Cute and
Sassy
by
Stacie Spielman
 
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Chapter 1 of "Cute and
Sassy"
copyright 2011, Stacie Spielman
Chapter 1
Squirming uncomfortably in the black Naugehyde chair, Stephanie clasped
her hands in her lap and stared at the wall clock above the door: 10:30
p.m. What in the world had she been thinking of, agreeing to an
interview at 11:00 o’clock at night? Though she tried to restrict her
gaze to the ridiculous clock (a kangaroo with a clock face on its
pouch), she could not shut out the peripheral view of crocodile teeth
and Aborigine spears mounted on opposite sides of the door. Apparently
the doctor was a world traveler.
"Ugly, ain't they?" Absently filing her nails with an emery board, the
burgundy-haired woman behind the desk appeared to have read Stephanie's
mind. "I told 'im he should’ve hung flowers or fruit. But signs of the
outback is his calling card, so what're ya gonna do?"
Stephanie wasn't sure whether the question was rhetorical, or whether
she was expected to respond. Making an effort not to breathe too deeply,
lest she inhale the woman's cheap cologne, she smiled in an effort to
mask her discomfort.
The receptionist, whose nametag identified her as “Murphy,” blew a cloud
of nail dust into the air. "After awhile, ya git used to'em."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The teeth and Aborigine spears. After awhile, ya git used to 'em."
Stephanie had no desire to get used to these or any other artifacts the
doctor might have on display. She'd already seen quite enough.
Standing abruptly, she smoothed the skirt of her gray linen suit and
adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag. "Please tell Dr. Paxton I've
changed my mind. I'm afraid I'm not cut out for this job."
"Oh, but you jist got 'ere," Murphy protested. "Mick'll 'ave my 'ead on
a platter if I let ya git away without 'im gittin' a chance ta meet ya.
He's jist finishin' up a hemorrhoid exam. This type don't take long."
Stephanie didn't know where Murphy was from, but her accent certainly
wasn't Irish. And if the doctor's office etiquette was anything like
hers, it was a wonder the A.M.A. hadn't revoked his license! She
couldn't believe the woman had actually told a stranger that the patient
in the next room was having a hemorrhoid exam! "I'm sorry, Miss
Murphy. But I'm sure that if you explain to the doctor –“
"Oh, my name ain't Murphy. It's Marilee Trump."
"But your name tag says — “
"Don't let her leave, Murphy!" a loud voice interrupted. "Give her a
health history to fill out. I'm almost through here!" The voice
issuing from the examining room bore a faint Australian accent. That,
or New Zealand. If the artifacts were something more than souvenirs,
perhaps the doctor was a native of the outback, and not a world traveler
at all...
"Here," Murphy said, crossing to the sofa and extending a printed form.
"Fill this out and don't leave any blanks." The form Murphy extended
was smudged with red nail polish and greasy fingerprints. "The doc's a
stickler, so be sure you write it neat."
Accepting the gross-looking form with reluctance, Stephanie forced a
tremulous smile. The receptionist had said her name wasn't Murphy, yet
her nametag and the doctor said it was. Crocodile teeth, grease stained
forms, spears, and names that weren't names... Wasn't anything normal
around here?
And while her mind was on the topic of abnormal, it stood to reason that
if the doctor had overheard Murphy's announcement about the exam, his
patient had heard it, too. The poor man knew that a total stranger had
been advised of his hemorrhoid condition! Stephanie naturally assumed
the patient was a man. She couldn't imagine any woman in her right mind
driving to L.A. at this time of the night to be examined for piles!
"If she tries to leave, sit on her!" the doctor called.
Stiffening, Stephanie rose from the couch and began edging toward the
door. She was only five-two, and a hundred and four pounds. If Murphy
tried to detain her –
"Ya might as well stay an' talk to 'im," Murphy said, curving her red
lips in a placating smile. "His bite ain’t 'alf as bad as 'is bark.
He's just a wee bit eccentric, is all.”
