Walking through my High School lobby was one of the most stressful activities of sophomore year. I never knew where to look, so I usually just looked down at the floor. By graduation, I think I memorized the location of every crack and piece of gum all the way from Hall B to the cafeteria. It felt like everyone was staring at me, but I knew that it was all in my head along with all the other crazy thoughts: “Why did I pick these clothes today? ... Are these pimples ever going away? ... I think I’m getting fatter by the second!” I quickly glanced to the right and saw a table of football players all standing around in their team jackets. They were smiling and laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world, and I wished I could be more like them. On the other side of the lobby, Dawn and Michelle were sitting by the window applying lip gloss. They were arguably the hottest girls in the class. The sun illuminated their feathered-back hair, and I wondered if I’d ever get to say anything to them besides, “Excuse me”. I was so relieved to finally make it through the lobby. I approached a large, metal blue door with crooked, painted yellow letters that read, “WKWZ”, and pulled it open with all my strength. It squeaked shut as I disappeared into the dark hallway and was finally free.
There was barely enough light to see, but I knew exactly where I was going. I let out a deep breath and descended down about 50 concrete stairs. With each step, my heart rate slowed, my breathing became easier and I think my skin actually started clearing. The air was cool and my steps echoed in the darkness. As I got to the bottom, the sound of Elvis Costello’s music and the smell of cigarette smoke welcomed me immediately. I pushed the door of the radio station open and Agnes’ face brightened as soon as I walked in. She was a woman in her 50’s who was more like a really cool aunt than a secretary. She pushed a cigarette into the coffee cup in front of her on the desk and lit another. “Important day, Billy, nervous?” “I’ll be fine”, I replied with a smile, and headed towards the back of the station. On the way, I ran into Judd, a junior who was generally regarded as a class comedian. He worked as a DJ and an engineer at the station. He also knew my older sister, who worked at the radio station and convinced me to join when I first came to High School. “So the little Reisacher wants to be a newscaster just like his sister?” he said with a devilish grin. I laughed silently at the joke and continued on to the Associated Press machine.
The AP machine looked something like a military weapon used by the Germans in World War II. It was a hulking mass of grey metal which made the sound of repeating artillery as it belched out reams of thick, tan paper with the latest news typed like telegraph messages. I ripped off some “copy” and arranged a 15 minute newscast that included international, national, state and local news along with sports, weather and a 30 second public service announcement. This was going to be my audition for the news department. I wanted desperately to go on the air. I walked into the studio, arranged my papers on the desk in front of me and placed the headphones on my head. I swung the microphone in front of me and tilted it into the perfect position. I looked up into the engineering booth and saw Judd smiling at me through the glass. He fiddled with some controls and slowly tilted his finger towards me. The red light in the studio began to glow.
My voice was strong and I felt really good about the newscast. I kept telling myself to slow down, pronounce every syllable and avoid saying, “umm”. I made it through international news and was covering some U.S. stories when a heard a strange sound in my headphones. I paused, thinking it was feedback, but then the noise repeated. It could only be described as the mating call of a chimpanzee, although I’m not really an expert on this topic. I decided to move on to local news, but when I said “news”, the sound, “moooo!” played instead. In horror, I paused once again and looked up. Although I couldn’t hear any sound from behind the glass, Judd was obviously laughing his head off. He caught himself from falling backwards on his chair and sat up, putting on a serious face that didn’t convince me. I made it all the way to sports, but then the sound effects returned just as I was giving the scores for women’s field hockey. “Oink, oink, oink!” I practically felt the porky breath of a trough-full of muddy swines right in my ear. Amidst the cacophony of squeals and grunts, I tried to choke back the laughter. Trying not to lose bladder control, I cleared my throat, turned the volume knob on my headphones down and finished the newscast.
