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margie 1
margie 2
margie 3
margie 4
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| *The Heart of Marjorie* |
| Page 2 |
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| I awoke from an itchy-moist, blanket-strewn, half-assed sleep at about six AM. Slowly I pieced together the disparate elements of my insomnia into a unifying theme as my brain booted up: Margie's physical. And I was back at it again. Reloads not a problem. I kept peeking in the Pandora's box of exam scenarios- all of them as irresistible to contemplate as they were mind-wrecking to visualize. The details and the demon therein... The bra is a barrier to a proper auscultation of the mitral region. Now, does one have the examinee lift the bra to expose the apical impulse, or unhook the bra and slide the strap off the left shoulder, or does one ask the young woman remove it entirely? And the breasts themselves can impede the acoustics; pendulous breasts mandate the "lift and listen" technique, and whether the lifter is the examiner or the examinee is also a intriguing variable... However, Margie's 32As (if that- slender as she was) would require no manipulation for chestpiece placement... But the doctor would probably do it anyway, the bastard. He can do whatever he likes. Help yourself to a scoop of creamy vanilla, doc- it's on the house... I could feel another batch loading- a warm ticklish surging and expansion underway from beneath the cellar stairs. All hail the Repopulater! Scary. How many squirts in twelve hours? Twelve? Fifteen? Way too many and nowhere near enough. All a big plot, really, for us to hastily run off little copies of ourselves during our brief stay. Who came up with that one?! Okay, now, here's the thing: a cardiologist would examine Margie's heart for fitness for an activity that may require rates beyond 180 beats per minute sustained for twenty minutes or more. And the examination would be conducted with that purposeful-looking stethoscope. He would possess her soul- hold it captive in the universe between his ears for twenty unimaginable seconds- maybe more. I can accept never getting the chance to do this, but I can't accept that another man will- as a routine part of his professional duties- occupy my little corner of heaven. The enemy I wrestle is envy, not lust. I am not by nature overly jealous- or I should say I don't search for reasons to become so. A blow job delivered to some knucklehead at a drive-in: I could live with that. Could be stored and ignored, filed and forgotten- you know? And we must learn to share. A gynecological exam? Be gentle with her, doc, but don't miss anything, 'cause she means the world to me- that's how I felt years later when we got the bad news about Tammy's Pap smear. But the heart- Marjorie's heart- was different... You see, I had fallen in love with Margie so her heart was mine. This was at the core of my torment. My sexual construct- as inseparable from me as my own shadow. For a long time- most of my life- I tried to shake this thing that we here all share. I knew it was beautiful beyond words, but it was too different- and I feared that. I was still young and preoccupied with blending and fitting in. And as for falling in love... Well, I was old enough to know this was no cause for celebration. Desire won't buy squat. Yearning and earning have no connection beyond the letters they share. And to add to the tangle of complications, Marjorie was seventeen years old. Jailbait is a coarse, almost vulgar term, but it described her status succinctly... But that doesn't apply to this- not really- a need that can be fulfilled with a well-aimed hug... Don't even have to get to first base. Just to confirm her reality. All I really need to know. Once would be plenty. More than enough. She owes it to me. She's giving it away to someone who doesn't even love her... Why not me? Was I alone in this fascination? Apparently. And Margie seemed to be one of those "everyone-has-a-heart-so-what's-the-big-deal?" types- based on her openness concerning her impending physical exam and her general spirit of candor regarding her physicality: when she had to pee she said so. She was sane, in other words. Whether this would help or hinder my chances of "getting some" was unclear. And this was not her first sports physical by any means. The previous year, as a junior, she ran cross-country and outdoor track she told me. She'd have been examined by Doc McGeezer of hairy ears and chilly hands and booming voice. Probably stethed Margie with that same ancient latex tube Bowles that stethed me for freshman football. Nothing fancy in his auscultation technique. Just plant the diaphragm over the apical impulse (after a bit of fishing about) and listen. Football physicals were a semi-public event- at least back then in this weary little mill town. Diligent dads and a handful of idiotic football zealots checking out the new crop. It's August 1971. Boys locker room. I'm next in line to be examined. Many of the boys express a rather delighted dread of the hernia check- in which, it is gleefully expressed, "the doctor feels your balls". But my balls are of a secondary concern to me; it is my heart which betrays my secrets .... My English teacher, who has taken an unsettling interest in me, is helping with the paper work. He thinks I have lots of "untapped academic potential" and enjoys hearing my thoughts on things. Thinks I'm a "character". And he's never called me lazy. He knows something about being different. He is filling in as the assistant coach of freshman football- a hasty and misguided recruitment necessitated by a sudden resignation (talk about bad casting ). He looks over the top of his