His bite’s
not half as bad as his bark? Stephanie felt as if she'd blundered into
the pages of a novel by Leo G. Carol. At any moment, an Aborigine queen
of hearts would appear in the lobby to shout "Off with her ‘ead!”
"Going somewhere?"
Stephanie had crossed the room with the intention of leaving. Now, she
froze with her hand on the knob. Lounging against the doorjamb of the
examining room clad in jeans, a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up,
and snakeskin boots, in dim light Mick Paxton could have been an
understudy for Crocodile Dundee. His tanned skin was in vivid contrast
to the pale streaks in his hair and the twinkling blue of his eyes. "I
hope you're not planning to run off before we've even done the
interview."
Forcing herself to concentrate on what the doctor was saying, Stephanie
blinked in confusion. "Yes. No. I mean... Forgive me for staring.
It's just that you – don’t exactly look like a doctor. The way you’re
dressed, you look more like –“
"Paul Hogan’s son? That’s what I’ve been told. But don’t let the
clothes fool you. Neither brides nor doctors all wear white. Now sit
down and make yourself comfortable."
A moment ago, Stephanie had been ready to run. Now, having met the
doctor, she had to admit she was intrigued. Intrigued? Her stomach was
doing somersaults! Maybe she should at least talk to the man and find
out what he was offering
"Finish filling out the medical history, then we'll go across the street
for coffee," Mick said brusquely. "And make sure Murphy gives you a
medical form for the doctor to fill out when you go for your physical."
At the mention of physical, Stephanie's throat constricted. She hated
going to the doctor almost as badly as going to the dentist. Her last
physical exam had been nine years ago when she was living in San
Francisco. Unless or until she was in danger of dying, she had no
intention of having one now.
"How long since your last pelvic?"
Blushing, Stephanie averted her face and stammered a reply. "I – I
don’t know exactly. Look, Dr. Paxton –“
"Mick. You can call me Mick. If I hire you, you'll need a physical
plus a complete blood work-up and chest x-ray. It would be good if you
also had that pelvic exam. I could do the exams for you, but you might
prefer to go to your own doctor and turn it in to your insurance."
“Yes. I think I’d prefer that.” Stephanie didn’t tell him that after
her divorce, her ex-husband had dropped her from his insurance. She
couldn’t afford a private practitioner, but at the thought of submitting
to a pelvic exam by a jean-clad man wearing snakeskin boots, her
heart-shaped face suffused with color.
"You can think about it while I finish up with my patient. If you want
me to do the exam, there'll be no charge except for the lab work – even
if you don't end up working for me. If you'd like, we could do it
tonight and get it over with."
Stephanie's jaw dropped and her eyes widened with alarm. Surely he
wasn't suggesting that he examine her here – tonight! "No! I mean,
that won't be necessary I’ll – I’ll go to my own doctor.”
"Maybe I know her," Mick remarked, grinning at Stephanie’s
discomposure. "Is she in the Fullerton area? “
"She's in San Francisco," Stephanie hedged. "How did you know my doctor
was a woman?"
"That look you gave me when I suggested doing an exam," Mick teased.
"It was a dead giveaway. My first American practice was in San
Francisco. What's your doctor's name? Maybe I know her."
Maggots!.
It was true that Stephanie's last physical had been done in San
Francisco, but it had been done so long ago she'd forgotten the doctor's
name. "It's Dr. Wong," she said nervously. "Marjorie Wong." Since she
knew San Francisco had a large Asian population, she figured she was
safe in choosing the name Wong.
The faint hesitation in Stephanie’s voice planted a seed of doubt in
Mick’s mind. "Marjorie Wong," he said with a puzzled frown. "Doesn't
ring a bell. Are you telling me you go all the way to the Bay area
every time you need a doctor?"
What was it going to take to get him to drop the subject? "I'm a very
healthy person," Stephanie said testily. "I don't make a habit of
running to the doctor every time I break a nail."
Ignoring the comment about Stephanie's nails, Mick spoke in a low voice
to Murphy, instructing her that his patient would be needing a bag of
Preparation H, orange-flavored Metamucil, and a plastic cup and spoon
for mixing. Then, giving Stephanie a parting wink, he disappeared into
the examining room.
