( The Table )

The infamous Table. Who hasn't heard of it? It is amazing the garbage that floats around as information. So what was it, this Table? This so called secret organization of killer physicians? Well, it wasn't something to be found in some high rise executive suite, or in a back room off some dank alley way. It was right out in the open. In fact there were two "Tables", so to speak, only one an actual tangible item. The other was, associative, conceptual. As you entered County Hospital's downstairs cafeteria you could either head straight on in or veer toward the left into the food line which eventually wound its way back into the large dining room. The view straight ahead was what can only be described as a post-neo-utilitarian industrial public access decor hall. It was nicely painted, clean, but generally barren looking. Clearly, no interior decorator had ever been given a go at it.

In contrast, upstairs, the visitor's coffee shop with its fancy frosted glass panels sporting cut designs, chrome rails, and trappings such as real plants and oil paintings, was what you expect to find in a public place seeking your business. The coffee shop was attractive to look at and comfortable to be in. You come in, think about what you want, place an order and attend to conversation while your food is prepared. That was medium rare, correct?

Imagine asking that question in the caffeteria where the only choice was an unspoken but understood - as is. The downstairs cafeteria, with few civilizing splashes, was close to being the shoe box that many called it. It was cheap - and fast.

Upstairs, in the coffee shop, people actually chewed before they swallowed their food. They gazed dreamily over coffee or soda speculating on the future of the new baby in the nursery, about who will take care of Aunt Jennie after her gall bladder surgery, recollecting just how the car went out of control and how much should you actually tell medical people about what happened. They met the chaplain or the rabbi there. There are endless things thought of, wished for, or spoken about in the coffee shop. After they were finished and only when they were ready, guests walked out.

If you stood in the downstairs cafeteria doorway, its even money that you'd be trampled with a food spitting garble of apology on the run, "Ooots, hwary," by somebody with obviously stuffed cheeks. Finishing and leaving were unrelated. So, on the way in, downstairs, keep well to the left .

At noon, the shoe box became a long rumpus of hustling professionals knowing better but talking through stuffed mouths, of those straddling chairs backward to denote being on the run - projecting "Don't start any new conversation, I'm leaving", of others sitting two to a seat in even more ready to jolt postures, of the dropping of sentences midstream to the call of a pager, while others groped at their beepers in a chorus of "not mines". A palette of gestures of transience colored the aura of consequence and reverence.

The periphery of the long space was fitted with diner-like booths, seating groups of four or maybe five with free chairs pulled up. The room's middle ground was a fluidly changing pattern of small square and round tables in ad lib groupings. At the rear stood austere stainless steel roller racks for depositing used food trays. The room's center island provided paper napkins, plastic spoons, forks, and knives plus the usual condiments with a splash of seasonal decorative color consisting of paper figures - Valentines, presidents, shamrocks, the usual first grade over the blackboard stuff taped to any spot that might actually hold tape.

Over the center island and over those booths near windows, were suspended baskets with hanging flowers, always looking fresh and plastic, a nice minimal effort. And prominently visible above the center island were the four large numbered clocks, one facing each point of the compass. This was the eye magnet that pulled at the attention of all assembled here. No conversation was ever so absorbing as to deter spasmodic upward lateral glimpses toward the ultimate master, time.

When you surveyed the room, you saw clusters of cafe tables and booths accommodating about four people, maybe five apiece. Each had a token small satin flower in a plastic vase. One location, when the place was empty, at the far end of the room, caught the eye simply because it was different. Kind of like an altar, there were three square tables joined in a row parallel to the far wall covered by a single white cloth, the only fabric in the place. Two unique salt and pepper shakers, tall ones, set dead center on that white surface, heightened the liturgical feeling. Probably no accident. But it was anything but a place of reverence, more a sacrificial stone, maybe. And it had more going for it than the only salt and pepper shakers, it had a history and a name. It was The Table. For here unwritten, unarranged, but reliably and regularly met the front line working brain trust of County Hospital who were also collectively referred to as The Table.

