Memphis Legend Page 3

  I found LeClair’s on my first visit to Beale Street shortly after moving to Memphis a little over three years ago. I approached on the east end down near the New Daisy Theatre and by dumb luck, I found LeClair’s. A one-story building with a simple slogan: Cold food. Hot Beer. Great Blues. I appreciated the sense of humor.

  It didn’t take long for LeClair, whom I had known for approximately three years, to show up at my booth. I think he once told me his first name was Martin, although I was not sure. Besides, everyone just called him LeClair. Surely, he was at least ten years older than me; however, he had an ageless quality about him that made it difficult to guess his age. His ebony colored skin was devoid of wrinkles except around the eyes; his head was bald, yet it appeared to by choice and not heredity; and he had a set of impressive, muscular biceps on him that would make most body builders jealous.

  What I did know about LeClair was that he was born a Louisiana Creole raised near New Orleans, although he was a genuine Memphian now and owner of the bar sharing his name for almost ten years. While serving in the Marines during the Vietnam War, he discovered the Memphis blues sound, a sound different from the New Orleans jazz and zydeco he had grown up with. He loved it. LeClair once recalled that he told himself that if he made it out of that “shithole,” his name for Vietnam, alive, his dream was to own a blues bar in Memphis. I admired him for pursuing his dream. Although some of the other bars and taverns along Beale Street were larger or attracted more popular musical acts, I preferred LeClair’s.

  LeClair said, “Doc, this is a pleasant surprise. I thought you were workin’ today. Playin’ hooky?”

  “Believe it or not, it seems I have the rest of the day off.”

  “Time off for good behavior?” asked LeClair.

  “Hardly, there was an incident at the hospital, and now the administration thinks I need some time to recover. What I need is a hamburger, just the way I like, and some company if you have time.”

  “I always have time for my favorite doc. And sounds like you have a story, I can’t wait.”

  LeClair walked the order over to his short-order cook. LeClair gave his usual shrug to the cook when he delivered my hamburger order. Half pounder, cooked medium, pickles, lettuce, onion, tomato, with the bread smothered with pesto. The pesto they kept in the back solely for me. No fries.

  LeClair said, “I don’t know why he gives me that look every time. He knows you always get the same thing for lunch.”

  “It’s because he wants me to like his barbecue, but, no offense, I eat my barbecue at Charlie Vergos. I have told him that he makes the best darn hamburger around, though. You really should convince him to experiment more with the menu. And get me some vegetables. I would probably eat here more if he had some darn vegetables. A man can only eat so much slaw and green beans, you know.”

  “I know, I know, more vegetables. So tell me what happened at the hospital.”

  LeClair sat through the whole story, getting up only once to retrieve my hamburger and turn on the music for the incoming lunch crowd. When I finished, he just grinned. “The sergeant sounded cool, so what are you worried about?”

  “Who says I am worried.”

  LeClair replied, “You do, man. I mean, I know you didn’t say it directly, but you said it just the same.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “It’s the way you told the story, Doc. I know, that you know, that you did the right thing. So just tell it that way.”

  “I guess I’m worried about Tom Harty.”

  LeClair furrowed his brow at me, and then quickly shifted to a laugh. “Why? He was a dumbass. He shouldn’t have been all up in that hospital wavin’ a gun around, especially on a day that Lieutenant McCain, bad-ass extraordinaire, happens to be workin’.”

  “Leave it to an ex-Marine to set me straight, thanks.”

  “There is no such thing as an ex-Marine, once a Marine, always a Marine.”

  I had said “ex-Marine” on purpose. I did it to all former Marines. I always enjoyed the little tease, and I always got the same response. Don’t let them fool you; they enjoy saying it.

  “You did the right thing, Doc. I guess too bad about that brain swellin’ thing. You think that could come back and bite you in the ass?”

  I replied, “I hope not, but hard to say with civilians. In my experience, all civilians, even cops, analyze dangerous situations differently than soldiers. It makes them inconsistent in matters like this.”

