Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Off the cardiologist! Man in train is screaming; he gets my attention--looks positively sane, actually--and yells "You think you're so smart! So smart!" I turn up headphones and look anywhere else. Now he's talking about Jesus. There's a long wait in the doctor's, a mini-UN of patients. Lots of poor folks with poorface here, that sort of worn-out life-tired look where no one bothered to help you until it was way too late, and now they can't wait to shove a tube down you. Why has the blond Russian man in sunglasses unbuttoned his shirt all the way, showing his old naked chest? Why is he looking at me? Is he judging? Perhaps he wants to sell me. Absolutely no one wants to be at the cardiologist, although Michael Jackson's funeral puts us all in a reflective state. I am ushered away as Brooke Shields cries; electrocardiograph taken by a woman from Eastern Europe. Very quick, snap snap. Soon after cardiologist enters, shakes my hand. Checks chart. Also snap, snap. He seems bemused, wants to know why I'm here. I tell him, namely that I had some mild stomach pain after exercising. My pressure is down. We talk about my meds. Do not be worried, he said; that thing that brought you here is not... Trails off as all doctors do, leaving the rest of the sentence to you. You might want to think about the surgery, he says, and he promises that it no longer kills so regularly. Give me a year, I say, meaning it. If you do it, he says, then do it where they do a lot of it. I am not doing that damned surgery.