Lippard.Multics 1985-06-20 15:37:59 mst Thu
Subject:  From Zephyr BBS (Gene Williams)
Date:  Monday, 17 June 1985 12:09 mst
From:  Charlie Spitzer <Spitzer>
To:  {mbx >udd>m>jjl>misc>misc}

 From: GENE WILLIAMS
 Title: $3.75 - part 1
 Date: 06-15-85  Time: 20:13:33

                    THE $3.75 (plus tax) MAN

     It had been one of the worst crop dusting accidents in years.
While making what should've been an ordinary pass over the field, the
stick had come off in his hands, causing the plane to go spinning out of
control.  The plane did as much of a half gainer as possible and smacked
into a field of asparagus.  His last conscious thought was, "I HATE
asparagus!"
     Fortunately he'd done all repairs to the plane with Scotch tape and
old clarinet reeds (to cut costs).  The collision cracked it like an
old, dried-out eggshell, and threw the pilot free of the wreckage and
into a pile of insecticide, burning oil and creamed asparagus.
     Smelling profit, three ambulance services arrived.  While they
fought over custody of the victim, paramedics attempted to separate him
from the now boiled asparagus, taking care to place any stray fingers
and feet on the stretcher with the pilots.  Finally, a coin was produced
and it was decided that the pilot would be rescued by Bud's Ambulance
Service, which was fortunate as they were well known for their
efficiency.  They only dropped him twice in getting him aboard.
     In keeping with their reputation, the trip to the hospital was
extremely quick.  All 17 miles were covered in two hours.  The drivers
took only 30 minutes for lunch, and thoughtfully passed up their noon
appointment at the local massage parlor.
     The hospital personnel, too, were on their toes.  The head nurse
set aside her movie magazine with hardly a grumble and politely asked
the driver only the most essential questions for admittance.
     "Got any money?" she asked.
     "Uhhhhh," groaned the pilot.
     "You'll have to speak up, sir.  (God, what a mess he's making on
our nice, clean floor.)  Now - insurance?"
     The pilot answered by allowing his right hand to fall off.
     "Name? And billing address?"
     Silence.
     "Sir, you'll have to cooperate if you want us to operate." She
broke into hysterical laughter at her joke.  The pilot failed to see the
humor of it, and said so by aiming a spurt from a torn artery.  She
agreed that it wasn't all that funny after all, as she wiped the
stickiness from her face.  She turned to her assistant and said, "Get
this man to an operating room immediately!" (He's making a bloody mess
in the lobby.  Too many sick people around will give us a bad name.)
     Just then another miracle occurred.  A doctor was actually on duty.
Grudgingly, he set aside the fourth floor candy striper and consented to
save the life of this poor man (with the rich insurance company).
"After all," he reasoned, "I took the Hypocritical Oath.  And besides, I
could use another Mercedes."
     So, only 18 hours after the crash (the doctor decided that the
candy striper should wish him luck - in private), the pilot found
himself staring into the bright operating lights.
     "Scalpel," demanded the doctor.  "Sponge.  Suture.  Clamp.
Kleenex," he requested, blowing his nose soundly.
     This was the doctor's big chance.  For year's he'd been watching
reruns on television.  He was almost an addict.  (He'd served his
internship on "General Hospital.") And, if a cowboy like Lee Majors
could be put back together, then so could this schmuck.
     Piece by piece he mended the broken body of the driver.  Using a
delightful shade of Coates & Coates he sewed the fingers back in place,
and the hands back on the wrists.  He cursed softly when he realized
that he'd sewn the left hand on the right arm, and vice versa.  After
toying with his personal aesthetics, he decided that the left hand should
go on the left arm after all.
     An old episode of Star Trek came to mind as he carefully soldered
the nerve endings together.  (He made a mental note that 50/50 acid core
solder didn't work very well on nerve endings, and determined to get
resin core next time.)
     Six hours, two coffee breaks, a half hour off to watch his favorite
soap, and one candy striper break later, the pilot was resting safely
in the ward in an anesthetic coma.  He finally opened his eyes, and
through the blur wondered why his right hand had two pinky fingers while
his left had two thumbs.  But, happy just to be alive (more or less), he
decided to let the matter pass.  Might be a good conversation piece,
anyway.
     The nurse entered.  "How are you feeling?" she asked sweetly while
checking his wallet and pockets for spare change.
     "Not bad, considering," he answered.  There was a strange nasal
quality to his voice.  He noticed that the nurse was staring
open-mouthed at him.  "What's wrong?" he asked.
     "You're talking with your nose!" she stammered.  "Your mouth isn't
moving, just your nostrils." She moved quickly to the door to locate the
doctor.
     "Uh, would you mind turning off the light before you leave?" he
asked.  "It's a bit noisy."
     After a thorough examination, the doctor ascertained what the
problem was.  ("Damn," he thought, "I gotta lay off the belladonna when
I'm operating.") Somehow he'd soldered the nerve endings in the wrong
places.  Terrible as the situation was, it WAS kinda funny, and he found
it difficult to keep from laughing whenever his patient talked.
     The Chief Surgeon of the hospital didn't find it quite so humorous
and demanded an explanation (before he had the doctor shot).
     "Well," giggled the doctor, "Nurse Barkley was tickling me.  I
guess I must've wired him up all wrong.  I connected the mouth nerves to
his nose, and the ear nerves to his eyes.  He can still see with his
eyes, but he also hears with them.  Must be confusing for him,
especially when he blinks.  It's sort of embarrassing.  Nurse Smith got
quite a shock when she touched his toe.  We're still trying to get the
toe to lie down flat again."
     "You idiot!" exclaimed the Chief (suppressing his own laughter).
"This could give the hospital a bad name.  Worse, it could give ME a bad
name.  You'll just have to operate again.  (And I left Jessie for this?)
We'll have to give the patient a 10% discount, too, damn it all.  After
all it IS our fault.
     "Now, get to it, doctor.  And send Nurse Barkley to me.  (Tickling,
huh?  Hmmmm.  Should be an interesting chewing out.  If I threaten to
fire her, she'll be willing to .  .  .)."
     The operating room was made ready again, washed down quite
thoroughly with Ajax and Lysol.  ("You're sure he's not Italian," asked
a nurse holding a bottle of Dawn.)  The steel operating table and
surgical instruments were placed in the deep freeze to make them the
right temperature.
     The pilot was interrupted from his lunch, where he was attempting
to shove a cheese sandwich through his nose, and was wheeled into the
operating room.  A nurse brought in a large rubber mallet and clipped
the pilot on the head.  ("Gotta cut costs, y'know," she explained.
"After all, you're getting a 10% discount.") The doctor came in with a
candy striper clinging to his leg.
     Through the fog of the mallet anesthetic, the pilot heard her
screaming something about an interesting bulge around her belly.  He saw
the doctor hand her a technical instrument that looked very much like a
straightened coat hanger, and, just as the doctor was explaining the
medical significance of the instrument, the nurse clouted the pilot once
more, for good measure, and the room went black.
     When he opened his eyes again, the light was no longer noisy.
However, it did have a peculiar odor.  "Am I okay?" he asked through his
ear.  He found that all sound in the room ceased whenever he closed his
mouth.  Gently he tilted his head back, aiming his nostrils at the
doctor so that he could see better.  The doctor was clutching the side
of the bed in a fit of laughter.
     "Oh, shit!," he guffawed. "Here we go again."