Although it may sound unbelievable, I was accepted into the news department and went into regular rotation on the air. I covered evening news and eventually became the News Director of the station. I also hosted a weekly health show called, “No Preservatives”, probably one of the earliest signs of my interest in medicine. Throughout my high school years, the radio station was a place where I could go and just be myself. Everybody who worked there was a little different or strange in their own way, but down in that basement, we accepted each other and had a blast both on and off the air. Judd went on to do pretty well for himself. On that day, I didn’t find his joke very amusing, but as I watched his movies, “Knocked Up” and “The 40-Year-Old Virgin”, I’ve come to appreciate the humor of Judd Apatow. Thanks, my friend, wherever you are.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Music
For as far back as I can remember, the music has always been there. It’s like a movie soundtrack inside my head that never stops playing. I’m not exactly sure why it’s there, but all these notes and rhythms weave their way into my dreams and keep me company while I’m in the operating room, eating lunch or playing with the kids. Sometimes the music is low and in the background, while other times it becomes louder and more melodic. Occasionally, I hear words as well. Over time, I learned that the only way to control the music in my head was to somehow play it. It’s not surprising that I decided to take up a musical instrument.
I started with the clarinet in the 4th grade, but eventually grew frustrated with playing single notes and marching up and down Main Street, so I turned to the piano. On the piano’s keyboard, I could play any combination of notes to produce all the complex and colorful sounds that I needed. All throughout high school, I studied the sheet music for classical and popular songs and taught myself how to play them. But my mind would always wander and I would end up changing the music in some crazy way. Eventually, I just started writing my own songs, and that process has continued to this very day. Creating music and lyrics at the piano can be a deeply frustrating task. The chords and melodies both haunt me and heal me at the same time. But in College, I discovered that this skill had another very important function ...
The year was 1987. I was a sophomore in College. A couple of my friends had just joined a fraternity, so I dropped by one of their parties to see the house. The fraternity house was a 100 year old stone structure with large, sweeping spaces that made it seem more like a castle. After getting the royal tour and meeting all the brothers, I poured myself a beer from the keg and headed out to the dance floor. “The One I Love”, by R.E.M., was blaring from the speakers. The windows were open and the cool breeze from outside became laced with the smell of perfume, sweat and musty wood. I saw a girl that I knew from class who I really wanted to dance with. She smiled and waved at me, but she was dancing with one of the brothers. Feeling a little sorry for myself, I retreated to the next room, refilled my beer and started thinking about the midterm I should have been studying for. That’s when I saw it in the corner of the room.
It was covered with a heavy canvas and seemed to be as lonely as I was feeling at that moment. I uncovered it, pulled out the bench, sat down and lifted up the lid. I pressed down on one of the worn, ivory keys and the action was smooth. I had to strain to hear, but the tones were deep and rich. Both of my hands settled in and I began to play a ballad that I had been working on. I could barely hear it above the party noise, but I knew my fingers were doing the right thing. All of a sudden, the girl from before came over and smiled. “What are you playing?” I smiled back and tried to answer her while continuing to play, “It doesn’t have a name yet!” I’m not sure if she heard me, but she sat down next to me and said, “I love it!” Captivated by her pretty face and confused by what was unfolding, I began to lose my focus. My hands were now playing something completely foreign to me, but she did not seem to notice at all. All of a sudden, another girl came over and leaned on the piano, then another, and another.
Soon, I had a crowd of women all standing around the piano. By this time, I had no idea whatsoever what I was playing. I couldn’t hear anything, but neither could they. They kept drinking and requesting different songs. Some tunes I knew, but most of them I had no idea how to play. So I kept on playing the same improvisational nonsense and they kept on laughing and giving me complements. I stared at one girl in disbelief when she actually began singing along with my random, never-ending song. A couple of girls stuffed dollar bills into a glass on the piano, and that is when I knew that I had officially entered “The Twilight Zone”. My fingers were starting to cramp up, but every time I stopped, the girls would protest and encourage me to play on. The fraternity brothers were standing by the side with a mixture of anger and disbelief on their faces. I gave them a sheepish smile and shrugged my shoulders as I launched into the next verse of ... well, whatever you call it.
You might be surprised at this, but I walked home all alone that night. It seemed that when I finally stopped playing, the spell was broken. Most of the women whom I had entertained earlier had either staggered on to the next party or had passed out on one of the couches in the fraternity house. In the following year, I went to many parties at that house, and it became something of a legend that, late into the night, I would sit down at the piano and serenade anyone who needed their spirits lifted. As I passed over the bridge leading back to my dorm, I heard the rush of water from the gorge below. This soon gave way to the silence of the night. I paused for a moment, confused by this silence. Then the music in my head began once again. I smiled and continued my walk home.