From the medicine closet behind her desk, Murphy took out a yellow lunch
bag and began to fill it. "Folks 'round 'ere don't 'ave money to buy,
so Dr. Paxton keeps over the counter supplies on ‘and ta dole out w'en
they're needed. Take Bill in there fer example. If it wasn't fer Dr.
Paxton, 'e'd be in a hell of a fix."
Concentrating on the smudged paperwork in her lap, Stephanie tried to
shut out Murphy's monologue. Until this moment, she had never
considered the possibility that a homeless person might be lacking in
fiber. She had always assumed their main staple was beans.
When the
doctor and the grizzly-haired patient emerged from the examining room,
Murphy handed the yellow bag to Mick who, in turn, handed it to his
patient. "This ought to do you for awhile, Bill. Try to drink more
water: six to eight big glasses a day if you can. I'll see you a month
from tonight. If you need to see me sooner, you know where to find me."
"Thanks, Doc," the man said gratefully. Casting a blood-shot glance in
Stephanie's direction, he colored.
Aware that her face had reddened too, Stephanie tilted her lips in a
tenuous smile intended to convey that she'd been minding her own
business and had no idea what the yellow bag contained. She hated the
fact that she blushed so easily and that her face told the truth even
when her mouth was tempted to lie or evade the issue. She knew Mick's
patient knew that she knew what was in the bag, but he was pretending
not to, the same as she.
Bridging the awkward moment, Mick gestured toward Stephanie and
grinned. "Bill, this is Miss Baxter. Steffie, is it?"
"Stephanie," Rising quickly to her feet, Stephanie smoothed her skirt.
"My name is Stephanie – not Steffie."
"I never have liked the name Stephanie," Mick said, twisting his mouth
as he sized up her appearance. "It doesn't suit you. I think I'll
just call you Sally. Sally, say ‘Hello’ to Pecos Bill."
Sally? Who did this man think he was, changing her name to suit his own
whim?
Pecos Bill ducked his head as he shoved the yellow bag into the deep
pocket of his overcoat. “Pleased to meet you, Sally. I hope you take the
job. I sure wouldn't want to see the doc here have to close this
office."
Touched by the man's sincerity, Stephanie accepted the soiled hand that
was offered and smiled into the man's red-rimmed eyes. "If not me, I'm
sure Dr. Paxton will find someone else to fill the job."
"Dr. Mick’s a good man,” Bill replied. “They don't make 'em any
better," As he spoke, Bill’s gravelly voice cracked with emotion. "You
take the job if he offers it, Miss Sally. I know you won't be sorry."
"My name's not Sally," Stephanie protested. “It’s –“
Ignoring her objection, Mick placed a large hand on the homeless man's
shoulder. "Bill, I want you to tell Vagabond Pete to get his butt in
here to see me next week. He didn't show up for his appointment
tonight, and I'm concerned about that rattle he has in his lungs. Can I
count on you to get him in here?"
"I'll do my best," Bill said with a shake of his grizzled head. "But I
can't make no promises."
"That's all anyone can ask," Mick replied. "Say ‘Hi’ to Mary Ann for me,
and tell her those x-rays came out just fine."
"Sure thing, Doc. That’s real good news."
Despite Pecos Bill's recommendation of Mick, Stephanie couldn't shake
the reservations she felt regarding the job. For starters, there was
the physical exam. Then there was the daunting prospect of working in
this neighborhood, even if it were only one night a week.
With Bill gone, Stephahnie felt an over-powering urge to wash. She had
shaken his hand without hesitation. Now she was having second thoughts
about the garbage receptacles and other germ-laden surfaces that might
have come in contact with that same hand.
"So what do you think, Sally?" Mick asked with a grin. "Did Pecos sell
you on the job?"
Stephanie felt as if a nervous frog were leaping about in her stomach.
