Page 29 of Perfect Mess

Kelsey took a long step back to let me pass by, careful not to make skin to skin contact.

As I stepped into the exam room, I noticed the inclined chair with the paper cover and the stirrups sticking out. My initial thought was that it was strange that a podiatrist would use the same chair to examine feet that a gynecologist used to examine vaginas.

But I didn’t really get it until Nurse Kelsey pointed to the paper gown folded on the chair. “Everything comes off. Well, except for your shoes. It’s not like he’s going to be looking at your feet.”

I realized the magnitude of my miscalculation when I saw the framed medical license on the wall. “Jack Thompson, M.D. Certification in Obstetrics & Gynecology”. I realized the enormity of my error when I saw the life-sized plastic vulva on the desk, right beside the box of rubber gloves and commercial grade tube of lubrication.

Nurse Kelsey pointed again at the paper robe. “Doctor Thompson will be right in.” If she had been wearing a silver crucifix, I think she would have been holding it up at that point and dousing me with holy water. But since she apparently didn’t have her exorcism kit handy, she just shut the exam room door and fled.

Once again, somewhere out there in the cosmos, I heard the Universe laughing.

In hindsight, I should have done a little more research. In my rush to find Jack, I had missed a few key details. If I would have searched a little longer, perhaps a little more thoroughly, I would have discovered that Dr. Jack Thompson, Podiatrist, practiced medicine in Winter Park,Colorado, most likely specializing in ski accidents and snow shoe injuries, not Winter Park,Florida.

And perhaps, if I had been a wee bit more thorough in my investigative efforts, I wouldn’t have paid two hundred dollars for a VIP Deluxe Velvet Cucumber just to have the man who had been tormenting my dreams for over two decades get up close and personal with my unwaxed hoo-haw in a desperate plot to talk to him again.

Obviously, I couldn’t let Jack see me like that. I had to escape.

As I was sneaking past the front desk, I overheard Susan, the receptionist, talking with Nurse Kelsey. “That’s the last of the appointments for today,” said Susan. “Jack took the rest of the afternoon off.”

“Must be nice to make your own rules,” Kelsey said. “What’s he up to this time?”

I had to get down on all fours when she glanced back toward the hallway.

“Oh, you know, the usual.” They both giggled like it was an inside joke.Where was he going? Or who was he going to see?

My original plan was to escape Jack’s office, sneak down to my car, and then keep driving until I hit Canada. But after eavesdropping, I decided on a new plan. A plan that involved me finding out what Jack Thompson was up to. A plan where, perhaps, my $200 Velvet Cucumber wouldn’t go to waste after all.

ChapterEight

The Winter Park Golf and Racquet Club was a three hundred and fifty acre private property, nestled amongst the alligator filled lakes, snake filled palmettos, and mosquito filled bogs of Central Florida. With a PGA Tour caliber golf course, a resort style pool, and a half dozen bars and restaurants, all stocked with cold beer and at least seven flavors of chicken wings, it was the local playground of Central Florida’s middle-class elite; the car crash lawyers, Botox surgeons, and time-share executives who called the greater Orlando area home.

I followed Jack to the guardhouse, which sat just outside the front gate. Sitting a few cars back in line, I watched Jack flash his membership card, and the guard waved him through. When I got to the gate, I flashed my best smile. The security guard seemed unimpressed.

“I suppose you need to see my membership card?”

The guard’s face was a blank slate. His name badge said “Leonard.”

I dug through my purse. “Let’s see here. Costco membership. Punch card for Starbucks. Voter identification card. Let me guess, Republican?”

Leonard’s face still didn’t move.

“Hmm,” I stalled, still playing the part of looking through my purse. “Here’s a coupon for a free chicken sandwich. It’s all yours if you let me through.” I flashed another smile. Leonard did not look sympathetic. “I must have left my membership card in my other purse.”

Leonard growled. “You got a driver’s license?”

I handed it over.

Leonard glared at it. “Mrs. Mary Burns.”

“It’s just Miss, actually.”

Leonard studied my driver’s license like he was looking at one of those mugshots of America’s Most Wanted they put up in the post office. He looked for me on his computer, and, as expected, didn’t find me because I wasn’t actually a member.

“Look,” I said. “I’m just going to be honest with you here. You know that guy in the red BMW a couple cars ahead of me?”

“You mean Doctor Jack?”

“Yeah. Doctor Jack. I’m here to see him.”

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