I started with the clarinet in the 4th grade, but eventually grew frustrated with playing single notes and marching up and down Main Street, so I turned to the piano. On the piano’s keyboard, I could play any combination of notes to produce all the complex and colorful sounds that I needed. All throughout high school, I studied the sheet music for classical and popular songs and taught myself how to play them. But my mind would always wander and I would end up changing the music in some crazy way. Eventually, I just started writing my own songs, and that process has continued to this very day. Creating music and lyrics at the piano can be a deeply frustrating task. The chords and melodies both haunt me and heal me at the same time. But in College, I discovered that this skill had another very important function ...
The year was 1987. I was a sophomore in College. A couple of my friends had just joined a fraternity, so I dropped by one of their parties to see the house. The fraternity house was a 100 year old stone structure with large, sweeping spaces that made it seem more like a castle. After getting the royal tour and meeting all the brothers, I poured myself a beer from the keg and headed out to the dance floor. “The One I Love”, by R.E.M., was blaring from the speakers. The windows were open and the cool breeze from outside became laced with the smell of perfume, sweat and musty wood. I saw a girl that I knew from class who I really wanted to dance with. She smiled and waved at me, but she was dancing with one of the brothers. Feeling a little sorry for myself, I retreated to the next room, refilled my beer and started thinking about the midterm I should have been studying for. That’s when I saw it in the corner of the room.
It was covered with a heavy canvas and seemed to be as lonely as I was feeling at that moment. I uncovered it, pulled out the bench, sat down and lifted up the lid. I pressed down on one of the worn, ivory keys and the action was smooth. I had to strain to hear, but the tones were deep and rich. Both of my hands settled in and I began to play a ballad that I had been working on. I could barely hear it above the party noise, but I knew my fingers were doing the right thing. All of a sudden, the girl from before came over and smiled. “What are you playing?” I smiled back and tried to answer her while continuing to play, “It doesn’t have a name yet!” I’m not sure if she heard me, but she sat down next to me and said, “I love it!” Captivated by her pretty face and confused by what was unfolding, I began to lose my focus. My hands were now playing something completely foreign to me, but she did not seem to notice at all. All of a sudden, another girl came over and leaned on the piano, then another, and another.
Soon, I had a crowd of women all standing around the piano. By this time, I had no idea whatsoever what I was playing. I couldn’t hear anything, but neither could they. They kept drinking and requesting different songs. Some tunes I knew, but most of them I had no idea how to play. So I kept on playing the same improvisational nonsense and they kept on laughing and giving me complements. I stared at one girl in disbelief when she actually began singing along with my random, never-ending song. A couple of girls stuffed dollar bills into a glass on the piano, and that is when I knew that I had officially entered “The Twilight Zone”. My fingers were starting to cramp up, but every time I stopped, the girls would protest and encourage me to play on. The fraternity brothers were standing by the side with a mixture of anger and disbelief on their faces. I gave them a sheepish smile and shrugged my shoulders as I launched into the next verse of ... well, whatever you call it.
You might be surprised at this, but I walked home all alone that night. It seemed that when I finally stopped playing, the spell was broken. Most of the women whom I had entertained earlier had either staggered on to the next party or had passed out on one of the couches in the fraternity house. In the following year, I went to many parties at that house, and it became something of a legend that, late into the night, I would sit down at the piano and serenade anyone who needed their spirits lifted. As I passed over the bridge leading back to my dorm, I heard the rush of water from the gorge below. This soon gave way to the silence of the night. I paused for a moment, confused by this silence. Then the music in my head began once again. I smiled and continued my walk home.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Summergirl
I drove down the dirt road that took me to the rear entrance of the camp. The worn tires of my ’71 Chevy Nova crackled as they rolled over gravel in the staff parking lot and came to a stop with a cloud of dust. I grabbed the backpack on the front seat, my orange juice and half-eaten cream cheese bagel and headed inside to the lifeguard station. The morning sun was low in the sky. There was moisture on the grass, but the air was hot and dry. Inside, the Lieutenant was checking his clipboard, but he stopped to look up at me. “Late night?” he asked. I smiled and nodded as I shoved my clothes into the locker. He returned the smile and added, “You got beginners today”. Standing by my locker, I covered my nose with zinc oxide and took one more bite of my bagel. The sunscreen on my shoulders began to burn, which reminded me that I didn’t put enough on the day before. I hid my bloodshot eyes behind dark sunglasses, grabbed my whistle and headed out to the pool deck.
