Chapter Six Julian
CHAPTER SIX
JULIAN
I should’ve known I wouldn’t get to eat dinner.
It’s the full moon, and per that rock’s capricious influence, minor emergencies trundle into the clinic all night.
Broken arms, stitches, the gruesome removal of a rusty nail from Randy Thompson’s foot—none of which quells the hunger pangs throbbing in my gut.
When it slows down around nine p.m., I heat up a piece of sad, cheese-less veggie lasagna I made in a weird fit of Wyeth preoccupation.
As I’m putting the first bite in my mouth, my phone buzzes on the table.
My eyes narrow. If it’s the goddamn D’Angelo family text chain I’ve left and been aggressively re-added to three times, I’ll harness this hanger to reply so obnoxiously they’ll finally leave me alone.
DR. SRINIVASAN
Hello, Julian. I have polluted my body and impaired my judgment and thus require you to pick me up. We need a ride home.
DR. SRINIVASAN
It was not with cheesecake.
Then, a gif of Snoop Dogg with 8-bit sunglasses that slide down his nose, revealing marijuana leaves for eyes, appears.
Dr. Srinivasan’s sending gifs? About weed?!
An address comes next. Where is he, a bar? No, the address is residential. And who is this “we”? Dr. Srinivasan is a confirmed bachelor and has never been married. I can only surmise from the gif and texts that Dr. Srinivasan has gone to a party and gotten intoxicated by marijuana with friends.
After several seconds of internal rage at being asked to do this and yet knowing I can’t say no after the number of complaints I received this week, I bang out a quick affirmative that I’ll be there soon.
With a pang of frustrated longing, I shove my uneaten lasagna back into the fridge, turn the clinic’s sign to Closed, and lock up.
It’s a Friday night, and the June air feels heavy and liquid.
When I get to my car, I throw off my doctor’s coat, then groan at what I’m wearing.
The flat-front navy chinos and linen button-down were fine for doctoring, but now I have to bust into some party to haul off Dr. Srinivasan looking like a yacht police-boy.
I quickly undo the top two buttons, then roll up the sleeves to my forearms. To tuck, or untuck?
Or that strange, mysterious compromise—the front tuck only?
I stand there frantically assessing my reflection in the window when hushed laughter makes me whip around. A mother and her two teenage daughters watch me from the sidewalk.
“Well?” I snap. “I’m going to a marijuana party. Should I leave this tucked in or out?”
“Out,” the daughters say in unison, but the mother lifts her hand to her chin, pondering.
“Turn around.”
Exasperated, I do as I’m told. When I finish revolving, her eyes twinkle. “In,” she says. “Definitely in.” She leads her daughters past me, then gives me a lascivious wink over her shoulder.
Unsettling, but I leave the shirt tucked in.
The closest parking spot is two blocks away, but it’s soon evident where the party is based on the happy chatter emanating from the crowded lawn.
My stomach squeezes in a sour twist all the way to my sternum, the uniquely high school feeling of everyone’s hanging out without me still hurtful after all these years.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now. I’m always so busy focusing on my work I don’t see units of casual friendship forming until wham, there’s a happy hour or a party or a weekend trip that everyone else enjoyed together without me.
Even worse are the times I find out beforehand and am awkwardly invited last minute to join.
Standing there, holding a beer I don’t intend to drink, trying to make small talk with people politely waiting for me to leave before the real fun begins? Ugh.
I walk up the front path, squinting around the lawn. “Dr. Srinivasan?” I lean over to peer at a man sitting at a crowded table, but it’s not him. I don’t recognize anyone, in fact, until a man in a Hawaiian shirt narrows his eyes. “What’re you doing here, Doc?”
I don’t remember this patient, but he reminds me of the shady IT guy who steals the dinosaur embryos in Jurassic Park.
Judging by his frosty reception, he’s probably one of the twenty-two complainants Dr. Srinivasan has heard from this month.
I straighten to my full height. “Looking for Dr. Srinivasan—have you seen him?”
“Who?” The word punches out of the man’s mouth in that distinctly New Jersey way.
I clench my jaw. “Dr.… Appa.”
“Oh. The good doctor. Yeah, he’s around here somewhere. Check inside.” The man sniffs. “Near the cheesecake.”
Ah. Diabetic Mr. Donahue. A giant brownie sits in front of him, and I glance at it pointedly, ignoring the kick of petulant hunger it causes in my own empty stomach, before resuming my search.
But Dr. Srinivasan isn’t on the lawn, nor is he schmoozing with the unlikely mix of city council members and constituents on the front porch.
