That’s why during my first week of classes, I start searching for a part-time job. Something with pretty flexible hours and hopefully decent pay. When I see an ad on the bulletin board outside the anatomy lab for part-time work at a medical clinic, it seems perfect.
Until I get there.
First of all, it’s in a terrible part of town. If I wasn’t me, I’d be scared to walk around this neighborhood. And Dr. Stanley Kovak’s clinic is a dive. That’s really the only word for it—well, the nicest word I can think of, anyway. His waiting room is a tiny area, barely bigger than a closet, with three folding chairs pushed up against a wall, peeling white paint, and one dim light bulb that dangles precariously from the ceiling. The entire place smells like a urinal.
But the pay? It’sreallygood. Way better than McDonald’s. So I stick around for the interview.
There’s no receptionist to be seen, so I take a seat on one of the folding chairs, which creaks ominously under my weight. I had been “buzzed” in, so I assume that Dr. Kovak knows I’m here. There are no magazines to read in the waiting room, but it seems like the people who come to a clinic like this aren’t that excited to be thumbing through a copy ofGood Housekeeping.
After several minutes, the door to the back opens, and a man sticks his head out. “Abraham Kaufman?”
“Abe,” I say, rising to my feet.
His eyes widen slightly at my size, which isn’t an entirely unusual reaction.
“Come on in,” the man says. “I’m Stan Kovak.”
Dr. Kovak is at least half a foot shorter than me with very close-cropped gray hair on his head, fine lines on his tanned skin, and two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He’s wearing rumpled blue scrubs that look like he slept in them. He herds me down a short, poorly lit hallway to a room with what appears to be a long stretcher in it. There’s a sheet on the stretcher, which is covered in brown stains. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell me to sit on it.
“So you’re applying for the job?” he asks me.
“That’s right,” I say. I hand him a folder, containing references from former jobs I’ve held: working as a cashier at a grocery store, taking tickets at the movie theater, and working as a lifeguard for three summers.
Kovak takes the folder but simply lays it down on the counter without even flipping through it. “I desperately need help.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “It can get very busy here, and my assistant just quit. You said you’re a medical student?”
“Yeah.”
“What year?”
“First.”
He nods in approval. “I get a lot of students from the school at the clinic. It’s a long wait for the student health center, so they like to come here instead. I need help checking them in, getting vital signs, scheduling appointments. It’ll be a good experience for you.”
“I’m sure it will be,” I say confidently, although something about this examining room makes me uneasy. What are those brown stains on the sheet? “I’d be thrilled to work here.”
“Great.” He folds his arms across his chest. “When can you start?”
“That’s it? I got the job?”
He cracks a smile. “You’re the only one to apply.”
Something about this revelation sets off a red flag in the back of my head. How could I be the only one to apply for such a lucrative job? It pays more than twice as much as what I made at the supermarket. Then again, if he wants a medical student, most of the kids in the class are too busy to work on top of everything. And I was really quick to apply. What’s that thing they say about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?
“I can start tomorrow,” I tell him.
17
I’ve never hada serious girlfriend before.
I’ve dated. But between being premed and working, on top of school, there was never time to squeeze in a relationship. You can only cancel on a girl so many times because you need to pick up an extra shift at the supermarket before she stops returning your messages.
And now I’m as busy as I’ve ever been. Anatomy and biochemistry and three nights a week at Dr. Kovak’s clinic doesn’t leave much time for a girlfriend. I need to keep my head down and focus on getting through the next four years.
Fortunately or unfortunately, Heather is ridiculously out of my league. The more I get to know her and we become friends, the more painfully obvious that is. I’m kidding myself by holding out even the tiniest hope I’ll end up with her.
As we’re studying the female pelvis side by side in the library, Heather crinkles her nose like she always does when she doesn’t understand something (which I’m sad to say is a lot). She leans forward over our anatomy atlas, and I get a whiff of her shampoo. Peaches, like usual. I’m starting to love the smell ofpeaches. I bought a bunch of them for our refrigerator, just so I can sniff them.
Okay, as I’m saying it, I realize how weird that sounds.