When I was in school I worked during each of my summers. Besides a very brief stint as a supermarket cashier and one as a painter’s apprentice in the Hamptons, I spent all my summers since high school as a lifeguard and swim instructor on Long Island. This was the summer after my first year of medical school and the last of my “free” summers. I had endured Gross Anatomy, but nothing I learned in that class could help me as I approached my class of 6 and 7 year-olds. About a dozen of them huddled together for safety, clutching their towels like they were life-preservers. I gave them a big smile and dove into the pool. Emerging from the peace and quiet of my underwater sanctuary, I blew the water out of my whistle and said, “OK, who’s coming in with me?”
I was working with each of them on their back float, supporting them under the water with one hand and encouraging them to arch their backs. Then, something caught my attention across the pool. Out of the hazy, morning sun, she appeared. Her wavy, brown hair with reddish highlights bounced as she moved. On her wrists, she wore multiple, hand-made bracelets. She smiled and laughed with the freedom of a warm breeze and her face glowed with the radiance of the sun. I was immediately intrigued by this Summergirl, but a splash of water and the sting of a small hand smacking by sunburned chest broke me out of the moment. “How was that, Mister?” “Good, Jimmy”, I encouraged. “Let’s try it again.” I looked up once again, but she was no longer there.
That was a summer I will never forget. During the day, I would walk around the camp and find Summergirl making friendship bracelets or eating lunch with her group. I’d catch her eye and smile, pretending that the encounter was just an accident. My heart would always beat faster when she returned the smile. Those were magical, innocent times, when my entire paycheck would go towards rides and funnel cakes at St. Rocco’s. There seemed to be a different party every night with friends from work or high school. The cool air was always filled with music and felt good against my warm, tanned skin. We would dance for hours while sipping from large cups filled with Coke and Malibu Rum. I feasted on frozen yogurt and scrambled eggs from the diner at midnight. Days off were usually spent at the beach and my hair was as blonde as ever. I spend a lot of time with Summergirl. She was so full of life and energy, and I just wanted to be a part of that. We talked and laughed and flirted with each other. Life was so simple and easy for us then, and I convinced myself that those days could last forever.
But soon, the days began to grow shorter and Labor Day was quickly approaching. I was starting to prepare for the tough school year ahead of me. I kept looking for Summergirl, but it was becoming harder to find her. One night, as I was standing at the waterline overlooking the Harbor, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned quickly and she was there. I was so excited to see Summergirl once again. Our eyes met instantly, but for the first time, I saw a trace of sadness in her smile. I held her in my arms and kissed her soft lips, but just like the sand, she slipped through my hands and faded away right in front of my eyes. Deep down, I knew that this was the price I had to pay for getting so close to an angel.
These days, summer is kind of like winter, only hotter. Now, my paycheck goes to Con Edison and Time Warner Cable instead of the ring-toss guy at the carnival. My days of contemplating life’s mysteries at the diner have now been replaced with begging my kids to eat their chicken fingers. Are the best years of my life really behind me? I’ll admit that sometimes I want to go back to those days, but in the end I realize that in order to get where I want to be, I have to move forwards. I think that the best time in anyone’s life is the present because this is where all the opportunities exist. This is the only point in time when you can actually make a change in who you are and what you do. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to appreciate the magic of your life until time edits out the painful parts and leaves you with a soft, warm memory of it.
When that summer of innocence finally came to an end, so did my relationship with Summergirl. I never saw her again, but I’ll always carry a part of her inside of me. There are moments when I hear her laughter as I’m walking down the street or riding the subway, but when I turn, there is nobody there. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I feel that she is still watching over me, just like she did almost 20 years ago. She is timeless in my mind, a free spirit that goes wherever the wind takes her. Wherever you are, Summergirl, I want to thank you for being a part of my life, and I hope you always remain happy and free.