reading glasses, greets me and asks me if he could trouble me to remove my shirt. That's how he says things. He watches me as I strip to the waist. My xylophone torso is the color of mayonnaise, contrasting comically with my tanned arms. He asks me when was the last time I had a physical. I lie and say last year. "Have you ever had high blood pressure?" I shake my head. "Heart murmur?" I swallow and say nope. He writes on his clipboard and then he asks me if I've read any good books over the summer. I say not really. He seems to be addressing my left nipple. But he's sitting and I'm standing so maybe I'm wrong. I worry that my pounding heart may be visible, nervous as I am. This is why I hate being "skins" in basketball- well, in addition to hating basketball. I cross my arms to conceal the tumult, but this serves only to increase the level of my anxiety as I feel the heart kicking powerfully and desperately against the heel of my hand. I feel demoralized and humiliated: the goose-pimpled, bare-chested prisoner awaits execution. I watch as the doctor listens to a fat Lebanese kid's heart. Eddie's flabby pecs and large maroon areolas will earn him the nickname "Jugs" in time. The chestpiece is tucked into the left breast fold... I try not to think of the cheerleaders scheduled for physicals later in the afternoon. Eddie has bigger tits than Kimmie. Kimmie, a Marcia Brady variant, is going out for cheerleading and I crave her with a stupifying and unprecedented intensity. An inevitable visualiztion occurs; the serpent stirs and uncoils. I am massively and unquenchably aroused. Untimely, indeed. The doctor is finishing up with Eddie, asking him to tunm his head and cough... Mr. L "adores" Gilbert and Sullivan and has never married and never will. And there are rumors, persistent and consistent- but nothing involving boys- just his choice of adult companions... In any case he admires me and is on my side- which makes him okay in my book, though his presence here is creeping me out. Big time. He looks toward me and says, "You're next, sir". My turn. I sit on the low bench. The doctor illuminates seven of a possible nine holes, then takes my BP. Not understanding the practice of overinflating the cuff, I am alarmed when the needle sweeps past 200 mms. I know that's not good. But the doctor registers no perceivable concern. But then, they usually complete the exam before they tell you that you have a week, maybe two, left to live. I'm into Medical Center and Marcus Welby, M.D. I'm not stupid. (Old Doc Welby wasn't shy when it came to stethin' babes- could teach those clueless ER hunks a thing or two). "Would you stand up, please?" Moment of truth. Right lung. Breathe. Left lung. Breathe. He presses the silver dollar chestpiece beneath my left nipple- over the bounding apical impulse. The doctor listens. The pliant tubing jiggles in sympathetic trepidation. Five seconds and perhaps a dozen heartbeats pass."You nervous, son?" Nod my head. "No need to be- I'm just listening to your heart- nothing to worry about." He listens some more, lowering his head closer to my chest and subtly shifting the disk as he soberly assimilates and assesses the heart sounds.Trying to corner a murmur? I feel my heart accelerate as this daunting possibility sinks in. To say nothing of my "resting" heart rate of 150 plus. Not good. Not normal... Suddenly the doctor steps back and pulls the tips from his ears. "Nope... Nothing to worry about at all..." But he then moves to my right and grasps my right shoulder with his left hand places his right hand on my chest; his cold palm cups my left pectoral for a pregnant, protracted moment- flag salute-style- an ominous departure from his established protocol. I know not where to look, nor do I know what I should do with my arms. I expect him to look at his watch, but he doesn't. He then presses his fingertips firmly into the epicenter of the commotion. A peripheral glance confirms my teacher's rapt attention. His sudden look away is incriminating: fleeing the scene. And I detect a collective interest in my ordeal; I have become the most interesting thing in the room. I think hear the word "heart" and can infer the context. I sense I am failing the physical and I begin to consider the consequences of this and the cover story it will require- lest I become known as "the boy with the bad heart". Cardiologist appointments, answering questions and lifting my shirt for the ears of curious relatives... grim, indeed... The doctor then asks me to unhook my belt and unzip. He parts my jeans and and pulls down the waistband of my briefs- with some difficulty... I sense a shift of focus from my teacher. "Turn your head and cough, son... again... good. Next." I hope the doctor infers nothing by the engorged and empurpled evidence at hand. Or my teacher. I'm not that way. Trust me. If it were only that simple. All very confusing at fourteen years old. But in the absence of any indication to the contrary I seem to have passed my exam- later confirmed when I was forced to run wind sprints in the sulfurous August haze during the post-physical initiation. And he too, this old doctor, has captured and held Margie's enchanted soul. I derive some pathetic solace from the notion that Margie's heart and my own had been heard by the same individual. It seems a uniting element, somehow. He has listened to several thousand young hearts during his tenure as school physician- half of them female. In fact, the old goat has listened to the pump of every girl I ever wanted up till I went to college. I'll never get over this as long as I live. I despise and admire him for this. NEXT PAGE: http://maxpages.com/margie/margie_3 |
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