  “I hear ya, Doc. Some civilian might even think you’re going to get post-traumatic stress disorder from somethin’ like this.”

  We both looked at each other and laughed. Both of us had been in real life-and-death situations before and understood the absurdity of thinking hitting someone on the head would trigger a traumatic response.

  LeClair said, “So when you gonna talk to the Chief of Medicine guy?”

  “I figure I might as well just go over there now and get it over with. I don’t see how it will be any less unpleasant tomorrow than today.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Honestly, he is the poster child for self-employment. I imagine many a doctor has considered private practice after spending time with him as their boss.”

  LeClair said, “A real dick, huh?”

  “Your words, not mine, but…yes.”

  “I was thinkin’. Maybe next time you should not hit the guy with everything you got.”

  “I didn’t hit this one with everything I got, probably less than half. I didn’t want to kill him, just incapacitate him. And I hope there will not be a next time…four times now is enough.”

  LeClair stood up to his full six feet, rubbing his hand over his bald head and smiled a mischievous smile. He then shook his head and laughed.

  “Doc, stop foolin’ yourself man. I think you’re my best white friend, so I can be honest with you. There will be a next time. It’s just in your blood, man. You are some kind of darn bloodhound for trouble.”

  ***

  A blood hound for trouble. It pained me to admit it, but I resembled that statement. I did seem to possess an uncanny ability of finding myself in situations similar to today. Part of the curse that goes along with being my mother’s son. It seemed that no matter how much I tried to distance myself from my mother, my upbringing, her teaching, was always one step behind. I could even hear my mother’s voice in my head reminding me never to feel wrong about doing the right thing.

  Which is the same thing LeClair had said to me. I had done the right thing. Regardless of the outcome, regardless of Tom Harty’s fate, stopping him was right. Plain and simple. That did not mean I was looking forward to my visit with Dr. Lowe. I highly doubted Dr. Lowe believed in moral absolutes. Black and white. As the Chief of Medicine of a large hospital, his duties probably revolved more around hospital politics and policies, meaning he was more of a politician now than a practicing doctor. And one thing I knew about politicians, unfortunately from personal experience, is that their moral compass had too many shades of gray for my liking. My expectations for the meeting were low. At least, I shouldn’t be disappointed.

  By force of habit, I entered the hospital through the emergency room entrance and attempted to slip through unnoticed, but the elder triage nurse, Evelyn, spotted me. She was waving, so I reluctantly joined her at her desk. “Dr. McCain, we all heard what happened. Lordy, lordy, are you okay? We didn’t expect you back today, and you don’t need to be here, we got your shift covered. Dr. Chen is covering it for you. You poor man.”

  It had begun.

  I quickly thanked Evelyn for her concern, then tapped my watch and told her I needed to see Dr. Lowe. She nodded sympathetically. I had escaped, almost unscathed. If only the elevator would hurry up before someone else spotted me.

  “Hiya ole chap, wait just a minute.” It was Dr. Zimmerman. He had done some post-graduate work in England, and it was there that he picked up his tendency to use common British phrases. I had worked with him for over a year, yet I sti
ll found it funny to hear these phrases combined with Dr. Zimmerman’s strong Boston accent.

  “Hey Zimm, I’m heading up to Lowe’s office, what’s up?”

  The elevator arrived, and Dr. Zimmerman rode up with me. “I just wanted to give you the low down on Harty. Acute subdural hematoma, still unresponsive. I know I don’t have to remind you of the mortality rates. Bloody hell.”

  “I know, I heard, plus I noticed he was fixed and dilated on one side when you were checking him out. Let me guess, he has a midline shift on the CT and elevated ICP?”

  “Sure does. You are going to make a fine ER doctor some day. By the way, he is on his way to surgery now.”

  The gnawing feeling in my stomach was returning, and I knew it was not hunger this time. “Do me a favor, Zimm.”

  “Sure, name it.”

  “He had been drinking; please check for alcohol abuse.”