When I was in school I worked during each of my summers. Besides a very brief stint as a supermarket cashier and one as a painter’s apprentice in the Hamptons, I spent all my summers since high school as a lifeguard and swim instructor on Long Island. This was the summer after my first year of medical school and the last of my “free” summers. I had endured Gross Anatomy, but nothing I learned in that class could help me as I approached my class of 6 and 7 year-olds. About a dozen of them huddled together for safety, clutching their towels like they were life-preservers. I gave them a big smile and dove into the pool. Emerging from the peace and quiet of my underwater sanctuary, I blew the water out of my whistle and said, “OK, who’s coming in with me?”
I was working with each of them on their back float, supporting them under the water with one hand and encouraging them to arch their backs. Then, something caught my attention across the pool. Out of the hazy, morning sun, she appeared. Her wavy, brown hair with reddish highlights bounced as she moved. On her wrists, she wore multiple, hand-made bracelets. She smiled and laughed with the freedom of a warm breeze and her face glowed with the radiance of the sun. I was immediately intrigued by this Summergirl, but a splash of water and the sting of a small hand smacking by sunburned chest broke me out of the moment. “How was that, Mister?” “Good, Jimmy”, I encouraged. “Let’s try it again.” I looked up once again, but she was no longer there.
That was a summer I will never forget. During the day, I would walk around the camp and find Summergirl making friendship bracelets or eating lunch with her group. I’d catch her eye and smile, pretending that the encounter was just an accident. My heart would always beat faster when she returned the smile. Those were magical, innocent times, when my entire paycheck would go towards rides and funnel cakes at St. Rocco’s. There seemed to be a different party every night with friends from work or high school. The cool air was always filled with music and felt good against my warm, tanned skin. We would dance for hours while sipping from large cups filled with Coke and Malibu Rum. I feasted on frozen yogurt and scrambled eggs from the diner at midnight. Days off were usually spent at the beach and my hair was as blonde as ever. I spend a lot of time with Summergirl. She was so full of life and energy, and I just wanted to be a part of that. We talked and laughed and flirted with each other. Life was so simple and easy for us then, and I convinced myself that those days could last forever.
But soon, the days began to grow shorter and Labor Day was quickly approaching. I was starting to prepare for the tough school year ahead of me. I kept looking for Summergirl, but it was becoming harder to find her. One night, as I was standing at the waterline overlooking the Harbor, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned quickly and she was there. I was so excited to see Summergirl once again. Our eyes met instantly, but for the first time, I saw a trace of sadness in her smile. I held her in my arms and kissed her soft lips, but just like the sand, she slipped through my hands and faded away right in front of my eyes. Deep down, I knew that this was the price I had to pay for getting so close to an angel.
These days, summer is kind of like winter, only hotter. Now, my paycheck goes to Con Edison and Time Warner Cable instead of the ring-toss guy at the carnival. My days of contemplating life’s mysteries at the diner have now been replaced with begging my kids to eat their chicken fingers. Are the best years of my life really behind me? I’ll admit that sometimes I want to go back to those days, but in the end I realize that in order to get where I want to be, I have to move forwards. I think that the best time in anyone’s life is the present because this is where all the opportunities exist. This is the only point in time when you can actually make a change in who you are and what you do. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to appreciate the magic of your life until time edits out the painful parts and leaves you with a soft, warm memory of it.
When that summer of innocence finally came to an end, so did my relationship with Summergirl. I never saw her again, but I’ll always carry a part of her inside of me. There are moments when I hear her laughter as I’m walking down the street or riding the subway, but when I turn, there is nobody there. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I feel that she is still watching over me, just like she did almost 20 years ago. She is timeless in my mind, a free spirit that goes wherever the wind takes her. Wherever you are, Summergirl, I want to thank you for being a part of my life, and I hope you always remain happy and free.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Rocket
There it stood, maybe 100 feet tall or more. Its metal cage arched gracefully towards the sky and I had to shield my eyes and squint just to get a look at the top. The year was 1973 and, like many other 5 year olds, my goal for the summer was to make it to the top of the Rocket. It was the centerpiece of the playground at the Community Pool that I went to on Long Island. Looking back, there was not a single safety requirement that this monster would satisfy today, but at the time safety was the farthest thing from my mind. For those lucky enough to make it to the top, the rewards were bragging rights and a view that was beyond compare. From the top, you were higher than the lifeguard stands, the highest diving board and even many of the tall pines that surrounded the picnic area.
