Avoiding Amy Jackson (23 page)

James sighs and continues. “I apologize for the wait. I wanted to make sure I had a nurse in the room with me. This is Amy. Amy this is Ms. DeMarco.”

“Oh I bet you two just got back from porking in the supply room.” She’s glancing back and forth between us. I feel slightly violated that this woman is practically drooling over the idea of James and me getting our freak on.
And porking? Seriously?

James sticks with professional, ignoring her last comment and moving along on with his assessment. “Ms. DeMarco, I’m just going to take a closer look at your hip. I’m very concerned that you’ve done quite a number on it. It could very well be broken.”

She holds her hands out and smiles flirtatiously. “Assess away, Doctor. I am yours to do with as you wish.” Her smirk is lascivious at the very least, if not something dirtier. I kind of like this lady. She’s a hoot, and I haven’t quite figured out if she’s like this all the time or if there is some type of medical condition causing her to have no filter and blurt out sexually inappropriate things. Dementia? Alzheimer’s? Severe dehydration and electrolyte imbalances? Infection? These are all on the list of possibilities.

James gingerly assesses her hip, asking her to perform certain movements as he lightly probes the area with his gloved fingers. She’s giggling incessantly whenever his fingers make contact with her skin. Can old ladies get ladyboners? If this is something that can still occur when you’re over the age of seventy, I can assure you that Ms. DeMarco has a giant ladyboner for James right now. I hold my hand over my mouth, trying like hell to hold back the laugh that is threatening to spill from my lips. This situation could inspire a late-night comedy show. James’s shoulders are rigid, stiff, and every time this patient giggles from his touch, he seems to only get stiffer.

James is getting stiff because of this old lady.

A small laugh escapes my throat and I try to hide it behind a loud, forced cough. James peers back at me with a shrewd look, his eyes nearly pinning me to the white tile floor. He’s appearing more uncomfortable by the minute, and I’m finding all sorts of hilarity in this scenario.

“You know, back in my day, none of the girls swallowed—except for me. I
always
swallowed. I still do.” She’s practically undressing him with her eyes. “That’s how I got my husband, may he rest in peace.” She looks up to the sky and places a frail hand to her heart. “I got my Stan because I swallowed and I never wore panties.
Still don’t.”
She lowers her voice in an effort at being seductive.

James’s eyes widen in shock. He brusquely stands straight up, pulling his hands away from her hip with cat-like reflexes. I might have to pick my jaw up off the floor before I leave this room, because this woman is surprising the hell out of me with each passing comment.

“Does he have a big cock? I bet he’s got a big cock,” Ms. Demarco whisper-yells to me with an extremely inappropriate grin.

At this point, I’m probably going to have to leave my jaw right here in bed nine. I’ll come back and get it at a better time. Probably after I’ve berated James about his new lady friend. This old broad has left me speechless and highly amused. She’s giving me fuel for sarcastic jabs at James for at least a year. I’ve never been privy to seeing an elderly lady hit on a physician with such audacity.

Is she a cougar? I feel like there should be a different term for her considering that she’s past the age of sixty-five. What’s after a cougar?
A saber-tooh?
Yeah, this old broad is definitely a saber-tooth.

I’ve never seen a physician assess a patient so speedily. James strides past bed nine’s curtains like the saber-tooth was trying to get his cock out—which, in his defense, might have actually happened if he had stayed near her bedside any longer. The man was on a mission to get the fuck out of there as quickly as physically possible.

“Is there anything I can get you right now, Ms. DeMarco?” I offer after James discussed her plan of care and sprinted out of her room like someone was actually timing him for an Olympic trial of track and field.

“Just that hot doctor’s cock size and phone number.”

I nearly choke on my own spit and have to cough several times to regain my equilibrium. “I can definitely get you his office number, but cock size? Eh, probably not going to happen.” I shrug my shoulders at her. “That is slightly inappropriate to be asking your surgeon, Ms. DeMarco.”

She turns her head away from me, scoffing loudly. “If I cared what you thought, I would have asked you.”

Well, okay then.