This was where medicine swirled with old syle philosophy and modern cynicism. You didn't come to The Table to escape, rather to probe or be probed. The more timid or aloof who were nevertheless drawn to the workings of the table peppered its perimeter.

As usual the place was jammed and the table populated with a subset of the regulars. Today, nobody looked as though they were going to be hanging around vary long. Various Hi Shannons were tossed to the cafeteria din as she excused herself. "Mind, if I squeeze in?" There were the usual greetings, playful abuses and, hand gestures. A distinctive unexpected growl from behind flipped her gaze around. "Hey. You made it?" she smiled, "Your op schedule.. I just assumed you wouldn't be here." It was Dr. Macaluso pulling up two chairs, one for her. "Perfect," she went on without missing a beat. "Here are the revised copies of the three grant proposals.."

"Christ! Gimme a break here. I didn't even sit... look.. I only just.. ugh.. What? Which three?" Macaluso obviously had come for escape, not be enlisted in more causes, and Shannon could really pile it on. The only limit to what she carried, he claimed, was the ceiling height. She expected others to dive into civic projects the way she did. He had once remarked, "It's amazing how far you can go if that broad is pushing you," making an off the cliff gesture with his hands as he said it. So these were not obscure over-the-cliff gestures that the entire table was making in jest while watching Shannon dump folders in his lap as he groaned.

"Shannon!"

"Proposal for Nurse Practitioner matching funds from the Woodward Foundation? Inner city project to evaluate the cocaine effects on babies in Headstart settings?"

Reeling his eyes. "Hmn. OK. Yeah."

"Here's the inter-hospital proposal to combine children's morbidity statistics. Statewide comprehensiveness and getting at the costs from noncitizen usage is revised."

He brightened at that one, "Cool. Did you track down the source for those high estimates?"

"Yeah. Turns out, they were even higher, a lot higher."

"Higher? Jeez. Any chance we can nail this project?"

"No. Not a chance. No funding. But the proposal might educate whoever reads it. I'll send copies everywhere. Somebody's got to read this shit. Let's see, here, put this under your seat. And last, but not least, the data we have all been waiting for. HMOs screw over crippled children. There. Oops. Excuse my arm, there are the supporting files," pointing to the floor scattered with expansion paper folders. "Solid stuff... we really owe Miltie big time."

"Jesus, Shannon, you press weights? Where'd you get all that? I'll need a truck."

"All that? That's just the first bit of it. I couldn't carry it all. Can you go over this much? Pleeease. Pretty please."

"Holy Christ! Just what I needed. more..."

"Pleeeeeease."

"damned causes that have no chance..."

"please please please pleeeeeeeese"

"...of ever seeing the light of day cause nobody who has..."

"pul-eeeeeeeeeeeze"

"...any power to do anything isn't..."

Marcus! Pleeeeeeze!"

"...crooked and on the take." But now her eyes were pinched and boring holes into him, "Shannon. Shit. Ohhhh man. OK. Tonight. Tonight."

"Good." She flipped around to engage the table as if none of this had happened. Those who knew her either loved her or avoided her. Often both.

She was saying her hellos as Macaluso, evidently contemplating his navel, was nodding his head in denial.

Marcus Macaluso and Shannon O'Brien. They were an odd pair. Of opposite physical construction, Shannon had her Celtic light freckled complexion, button nose, green eyes, straight rusty hair, in contrast to Macaluso's swarthy southern Italian countenance, almost Sicilian, with tight jet black wavy locks, a strong nose and deep set Abraham Lincoln eyes.

Shannon followed her not too apologetic apologies for her impositions with, "Oooh, I like that song." Unforgettable by Natalie and Nat Cole was on the radio. "Sounds like they actually recorded it together." Someone opined that maybe they did with a ghostly gesture. "Connected across time and space," Shannon mused to the suggestion.

"Hey, Mac," a familiar abrasive voice was calling from the next table over, " why don't you get that publicity machine of yours to highlight our neurosurgery program? Not just YOUR crap."