My palms were sweaty, so I wiped them off on the sides of my blue bathing suit with the white whales all over it. I kept my hands by my sides as I marched through the sand that lead up to the rocket’s entrance. The larger sand particles and stones filled my sandals, but I disregarded the pain and remained focused on my mission. The sun beat down mercilessly as I approached the ladder that lead into the Rocket. There was no plastic coating or rubber mats anywhere to be found, only steel and the strength of my own conviction. I grabbed the ladder, but the searing heat of the metal sent me flying backwards. It was as if the Rocket was saying, “Did you think I was going to make it that easy?”
After a trip to the water fountain to cool down my second degree burns, I made another attempt. First, I licked my hands. Then I scampered up the ladder and through the porthole that lead to the first level. For the first time in my life, I was on the inside of the bars looking out. The smaller children on the playground were looking at me with admiration in their eyes, and for the first time I felt like I fit into the social order. I was assuming my rightful place in society and nobody was going to get in my way. I had three more levels to go until I reached the top. I grabbed the next ladder, but the combination of fear and burning flesh made a tight grip impossible.
The Rocket levels were small, only accommodating three or four children comfortably around a central pole. The levels were accessed through small portholes that could only fit one child at a time. A few times, I successfully shimmied up the ladder, only to be knocked back down by a larger kid coming down from the top. Stories existed of kids who were near the top and got knocked all the way back to the sand. The Rocket was an unforgiving beast. As I reached the level below the top, I felt the natural sway of the Rocket, which was exaggerated by older kids grabbing the bars and shaking back and forth. I looked up the final porthole and saw the sun beaming through it. I caught a glimpse of steering wheel.
I was literally on top of the world. I grabbed the metal steering wheel and the steel levers next to it that did absolutely nothing except produce a sick, squeaking sound. I looked out over the world which now appeared very different to me. For that moment on, the world would be all mine. Life seemed limitless and I felt invincible. Even to this day, I always keep a small part of that feeling with me, and I call upon it whenever it is needed. Sometimes it’s during surgery or when I have to get up and speak to an audience, or sometimes it’s when I’m all alone and unsure of what to do next. It’s been many years since the Rocket was taken down, but I will never forget the lesson that it taught me that day. The strength is inside all of us, and if we only face our fears, anyone can touch the sky.
________________________________________
Come see Dr. Reisacher perform his standup routine. He will be at The Comic Strip, 2nd Avenue, between 81st and 82nd street on Thursday, April 30th from 5:30-7:30. Tickets are $30, 2 drink minimum. Proceeds will benefit the enrichment programs of P.S. 158. Hope to see you there!
My palms were sweaty, so I wiped them off on the sides of my blue bathing suit with the white whales all over it. I kept my hands by my sides as I marched through the sand that lead up to the rocket’s entrance. The larger sand particles and stones filled my sandals, but I disregarded the pain and remained focused on my mission. The sun beat down mercilessly as I approached the ladder that lead into the Rocket. There was no plastic coating or rubber mats anywhere to be found, only steel and the strength of my own conviction. I grabbed the ladder, but the searing heat of the metal sent me flying backwards. It was as if the Rocket was saying, “Did you think I was going to make it that easy?”
After a trip to the water fountain to cool down my second degree burns, I made another attempt. First, I licked my hands. Then I scampered up the ladder and through the porthole that lead to the first level. For the first time in my life, I was on the inside of the bars looking out. The smaller children on the playground were looking at me with admiration in their eyes, and for the first time I felt like I fit into the social order. I was assuming my rightful place in society and nobody was going to get in my way. I had three more levels to go until I reached the top. I grabbed the next ladder, but the combination of fear and burning flesh made a tight grip impossible.
