at the bowling alley in her car. If things go well, I’ll
drive home with Helen and you can give Nancy a ride back to her place in the
Scooby-Doo van. Get it?”
    “Got it. Wait . . . who’s
Nancy?”
    “Your date.”
    “I don’t know, Vin. It sounds
great and all, but according to my horoscope, the timing’s not good. Plus, my
on-line therapist just diagnosed me with cainophobia.”
    “What are you afraid of now? The
bible? ”
    “Cainophobia is a fear of
newness. Maybe if we waited a few more weeks?”
    “No way, Sigmund Freud, it’s
gotta be tonight.”
    “Can I at least bring Dubuya?”
    “Dubuya?”
    “My George Bush dummy. I could
practice my act.”
    “No! No puppets, no sex dolls,
just you. See you at seven-thirty.”

 
     

     
     
    FIRST
IMPRESSIONS
     
    Vincent Cope paced
beneath the green and white awning of his medical center, his eyes focused on
the parking lot entrance from State Road 7. Seven-forty-three . . . where
the hell is he?
    Ten minutes passed before the
1976 Volkswagen van with the two-tone white and tangerine-orange paint turned
into the medical center parking lot, its rotting dual tail pipes belching
fumes.
    Vin yanked open the passenger door,
the rusted hinges squealing in protest. Stepping on an empty McDonald’s cup, he
climbed up into the vehicle, situating himself on the torn plastic upholstered
seat. “You’re late.”
    “Sorry. I was at the retirement
home, visiting our mother. Ma’s very upset with you, Vincent.”
    “Ma’s been upset at me since my
second year at Med School when I decided to become a gynecologist instead of a
brain surgeon.”
    “She says you