I enter the house, looking for the so-called good doctor who got too high to drive himself home.
“Dr. Srinivasan?” I call through the crowded living room.
“Babe, no!” a familiar voice shouts, then the room bursts into laughter.
Spine tingling, I turn slowly and see approximately ten percent of the town’s D’Angelo population.
Veronica’s laughing so hard, she’s dipped sideways into her sister Betty.
Surrounding them are my cousins Frankie, Albert, Bianca, Gia, Adriana, and worst of all, the three Ohs: Marco, Aldo, and Ellio, who was named after a beloved frozen pizza brand.
The Ohs and I used to play every day after school at Aunt Edna’s until they discovered pomade and girls and later formed their own janitorial services company and I went to medical school.
Veronica lightly dabs the laughter-tears away when she sees me. “Julie!” She frowns and grins at the same time, incredulous. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for Dr. Srinivasan.” I grit my jaw, preparing for the usual onslaught of family ribbing and knowing I’m too hangry to handle it well. My cousins exchange loaded glances but say nothing. “He texted that he needs a ride.”
Understanding washes over Veronica’s bronzed face, and maybe a touch of oh, shit. After a second, she shoves a fishbowl full of cash at me. “Well, if you want to walk through the party, that’ll be twenty dollars.”
This party has a cover charge? I start to argue, but my cousins are waiting to make fun of me for doing just that, so I whip out my wallet and deposit a twenty in the bowl, then stalk off.
I check the dining room next, then the kitchen, the hall, even a closet. I clench my fists to my sides, frustrated that I can’t find him and resentful to be surrounded by people having fun when I’m not and, more than anything, hungry. I work out too hard to weather calorie depletion this severe.
Worse, there’s a smorgasbord of baked goods in the middle of the dining room, arrayed in tantalizing heaps of simple carbohydrates glazed with even simpler carbohydrates, with little artsy cards labeling each item.
It seems to be an honest-to-goodness bake sale, which, weird.
I hover in front of it, glowering at the bad decision I’m about to make to protect everyone here.
They think I’m an asshole when fed? Ten more minutes of my plummeting blood sugar, and they’ll call the cops.
I start to reach for a big, fudge-topped brownie when a plate of fulsome granola bars catches my eye.
They’re the least tried item based on how tall the stack still is, but I can’t understand why.
They’re thick and inviting, studded with raisins, pumpkin seeds, oats, and cashews with the sticky-sweet smell of fresh maple syrup lingering overhead.
I squint at the card and read: Hemp Hemp Hooray!
Protein Bars and exhale gratefully, reaching for one.
Hemp seeds are a fantastic source of protein.
There’s a suggested donation of ten dollars each for the food items, which is extortion, but I’m too hungry to put up a fight.
My teeth sink into the gooey granola bar, and an involuntary grunt issues from my mouth.
Buttery with a touch of sweetness, the right balance of crunch and chew, infused with something tangy that I can’t place.
It counters the sweet and salt perfectly.
In three outrageous bites, I’ve finished the whole thing and feel immediately better.
I happily plunk another ten-dollar bill in and eat a second one, which is even better than the first, somehow.
There’s little bits of coconut, and ahh, prunes?
Is that the source of the delightful funky tang? Whoever made these is a genius.
My hand is reaching for a third when I stop suddenly—I’m supposed to be doing something. I frown a bit. What is it? There’s a good, giddy feeling spooling through my whole body, making it hard to think. What am I forgetting? My pulse speeds up uncomfortably. It feels important. What is it?
“Heyooo, Julie. Didja find Dr. Appa yet?” My cousin Marco appears next to me.
“That’s it!” I exhale heavily, then laugh as the mounting anxiety recedes within me like the tide. I pat Marco on the back, then lean in for a side hug, unaccountably grateful. “Thanks, man.”
Marco turns a puzzled face toward me as the hug continues. “Eh. Don’t mention it. Short guys are easy to lose in a party.”
I nod slowly. The wisdom of this statement is irrefutable.
Marco taps his chin, eyes darting between a sticky bun and a green-cream cannoli, then waves them off. “Ah, I better not.”
I point at the granola bars. “Those are the most delicious protein bars I’ve ever tasted. You’ve got to try one.”
Marco raises one thick, black eyebrow at me. It’s perfectly groomed, which started around the time he got his first serious girlfriend.
The thought plucks a note of melancholy in the center of my chest.
“I wish I had a girlfriend,” I murmur at the protein bars.