The Rocket levels were small, only accommodating three or four children comfortably around a central pole. The levels were accessed through small portholes that could only fit one child at a time. A few times, I successfully shimmied up the ladder, only to be knocked back down by a larger kid coming down from the top. Stories existed of kids who were near the top and got knocked all the way back to the sand. The Rocket was an unforgiving beast. As I reached the level below the top, I felt the natural sway of the Rocket, which was exaggerated by older kids grabbing the bars and shaking back and forth. I looked up the final porthole and saw the sun beaming through it. I caught a glimpse of steering wheel.
I was literally on top of the world. I grabbed the metal steering wheel and the steel levers next to it that did absolutely nothing except produce a sick, squeaking sound. I looked out over the world which now appeared very different to me. For that moment on, the world would be all mine. Life seemed limitless and I felt invincible. Even to this day, I always keep a small part of that feeling with me, and I call upon it whenever it is needed. Sometimes it’s during surgery or when I have to get up and speak to an audience, or sometimes it’s when I’m all alone and unsure of what to do next. It’s been many years since the Rocket was taken down, but I will never forget the lesson that it taught me that day. The strength is inside all of us, and if we only face our fears, anyone can touch the sky.
________________________________________
Come see Dr. Reisacher perform his standup routine. He will be at The Comic Strip, 2nd Avenue, between 81st and 82nd street on Thursday, April 30th from 5:30-7:30. Tickets are $30, 2 drink minimum. Proceeds will benefit the enrichment programs of P.S. 158. Hope to see you there!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Bull's Eye!
I squirmed nervously on my seat while my eyes remained frozen on the floor. The metal of the chair squeaked with every twitch of my muscles. Across the table, Detective Harris pounded his cigarette into the ashtray and, with a sigh, blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. He had a square chin, which he was rubbing thoughtfully, and his rough voice cut the silence like a chainsaw. “This is the point where I’m supposed to put you in handcuffs and formally charge you.” I looked up at him, but did not make eye contact. He answered my unspoken question. “Second degree assault and battery.”
After a few moments, he continued. “What year are you, son?”
“I’m a Freshman.” My voice cracked so badly I wasn’t sure he understood me.
“What are your plans after you graduate from college?”
“I want to go to Medical School.”
“Well, do you realize that something like this on your record could seriously jeopardize your chances of doing that?”
I remained silent. His rhetorical question rang inside my head and I tasted the acid in the back of my throat. How could things have come to this? My mind drifted back to the same time last night when I was safe in my dorm room, studying for my Economics midterm ...
______________________________
Pete burst into my room as I was sitting at my desk. “Hey, Bill, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out what the hell a negatively sloping demand curve is”, I replied.
“Oh, that’s a bummer.” He took a sip from his Diet Coke. “Come down to the lounge when you get a chance. I’ve got something to show you.”
I tried to concentrate, but it was no use. The graphs on the page began to swirl and the heat from my desk lamp was causing beads of perspiration to emerge on my forehead. My skin began to crawl and I realized the iced tea I had been drinking over the past hour finally filled my bladder. It felt good to get up and walk around. On my way to the bathroom at the end of the hall, I passed by the lounge. Pete and Mike were sitting on the couch, examining something that I had never seen before.
“What’s that?” I inquired.
Proudly, Pete held it up and exclaimed, “It’s a Funnellator!”
He proceeded to demonstrate the device to me and Mike. Basically, it was a huge slingshot made out of canvas and surgical rubber tubing. Two men, called stanchions, would each hold one end of the tubing, while the wingadoro would pull the canvas pouch and its contents backwards before letting it rip.
“Let’s give it a try!”, Mike said as he jumped to his feet. “I’ve got some balloons.” We all got caught up in the excitement and began filling up our arsenal in the bathroom. I finally had a chance to pee.
Our target was the dorm across the way. We ran down to the other end of the hall and took our positions. Mike and I were the stanchions, while Pete was the wingadoro. The first few attempts were clumsy, but soon we could nail the side of the building with surgical precision. The water balloon struck the bricks and burst into a shower for the unsuspecting students on the path below, who believed that it came from our rival dorm. We were having a wonderful time, laughing and reloading, when all of a sudden the unthinkable occurred.
