Vegan for a Day
X-ray explanation:
“Well, Mr. Raggio, you do have a measure of arthritis along your cervical spine, and plaque around your aortic arch, nothing too worrisome for a man of your years.” (There’s a smile, and then an extra nod of assurance as she begins to read or count the furrows on my brow and sees the squinting of my eyes.)
I turn and begin putting on my shirt. I stop, spin back toward her, and reply, “I don’t recall having any arthritic issues with my back, Doc. Plaque? Like the one hanging in the den that says, ‘Awarded to Glenn Raggio for never calling in sick the whole year of 1983’? That’s a plaque, Doc! I thought teeth got plaque. I mean, I’m not a doctor, but I know the aorta, and teeth do not have a relationship, right? This sounds pretty heavy, Doc.”
She waves me down in the seat as if I were eight and says, “If you’re truly concerned about it, consider veganism.”
Now, “vegan” all by itself just sounds, well … evil. I can’t tell you why. But you add the “ism” and you start seeing Linda Blair bouncing on the bed!
She pulls out a chart, handling it like a treasure map, and spreads it over the examination table. It’s a chart of every vegetable known to mankind (and some that look like they used to walk). It starts out with pale, nearly white vegetables and graduates to tan, orange, brown, and then 40 shades of green shapes. The only thing I recognize is corn. All the while, I am hoping this isn’t going to be a test where she points to one and I have to fucking guess what it is.
Then it dawns on me (well, two dawns, really)—she’s a vegan! The other “dawn” is that as a cop, I should have figured this out much earlier. Must be my aortic plaque setting in. You ever see people who go into health-food stores or those supplement places, and they have that sort of sheen on their face? It’s like a tan, or a faux tan, produced on the skin by some vegetable you have to cook with certain spices so you can’t taste what it really tastes like.
Anyway.
She gently guides her hand affectionately over the images, pointing out her favorites and making recommendations as she goes. “This one is good for the prostate, and this one is great for the skin. And oh, this one works against plaque and Republicans …”
Okay, I made that last part up.
“You’d make a perfect vegan, Mr. Raggio.”
I’m not sure how to take the “compliment,” so I ask, “Why do you say that, Doc?”
“Well, you appear to be in reasonably good shape, you’re not completely gray, you did well on the eye chart …”
She went on for a bit, and I let her, but I couldn’t help but add right after she finished, “And I’d look smart in Birkenstocks?”
The chart was suddenly rolled up, and she was staring at me over her glasses. “Vegetables will do for you what clearly you’ve been unwilling to do for yourself.” Now I’m thinking, I wonder which one of those vegetables will buy me a Taylor driver, but I hold my tongue.
Raley’s produce section later that day:
I peruse the aisles as if I belong there. Pick up some of those images I saw earlier and imagine them on my plate. A woman sees me and starts in on how if you prepare them this way and add some of that and this, you’ll be in heaven. I nod and smile, knowing full well these Nikes are going to melt in hell for sure. I see a small sign for arugula and I start to giggle. It sounds like one of those exotic diseases that eats flesh. The same woman smiles from 50 feet away and again starts my way. All I can think of is, where the hell is Dick?! I practice a quick duck-and-cover maneuver and escape into the land of processed food.
Fuck it, life is dreaming of a grilled cheese and waking to make it!
No comments:
Post a Comment