I’d say this old lady is full of piss, vinegar, and indisputable horniness that would have most people rethinking the notion that your sex drive declines as you age. If her sex drive has declined with age, what in the heck was she like as a teenager?

Obviously, a cum-swallowing, panty-less horn-ball.

I leisurely walk out of bed nine and back towards the nurses’ station, where James is seated, charting his current history and physical. My smile is betraying me, but I can’t help myself. I just got to witness James getting eye-fucked by a saber-tooth.

He holds up his hand when he hears my footsteps near him, his eyes never leaving the computer. “Don’t even say it.”

“What?” My voice feigns innocence. “I wasn’t going to say a word.”

James’s eyes sluggishly move up to mine and the expression on his face is picture-worthy. “Can you at least hold off on the mocking jabs until tomorrow? Give me time to find my dignity and get over the fact that some old lady just raped me with her eyes.”

I laugh noisily and wink at him. “Okay. Okay. I’ll let this one go—
for now
.”

James drags his hand down his face in aggravation. “Just tell me one thing. How many do you have lined up already?”

“At least twenty, probably closer to thirty. Just let me know when you’re ready to discuss the saber-toothed tiger in there.” I tilt my head back towards bed nine, giving James a shit-eating grin.

“I just gave you enough ammunition for at least six months…” He pauses as he drags his hand over his face again in outward frustration.

“Yep,” I say, loudly popping the p, mimicking James’s little quirk. His only response is a shake of his head before his focus goes back to the computer so he can finish charting.

I decide to leave the man in peace for a little while. He probably needs some time to get over the fact that an elderly lady just told him she doesn’t wear panties and enjoys swallowing cum before she asked if he had a huge cock over five times in a matter of only a few minutes.

It’s truly a shame I didn’t think to record that entire conversation on my phone. The risk of breaking patient confidentiality and going against hospital policies and protocol might have been well worth the reward of getting an eighty-year-old woman’s voice telling James she’s a spooge swallower from way back.

Saber-Tooth, the panty-less spooge swallower.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

I choose to give James some space and sit down in the back corner of the nurses’ station. I pull my phone out of my scrub pocket and promptly save a few key phrases from Saber-Tooth. These are memories I never want to forget. This is the kind of thing friends do for each other. A true friend will record times like these for future reference. I need to have this available for when that special moment arises to talk about our fondest memories. Special moments like birthdays, holidays, weekends, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesday, Thursdays…

I save my favorite key phrases into a note in my phone titled
Saber-Toothed Tiger.
I also take the time to set a reminder. I wouldn’t want to forget to thank James for such a generous gift.

The gift that will keep on giving.

The gift that has undoubtedly given me enough sarcastic quips and jabs to last a lifetime.

Dr. Limp Dick and Saber-Toothed Tiger, a match made in geriatric heaven.

Chapter Eighteen

“One of these days, I’ll get my shit together,

but obviously today is not that day.” - Amy

I never thought I’d say these words, but yes, I’m back at the gym. My ass is jiggling on the treadmill as my tits bounce around like they’re trying to escape my sports bra. Why is it that bra manufacturers can’t find the ability to make a sports bra to keep my girls from moving up and down like they’re trying out for America’s Next Top Cheerleader? I love my boobs, I really do, but it’s moments like this that make me wish my tits were two cup sizes smaller. This is a perfect example of why I hate working out. I’m uncomfortable and sweaty and dreaming about eating a greasy cheeseburger with French fries.

“So are you ever going to admit your feelings for Ryder?” I ask Lizzy, who is gracefully jogging next to me.

“So are you ever going to admit your feelings for James?”

I stare her down for a minute before deciding to change the subject. We’ve obviously reached a stalemate on this one. “I thought Ellen was supposed to come to the gym with us today?” I ask as I turn down the speed on the treadmill, resuming a fast walk.

“She sent me a text a few minutes ago saying she was on her way.” Lizzy turns up her treadmill, increasing her jog to more of a run.

Is she trying to make me look bad over here?