Big doc Nathan Ivory puffed in his typical self important way, with cocky eyebrows folded and lips drawn down at the edges, shoulders giving the Well I'm waiting expectant rise to frame the subtle head shake of disapproval. One of Mac's kiddies had been featured on the news last evening, Child given the gift of walking, Channel 2 at 6 o'clock. The three minute feature described a twelve year old boy being carried by his sisters, unable to sit unattended. His bravery through surgery and grueling rehab was capped by video of him walking with a single cane. Another piece on that followed later that evening on the Night Edition as Standing Tall, a title which referred to the medical team that had enabled the youngster's transformation.

Hey, this was great press, Nathan Ivory was acknowledging in his own grumbly way. That's about as gushy as he could get. While others were oh yeah-ing and overhead v -signing or head bobbing, one man, leaning back motionless, just squinted a tossed kiss, puckered around his ever planted cigar. Subtle, but Mac caught it.

Yet a challange, had been tossed. Even a left handed compliment required response. This is how The Table worked. "Look, Tusk, I don't have a publicity machine," Macaluso narrowed his eyes, "But, if I did, you wouldn't qualify. A person doesn't have to be a rocket scientist to be a damned neurosurgeon!" A few laughed as he added, " And anyway, I can't help it that I'm a star and you're too ugly for television," to the guffaws of the crowd with a scattering of "ugly mugaly" and "oogly moogoolys." Mac was meanwhile striking Hollywood poses with movie poster expressions and temple stroking gestures.

Later Mac took Ivory aside and related his concern about a little girl named Susan. Her mild toe walking was not as worrisome as the voice change that accompanied it. Ivory, jotted notes into his bulging leather bound organizer, subtly wide spaced eyes, nasal voice, turns en masse, abdominal reflexes, and such and agreed to get her in immediately. Then, responding to Mac's concern, "Stable or decompensating?"

"Decompensating," an expected answer, given the hint from Mac's folded eyebrows. Ivory again affirmed that he'd get right on it, underlining Hallam in his second list of things to do.

The Table had the right balance to sustain itself. There were the reflexly conservative types and the equally reflexive liberal thinkers. There were right brain surgeons, a left brain psychiatrist, and the who knows where in the brain woman chaplain.

Peter Belachnik, the most regular attendee, a physiatrist, ran the sports medicine section. Although he was a guru of pathology of metabolic pathways, and very quick witted, he preferred to play on his huge muscle pumped habitus in debate. Laughing that the place was full of smart asses, but who else had his pecs, he struck muscular poses with minimal provocation. Though seated and crowded, he puffed out in a shirt ripping overhead arm flexing hand and finger clawed pose as he spontaneously picked up on a left off notion from yesterday's conversation. " 'Truth is the god of the free man.' I say Maxim Gorki eats Plato UP! 'The function of the intellectual has always been confined to embellishing the bored existence of the bourgeoisie, to consoling the rich in the trivial troubles of their life.' " He paused, rippled his pectorals several times, then raised an open hand and slowly clenching both hands to a fists, " Gorki kicks philosophic ass. Heh? Argue and I'll crush your nuts. Plato was a pussy." He loved contrasting his physique with exotic philosophic quotes.

"Meaning what?" Denise Mason feigned insult. "You implying there's something inferior about pussy?" She had her fists on her hips. As he groveled about never considering that angle, she was making teasing tongue gestures at him. Denise, that is Dr. Mason, was a very busy gynecologist who held the 'woman thinking like a man while reflexly putting men down' award. You could count on her to note man-think, in conversation, but also to be equally quick to trounce like a man. From Belachnik, who awarded it, she accepted her title proudly with, "I spit on you. You are nothing but a testosterone pumped sack of stupid muscle with no inkling of sensitivity or appreciation of women for their intellectual prowess. But you do have one big dick, so let's do it!"

Belachnik pecked up again, snarling, "You're on. I'll beat your door down with it tonight. Seven o'clock. Be naked."