  Dr. Zimmerman replied, “Way ahead of you. We ran all the normal blood tests: CBC, hemoglobin, coagulation profile, etc. I also screened him for drugs and alcohol. He’s a boozer, which we both know puts him at risk for acute subdural hematoma.”

  “Thanks, I figured as much. I knew I didn’t hit him that hard.”

  He walked me all the way to Dr. Lowe’s office providing a few more details on Mr. Harty. He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder before walking off. I wished everyone could treat the incident more like Dr. Zimmerman. No reason to make “much ado about nothing” as Dr. Zimmerman might say.

  Dr. Lowe’s secretary escorted me into his office, a spacious office more ornately decorated than I expected. More tasteful than I expected. The tan walls with a darker adobe colored accent wall were a nice departure from hospital white. The desk, the bookcases, the credenza, the wooden diploma frames were all made of the same expensive looking wood. The chairs were leather. There was just the right amount of personal effects in the professional office. The overall effect was impressive; someone had decorated his office well.

  The wait was longer than expected, nearly fifteen minutes. As always, Dr. Lowe was in a dark suit and tie, tailored perfectly, thus giving the impression that he was thinner than he actually was. Most would argue that he was not fat; however, he easily had 40 pounds extra weight on his 5’9” frame. Albeit, it was fairly evenly distributed. He looked to be in his late fifties, perfectly groomed, every hair in place. Success. That is the word that first came to mind when looking at Dr. Lowe. He was dressed for it and groomed for it.

  As usual, he was scowling. After entering, he paused, his squinting, disapproving eyes lingering on me past the point of necessity. I could tell right away this was going to be an unpleasant conversation.

  Dr. Lowe sat and motioned for me to do the same. It must have been out of habit; I was already sitting. His eyes locked onto mine. I expected him to talk, but he didn’t. Soon, an uncomfortable silence filled the room. Apparently, each of us was waiting to see who was going to talk first. He was the one that called the meeting, so I figured he should start. Dr. Lowe sighed scornfully before starting. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon, Dr. McCain. I suggested tomorrow.”

  “Is this too early? Honestly, I would have come back sooner, but I remembered you mentioning that you were going to have a meeting with the hospital board.”

  He was reclining back in his chair, hands together and fingers intertwined with the index fingers resting on his upper lip. He resembled a chess player contemplating his next move. The awkward silence returned.

  Another sigh. “Dr. McCain, are you sure you want to do this now? I mean, don’t you need some time to recover…psychologically?”

  Something about the condescending tone of his voice when he said “psychologically” annoyed me. I think he was trying to make it seem as if he was feeling sympathy for my predicament in some way, but, honestly, he sounded like a condescending prick. My inner voice was telling me to behave. Keep my anger in check. A wise old doctor once told me that the person asking the questions in a conversation was in charge. It was time for me to be the one asking the questions.

  “Time is relative, Dr. Lowe, don’t you think?”

  The disdainful look on his face morphed into a puzzled expression. He chose not to answer me, resorting back to using silence. I decided to proceed this time, making sure I was still the one asking the questions.

  “Dr. Lowe, were you able to have your meeting? If not, I can come back later. Would you like me to come back later?”

  “Yes, I mean no…I mean, yes, I was able to have my meeting, and, no, you do not need to come back later.” More silence, followed by another resigned sigh. “Dr. McCain, since you insist upon talking now, then I guess it is best we get started. I just came from talking with some of the board members. I have to admit we are taken back somewhat by today’s unfortunate incident.” He paused. He was either getting up the courage to continue or was trying to choose his words carefully. “Frankly, we have never been faced with this type of situation before.”

  His derisive tone had returned, and I could feel my blood beginning to boil. “And what type of situation are you referring to?” I managed to ask the question calmly and respectfully.

