Chapter Two

Trey and Sylvia live in a nice older apartment off-campus. As they finish dinner the weekend before Thanksgiving, their conversation turns to their fellow classmates. Knowing that Eddie plans to stay in town and that David has put himself up in a little mom-and-pop motel nearby, they decide it would be nice to have them over for dinner.

“Yeah,” says Sylvia. “David’s got to be getting tired of ordering pizza and Chinese. Hey, let’s invite Dr. D., too!”

Trey shakes his head.

“Sorry, honey,” he says. “I know he’s the attending ER doc at the hospital this weekend. Then he’s leaving for Washington. Something about staying with his brother up in D. C. this coming week for Thanksgiving.”

“Ahhh, that’s too bad. I’m glad for him, though.”

The telephone rings and Sylvia answers it.

“Hello.... David! We were just talking about you. We want you and Eddie to come to dinner on Tuesday... .You can? Great!... Bye!? Uh, David, you called us, remember?... Hmmm, no. I don’t think we did know that. That will work out great!.... Okay, bye.”

Sylvia turns to Trey, shaking her head in wonder as she hangs up the phone.

“Guess what? Doctor D.’s brother is going to be on television on Tuesday night. Some special on CNN. Can you believe it?”

“Hey, that’s great! We’ll watch it after dinner with the guys.”

Sylvia starts smiling.

“And let’s make sure that we tape a copy for Doctor D. because...”

Trey begins laughing and picks up the idea.

“... because even though it’s his brother, if it’s on at the ‘top’ of the show, he’ll miss it! He’s late for everything!”

Sylvia picks up a VCR tape and lays it on top of the television.

“That’s our Doctor D.! – I wonder what he’s up to tonight?”

Light is shining from just one window in the sub-basement of one of the medical school’s older buildings. Inside Dewitt sits watching an older grizzled man in coveralls work on some sort of a contraption. Artificial limbs adorn just about all the wall space save the door of the room, a door that has its ground-glass window marked with “Prosthetics Department.”

Dewitt wonders aloud, “So you think this one will work, Sarge?”

Sarge doesn’t stop his tinkering.

“All I can do is keep a’trying. And you know I’ll keep a’trying. What I want to know is why you need somethin’ to get you scootin’ any faster than yer dad blame hands’ll do anyway?”

Dewitt laughs and hands Sarge a wrench.

“Let’s just say I’m tired of always being the last one to arrive at those ‘Code Blues.’ – But, Sarge, isn’t that thing you are making a might small to scoot me along, as you say?”

“Dewitt Houston, quit yer whelpin’! I ain’t attached the dad blame tank yet.”

Sarge picks up what looks like a small air tank and shakes it at Dewitt.

“You and yer brother Jesse. Just alike. He’s always a comin’ down here from Washington lookin’ for me to build him arms and legs and bodies. And he won’t never tell me about the whys or the what-fors or nothin’!”

“Well, Sarge, if it makes you feel any better, he doesn’t put me in the picture much, either.”

Sarge keeps working. He waggles a wrench in the air for effect.

“Dang C.I.A.! I thought they was outa ‘busy-ness’ once some of them Communist fellers was gone... Okay, here ya go.”

Sarge attaches the air tank to his contraption, then attaches the whole apparatus to Dewitt’s wheelchair.

Dewitt is pleased.

“Vroom, Vroom! Thanks, partner,” he beams. “Hmmm. Zero to a hundred in about eight minutes. Hee-hee. So how much do I owe you?”

Of course Sarge is having none of it.

“Oh, get on out of here, you young whippersnapper!”