Referring to her husband, "I'll send Joel out for bullets. He's got so many guns, it should give us a few glorious hours." She again mocked Peter-the-peter, as she called him, with a pouty kissy face while squeezing his biceps with feigned ecstasy. Denise and Peter could be counted on for sustained verbal sexual tension. If someone asked where Peter was, the response was surely "Peter is between Denise."

Seth Popper, pediatrician, pedi-Popper to some, would put his face down on the table rolling his head under folded arms during this "unrequited sex baiting." He was no prude, but just reflexly into conflict avoidance, even when in playful simulation. Seth took the brunt of the children's emergency room family trauma problems. Child abuse and incest were his day to day issues. "One of these days I am going to record you two. Imagine what I could do if I had the pair of you on tape!"

The instantaneous "Eat me," from Peter Belachnik layered on top of Denise Mason's.

Pedi-Popper with his social consciousness was half of the third 'boy-girl' team that frequented The Table. Seth found himself in many a heated discussion throwing his social sanity slant behind a voice of moral conscience, Mary Richards. Mary Immaculata, as Denise Mason dubbed her, was the chaplain assigned to County's cancer and leukemia services. That was one miserable job. Morgan suggested that Mary Immaculata had to be on 'Ludes', how else could she possibly face that shit. Richards explained that death was a beginning and a passage as Morgan face down eyes up directed softly back that she hoped so, "but .. oh never mind." It was difficult to get seriously base with Mary. There was, instead, an urge to cross oneself.

Pediatrician Seth and Chaplain Mary were not depressing people, though. They were, in fact, generally upbeat - just rarely contentious. Between the two of them "an etiquette book for hyenas could be written," as Belachnik put it. After Seth spoke, Mary often made a subtle eyebrow crinkle and a rapid slight head bobbling affirmation. Peter Belachnik mocked that Popper was a weenie, softening it with, "But I forgive you. You can't help it." But even Mary was of little help to Frank Sumner.

Doctor Macaluso often unconsciously seated himself to be across or diagonal to Doctor Sumner. They had been very tight for so long, sharing so much professionally and philosophically. Though Frank was a pediatric general surgeon with chest surgery credentials and Marcus a kiddy muscles and bones tweaker, their clinical talents were often required in combination for trauma, reconstruction of birth defects and severe spine deformities which required working inside the chest, abdomen, and pelvis while moving kidneys, liver, and intestines and taking apart and repairing the diaphragm. Like a good jazz trio with the anesthesiologist keeping the beat, they clicked.

But nowadays, Marcus was at social arm's length from Frank. He had tried, as had the others, to connect with the elusive Frank Sumner, failing miserably. Doctor Sumner was physically present but spiritually absent. Morgan once whispered to Macaluso, noticing Mac's deep stare boring into Frank Sumner's bleakness, "Shit, at least the dead grimace." But Frank wasn't dead, not devoid of feeling nor pain. He was just unable to share pain and thus unable to heal.

Nathan Ivory flipped his napkin and plastic implements onto his tray with one hand but nudged Macaluso with the other, "Mac, don't miss 3M tomorrow..."

Without loosing his fix on Sumner, Macaluso cut in, "I've got one of my own to present."

"You? The infallible? You, oh great one, have a boo boo to share?", Ivory was chiding in a way that was actually self depricating as every doctor has memories they wish were fiction. In medicine, repression is a sin. Sin is confessed openly at M&M, which some called misery and mayhem, with Milton Blake, the third M, as its priest. "See ya there buddy. Don't worry. No matter how bad you fucked up, Kathy has one worse."

"Mmmm." But Macaluso wasn't really in this conversation, not at his core. Rumbles and fragments were everywhere. Mortality and Morbidity conference would definitely be well attended tomorrow. But tomorow was far away. Right now there was this enigma across the table as his concentration never left this closest friend whose demeanor was impermeability. There had to be a way in. Everything Sumner did, he did well, including sufocate himself. What Marcus mentally surveyed was that wall which Sumner had built, the wall which kept others out. Brick by brick. Stain by stain. The dead don't kiss. That was a puckered kiss around that cigar, wasn't it?