I’ve been working out nearly every day for the past month since I gorged myself on Mama Rosa’s spaghetti and meatballs. The next day, when I could barely slide my skinny jeans over my ass, I decided it was time to lose a few pounds. I’m not fat by any means, but my curves had become more than generous.

“Well speak of the devil.” I see Ellen striding towards us with a scowl on her face. Her pregnant belly is extremely pronounced in her white tank and black yoga pants. She has got to be the cutest pregnant woman I have ever seen.

But right now Ellen looks pissed.

Her green eyes squint in frustration as she bends over to set her bag on the ground next to my treadmill. I hear her mumble a few choice words and I know it’s in my best interest to not laugh at her current ticked off state.

“Everything okay?”

She stands up with her iPod clutched in her hand, the ear buds dangling down. “My fiancé is an asshole. Trent is driving me crazy and I’m so god damn fat these days that I can barely tie my own shoes.”

Lizzy and I both have surprised looks on our faces.

This is not the normal reaction we usually get from Ellen. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard her utter a bad thing about Trent. I’m almost certain this has never happened…
ever.
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lungs as I watch Ellen stomp her feet up on the treadmill. Her fingers violently bang on the buttons of the console.

“All right, spit it out. What’s got you so huffy tonight?” I question as I observe her aggravated movements.

“Ugh!” Ellen scoffs. “Trent doesn’t seem to understand that you never tell a pregnant woman that she’s getting ‘bigger.’” She uses air quotes to emphasis the word
bigger
as her feet start to slowly move with the track of her treadmill.

“Ellen, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything bad by it, he probably just meant your belly has
grown
—” I stop mid-sentence as I start to rethink my current wording. The last thing I want to do is piss off a scowling pregnant woman. I’m not quite sure what she’s capable of doing if she feels the need to throw her aggression my way. “That your belly has grown to accommodate your beautiful baby girl. Lucy is getting bigger by the day. Therefore, your poor, tiny stomach is going to have to work to give her some space.” Notice how I just focused on talking about Ellen being tiny and the baby being big? I’m hoping I worded that in the best way possible to avoid having a pregnant woman tackle me off of my treadmill and beating me with her gym shoe.

I hear her sigh heavily over the loud commotion of the gym. I glance over and notice a few tears in her eyes.

Why in the hell is she crying?

“Are you okay over there?” I ask, my voice filled with concern.

Maybe I’m missing something? Did something bigger happen between her and Trent?

She swipes the tears from her eyes, leaving them red-rimmed and her cheeks slightly flushed. “Yeah, I’m fine. I keep crying…
about everything
. I found myself crying at a coffee commercial last night because it was a soldier who came home and his wife had coffee ready for him when he walked in the door—” She abruptly stops in the middle of her story and starts to cry.

I mean full-on, ugly-girl crying. Big, fat tears stream down her face and snot drips from her nose. I think my friend has lost her ever-loving mind.

“It was just so sweet and…and…” She takes a shuddering breath. “And the wife was so happy because her husband was finally home.” She snorts loudly against the very apparent mucous that’s lodged inside of her nose as she continues to sob alarmingly loud. “She was just so happy! I’m so glad they were together again!” she wails noisily.

Dear god, what in the hell is going on right now?

My pregnant friend is on the treadmill, sobbing her eyes out, and she’s talking about fictional people from a coffee commercial like they’re actually real people—
like she actually knows them
. I look over at Lizzy for a little guidance and her face is just as baffled as mine. I’m at a loss here.

Do I comfort her about her coffee commercial friends?

Do I try to change the subject so she stops weeping?

Lizzy gets off of her treadmill and proceeds to turn Ellen’s treadmill off, pulling her to safety. The last thing we need is for her pregnant ass to fall down. Ellen is still continuing to cry uncontrollably.

“Come on, sis. Let’s go get a drink of water. We need to keep our little Lucy hydrated.” Lizzy gives her sister a warm smile and Ellen just nods her head.

“I’m just so happy he came home and she had coffee ready!” Ellen cries above the noise of the gym. Her voice is shaky with tears as Lizzy leads her away from the treadmills and towards the women’s locker room.