Page 133 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“I guess it depends on how good of a job I do,” I teased before signing off with a wave and picking up my pace. I wasn’t necessarily late, but I had shit to do before my shift started.

Around the corner and into the thick of it, I dodged a bed in motion and high-fived the patient, an often-drunk man named Barney who showed up here when he got into more trouble than the actual big purple dinosaur. Believe me, this Barney didn’t spend his days sitting around a campfire singing nursery rhymes. The man made a career out of drunken shenanigans that resulted in injuries I had to fix.

“Suck dick, Dr. Shepard,” he called over his shoulder.

“Only if you pay me, Barn,” I struck back.

We really liked each other.

No, really, we do. He just has a unique way of showing it. As for me… Is your job this entertaining? I didn’t think so.

As soon as I rounded the corner, I made a beeline straight for the desk, teasingly shoving Sherry, a cute little nurse from Tennessee, out of the way on the computer, and logged in to my sign-in. As of now, 10:58 p.m., I was officially on the clock.

Now that the formalities of the facility were out of the way, it was time for my formalities. My routine, my comfort zone, my way to get ready for all of the gruesome things these overnight hours could throw at me.

The warm-up. With questionable vocals and dance moves better than most toddlers, I took to the open airwaves, using my diaphragm to project fully into the space.

“Oh, baby, when you talk like that,” I sang, calling the attention of several nurses around me. I turned up the volume on the computer behind the nurse’s station, and a slow Latin beat thumped an instantly familiar rhythm.

“My hips don’t lie,” I crooned along with Shakira after missing a few lines while I was busy climbing atop the desk chair.

Most of my coworkers smiled. They were used to my routine—I’d been doing it for years, changing out the song every week or so—a musical warm-up for the things to come on the night shift in St. Luke’s Emergency Department. Though, I had to admit, Shakira found her way into the rotation the most. There was something about her that kept me mildly obsessed. Probably all of the tongue control that comes with rolling Rs.

There weren’t many patients in here yet, the real mayhem of a weekend overnight in New York City was just starting up. But the ones who looked on with mild distrust and disbelief at my antics until the rest of the staff fell victim to participating one by one, the beat of Shakira too powerful to resist. I watched as some of their faces melted to amusement, while others skipped surface-level delight and jumped straight to recognition.

Yep, I’m that guy. Dr. Erotic, here in the flesh. There was a GIF of me out there hip rolling as I did one of these very warm-ups, something they’d featured heavily on the show, if I wasn’t mistaken.

A few cell phones appeared, but I was used to that, me popping up on YouTube and Facebook and Insta-fuck and whatever else there was to post elaborately staged pictures of fake reality these days.

I’m not anti-social media like it might sound. I’m just a liver, a doer, a partier of sorts. I’d much rather be out and about than posting pictures of myself with my dinner plate. If Shakira appeared in front of me right now, I wouldn’t waste my time taking her picture, if you catch my drift.

Although, when one of the episodes aired featuring her song, “Whenever, Wherever,” she tweeted me, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it thrilled me. I just wish “tweeted” meant something more physical—dirtier. Seriously, I’m down with whatever freaky shit she’s into.

“Dr. Shepard!” Debbie, the head nurse in charge of admission yelled, completely interrupting the climax of my performance. In her midforties with a generic blond bob, serious hazel eyes, and little to no makeup, Deb was the walking, talking dictionary definition of “business.” She meant it, she enforced it, and she got shit done.

In real terms, she was a pain in my ass.

“Geez, Deb,” I grumbled as I climbed down from my perch halfway on top of the desk. “Why do you always have to undermine my performances?”

She smirked and shook her head. “Because they’re terrible. And you’re needed on stage B, aka Bay Two, for an actual patient, that has to do with your actual job.”

“I’m offended, Deb. You should know better than anyone that the warm-up is a crucial part of my process. Working conditions are integral to success. Would you consider patient care without your gloves?”

“Scott—”

“I think not!” I cried, fake outrage making my voice carry. Several sets of eyes followed us closely.

“Stop making a scene,” Debbie chastised. “Aren’t you tired of making a fool of yourself?”

“I’ll never tire of it, Deb,” I vowed solemnly. She sighed. “Not ever.”

“Fine. Then make a scene in Bay Two. But do it while you’re sewing up a head lac, would you?”

“I live to serve you, my sweet emergency goddess.”

“Jesus Christ,” she grumbled, shoving the patient chart into my chest. “They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Fortunately, Sherry found me far more amusing than Deb did, if the glowing smile on her face as she looked on was any indication. I winked at her as a reward.