  “How do I say this without giving you the wrong idea? We realize you might have saved Dr. Witmer’s life. I know she is grateful and we are grateful none of our patients or staff was injured. But we also realize that you could have made the situation worse. You are a doctor in this hospital, not part of security. We feel you should have conveyed your suspicions to security and let the professionals handle it.” He took in a deep breath, rolling his eyes like he was tired of his own monologue, but he continued. “Furthermore, it is evident you made no attempt to persuade Mr. Harty into ceasing his endeavor. Instead, you engaged in a violent struggle for the weapon, a struggle that ended poorly for the gentleman.”

  Did this guy think I was going to allow it to end favorably for the “gentleman?”

  “That gentleman is now in surgery to relieve the pressure from around his brain. His fate is uncertain. You are a doctor in this hospital, and it seems you have violated the Hippocratic Oath. Finally, the media has been out here all morning interviewing witnesses. We could not keep your name from being mentioned. We feel the hospital is now in damage control. Thus we will all need to meet tomorrow with our attorneys to discuss further ramifications that might arise.”

  It was happening again. I expected a certain amount of second-guessing from the amateurs, the civilians, but Dr. Lowe referred to Tom Harty as a gentleman, implying that Mr. Harty was somehow the victim, not the perpetrator, while also stating I violated my Hippocratic Oath. How did the idiot think I had violated my Hippocratic Oath? The Oath does make reference to treading with care in matters of life and death, but Tom Harty was a man with a gun, not a patient of mine. I did not owe him any particular consideration. I reclined back in my chair, staring back at Dr. Lowe, saying nothing at all while trying to hide my growing anger.

  He was fidgeting, unable to handle the awkward silence, a silence he created by his absurd statements. “Dr. McCain, do you have something you would like to say?”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “Excuse me,” he replied.

  I said it again, just the same, no change in voice inflection, or tone, or volume.

  “Dr. McCain, I believe I was quite succinct. As Chief of Medicine, I speak for the hospital administration and the hospital board of directors when I tell you that I would like to hear what you have to say for yourself.”

  “Please do not take this the wrong way, but is the implication of your question purposeful…sir?”

  Dr. Lowe said, “I’m sorry, what implication are you referring to?”

  “Sir, do you think of me as obtuse?”

  “Obtuse?”

  “Not particularly observant, perhaps dull-witted,” I replied.

  “I know what obtuse means.”

  “Then please stop asking me what I have to say for myself; I find that particular wordin
g denigrating.”

  Dr. Lowe tried to stare me down, glaring at me through slitted eyes while I returned his stare indifferently. As he paced around his desk twice, he seemed to realize that I was immune to his intimidation. While sitting, his fist came down on the table. “Then please answer the damn question!”

  Dr. Lowe had a reputation for being a hothead, but I had never personally witnessed it before today. Unlike most people, I had no intention of sitting through any more of his tirade, which was obvious as I stood up and headed for the door. “Where do you think you are going? I haven’t dismissed you, and you still have not responded to my question.”

  My hand was on the doorknob, but after a contemplative pause I turned and faced Dr. Lowe. “I can think of no adequate way to answer your question, so I am wondering, does ‘you’re welcome’ suffice?” I was still making sure he was answering my questions.

  Dr. Lowe leaned forward in his chair taking an offensive posture, but his stammering lessened the effect dramatically. “You’re welcome…that is your response?”

  “Yes, that is the safest thing I can think to say. I realize that you did not actually say the words thank you, but earlier you did say you were grateful none of your patients or staff were injured. Grateful is, of course, synonymous with thankful; therefore, I think it is befitting to answer with you’re welcome.” I paused momentarily while I sat down. “I know some people say no problem, but I don’t like that one as much. I like you’re welcome, it implies that I would do it again for you if asked, which, of course, I would. I would disarm an alcoholic waving a gun in your hospital again in a New York minute. Are you telling me you don’t agree with my actions?”

  Dr. Lowe’s face was red. He seemed to know he had lost control of the conversation, and he didn’t know how to get it back. We went back to the silence game. I could be silent longer than he could; I was going to win again. The redness was spreading down into his neck. The silence was having my desired effect. “But we did not ask. You took it all upon yourself!” His volume was almost deafening.