Doc Fortenberry got up this morning feeling like something that fell out of the south end of a northbound mule. He rushed to the bathroom and threw up. In a few minutes, though, he was drinking coffee and munching on a stale Pop Tart that had the texture of soggy cardboard. Somehow he managed to keep it down. He took a few self-prescribed pills and looked at himself in the mirror. His face had a greenish tinge and his eyes were bloodshot. His head was throbbing and felt like it might explode. He thought he was passing out, so he sat down on the couch and put his head between his knees. At first he thought he might have a pheochromocytoma or perhaps a temporal lobe malfunction — or worse — but he finally made the proper diagnosis: he had a hangover bigger than Dallas!
He went over to the bar and had some hair-of-the-dog that bit him. He looked at his watch and grimaced. His hands were shaking so severely that he laughed out loud. He took one more double shot of vodka to calm his nerves. In a few minutes he was feeling a little better — until he smashed his big toe on a leg of the wrought iron coffee table. Doc let out a blood-curdling scream and ran to the powder room where he threw up cardboard-like morsels into the sink.
A few weeks earlier Mrs. Fortenberry had left her husband for a young intern. Doc actually knew the guy; they both worked down at Parkland Hospital. He had even played golf with the son-of-a-bitch! He may have introduced this guy to his wife but he couldn’t remember. Well, the rumors were flying and he had been the recipient of many awkward smiles and phony words of sympathy. His boss even suggested that he take as much time off as he needed to get over this “thing.” Doc had declined. No, he could handle this by himself. If he could survive a M.A.S.H. unit in ‘Nam for ten months, he could definitely survive this little old thing.
He had thought about beating the crap out of that punk but then decided instead to go a few rounds with the vodka and pills. So far his adversaries had beaten him in every round. But Doc Fortenberry was no quitter! He was going to pull through this whole thing and show everybody that he had a handle on the situation. His lawyers had told him that it was an open-and-shut case, but that revelation was no comfort to his broken heart, his shattered ego, and the subsequent loneliness.
As he got dressed he wondered about his wife’s whereabouts. Was she shacked up with that filthy scumbag? Maybe they were making love at that very moment. She was probably screaming out that little peckers name at the top of her two-timing lungs: “Dr. Walter Fine! Oh God, Dr. Walter Fine!” The more he thought about it the angrier he got. Without thinking, Doc threw a right jab to the bedroom door. He collapsed to the floor in agony. His knuckles were bleeding. At least he could move his fingers. He hadn’t broken anything but it hurt like hell. He curled up in the fetal position and cried like a baby. It was the first time he had cried since she left him and it felt good to finally get it off his chest.
Soon he took a deep breath, picked himself up and went to the bathroom where he cleaned his hand and put a Band-Aid over his knuckles. He combed his gray hair and put a few drops of Visine in each of his unfocused eyes. He gargled with vodka. Doc stared at his watch and finally deciphered the time. He was late! He swallowed a handful of pills and ran out the front door fumbling with his car keys. He had to hurry – he was due in surgery in exactly forty-six minutes!