"I'll go through the motions of this interview since I drove all this
way in the middle of the night," she said doubtfully. "But I really
don't feel that I'm right for this job – or that the job is right for
me. And my name, Dr. Paxton, is Stephanie – not Sally."
The ad
had said "Book-keeper/Office Manager. Good typing and people skills
required. Working knowledge of medical terminology helpful. Four-day
work week. Varying shifts. Salary commensurate with experience." No
written mention had been made of the fact that the doctor's practice was
split between downtown Fullerton and downtown L.A. – or that his L.A.
office was in the middle of the city's homeless district. Not that the
area had been officially dubbed; but anyone who knew the city well, knew
where to find the greatest concentration of homeless.
When
Stephanie had called Mick's Fullerton office in response to his ad in
the L.A. Times, the voice on the phone had been pleasant and
informative. "Dr. Paxton is a wonderful doctor: a little off-beat, but
a wonderful man. The reason for the four-day work week is that Monday
thru Wednesday noon, he treats patients in his Fullerton office.
Wednesday and Thursday evenings, he treats patients for free in his
office in the homeless district of L.A.” When Stephanie made no
immediate response, the office manager’s voice continued. "He schedules
his interviews in L.A. at night to weed out the faint of heart."
Stephanie might have numbered herself among the faint of heart, if not
for the four-day workweek. Now, having seen the situation first hand,
she knew she should probably run for her car, and leave this place
without a backward glance. She was not a do-gooder. Mick Paxton
obviously was. She had always believed in playing it safe. Catering to
street people in the middle of the night did not fit that criterion.
Choosing not to comment on Stephanie's doubts, or her objections to her
newly acquired name, Mick turned his attention to Murphy. "You can take
off now, Murph. Sally and I are going to go across the street for a cup
of coffee."
What did it take to get through to this man? If he couldn't pay her the
courtesy of remembering her name, what would he be like to work for?
Once out in the hallway, Stephanie headed toward the elevator.
"We'll take the stairs," Mick cautioned. "Don't want to get stuck
between floors – at least not till we get to know each other better."
Despite the grin and the twinkle in Mick's eye, Stephanie's stomach
contracted into a claustrophobic knot. "Are you telling me I rode up on
that thing, and there was danger of its getting stuck between floors?"
"Chill out, Sally. It was just a joke. But we'll take the stairs
anyway, just to be safe."
On the stairway, Mick led the way, based on the theory that if Stephanie
should trip, she would land on him and break her fall. "Going up," Mick
was quick to point out, "I get to walk behind."
Emerging into the damp night air, Stephanie clutched her arms across her
chest. It had apparently rained while she was in Mick's office – an
unusual occurrence at this time of year. The smell of wet pavement
filled her nostrils, and the dampness in the air sent a chill through
her body.
Noticing the worried glance she cast toward her faded red Toyota., Mick
took Stephanie's arm and hustled her across the street. "Your car's
safe here," he assured her. "No one touches vehicles parked outside my
office. It's an unspoken rule among the street folks." Stephanie
wished she could feel as confident as Mick sounded.
From the window of an ancient Ford van, a friendly voice called a
greeting. "Hey, Doc! How's it hangin'?"
"Can't answer that question right now," Mick called back. "Tonight I'm
with a lady."
Keeping her eyes trained straight ahead, Stephanie quickened her pace.
She was glad the doctor hadn’t answered the off-color question. If he
had, she would probably have sunk through the pavement.
Turning his attention toward a ragged couple huddled beneath the
overhang of the storefront next to the cafe, Mick frowned. "Why aren't
you two at the shelter tonight?"
"Shelter's full," the man's raspy voice wheezed. "Reckon we'll bundle
for warmth tonight here in the doorway."
Stephanie noticed when the man spoke that his front teeth were missing,
and wondered if he'd lost them through dental decay or whether having
one's teeth knocked out was one of the perils of living on the street.
Preparing to deliver a lecture about not coming in for a throat culture,
Mick told Stephanie to go inside. "I'll be in in a minute."
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Cute and
Sassy
a romantic comedy by
Stacie Spielman
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