Pete pulled back on a balloon that was under-filled. It took an unexpectedly low trajectory and struck the window of the dorm directly across from us and broke the window. The sound of glass shattering echoed in the courtyard below as we looked on in horror. Through the broken glass we saw a male student holding his arm. He had been standing next to the window and a piece of glass had cut his arm and there was blood running down towards his hand. Instinctively, we raced from the window and stashed the Funnellator under Pete’s bed. I sat back down at my desk, but was overwhelmed with feelings of remorse and fear.
This is the point in the story where things turn from bad to worse. Apparently, the floor where we launched our assault was inhabited by several members of the football team who conducted a quick investigation and concluded that the missile came from our floor. An angry mob assembled across the courtyard, armed with bats and letterman jackets instead of torches and pitchforks, and promptly marched towards our dorm. One of our dorm windows was broken as they stormed up to our floor. It was a standoff. They were thirsty for revenge and we all hid behind a thin veil of innocence.
The conflict was about to escalate when the Campus Police arrived, alerted by the reports of glass breaking. With clubs out and hands on their revolvers, they separated the two groups and took a full report from each. They assembled all the students on our floor into the lounge and issued an ultimatum. “Whoever is responsible for this, you know who you are. And we’re not going to give up until we find out. Someone was injured, so the town police had to be notified. If you don’t turn yourselves in to them by 5 PM tomorrow, the entire dorm is going to suffer because of you.” Pete, Mike and I exchanged glances. We knew what we had to do.
______________________________
“Is he OK?”
Detective Harris pulled another cigarette out of the wrinkled pack in his shirt pocket, lit it and took a long, slow drag that he did not expel until he responded to me. “He’ll be fine, but it took a few stitches. You should be grateful – he agreed not to press charges.”
I was. “So can I go?”
“Not yet, kid. It’s out of our hands now, but you’ll have to face J-R.”
“J-R?”
“Judicial Review. It’s judge and jury all in one. They’ll decide your punishment. Go on, get out of here.”
______________________________
The three of us went separately to Judicial Review. In retrospect, we didn’t suffer nearly enough for our carelessness. I was sentenced to work as a cook for a semester, flipping burgers and preparing food for a variety of campus functions. This skill served me well when I moved off campus the following year and cooking remains a passion for me to this day. I earned a B in Economics and never took another class in that department again. As for the three of us, we did not exactly retire the Funnellator. The following year, we entered the slingshot event at a fraternity competition, requiring us to launch water balloons into the football stadium portholes from the 50 yard line. Needless to say, we took first place. Proving that violence only leads to more violence, our prize was a dartboard.
After a few moments, he continued. “What year are you, son?”
“I’m a Freshman.” My voice cracked so badly I wasn’t sure he understood me.
“What are your plans after you graduate from college?”
“I want to go to Medical School.”
“Well, do you realize that something like this on your record could seriously jeopardize your chances of doing that?”
I remained silent. His rhetorical question rang inside my head and I tasted the acid in the back of my throat. How could things have come to this? My mind drifted back to the same time last night when I was safe in my dorm room, studying for my Economics midterm ...
______________________________
Pete burst into my room as I was sitting at my desk. “Hey, Bill, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out what the hell a negatively sloping demand curve is”, I replied.
“Oh, that’s a bummer.” He took a sip from his Diet Coke. “Come down to the lounge when you get a chance. I’ve got something to show you.”
I tried to concentrate, but it was no use. The graphs on the page began to swirl and the heat from my desk lamp was causing beads of perspiration to emerge on my forehead. My skin began to crawl and I realized the iced tea I had been drinking over the past hour finally filled my bladder. It felt good to get up and walk around. On my way to the bathroom at the end of the hall, I passed by the lounge. Pete and Mike were sitting on the couch, examining something that I had never seen before.
“What’s that?” I inquired.
Proudly, Pete held it up and exclaimed, “It’s a Funnellator!”
He proceeded to demonstrate the device to me and Mike. Basically, it was a huge slingshot made out of canvas and surgical rubber tubing. Two men, called stanchions, would each hold one end of the tubing, while the wingadoro would pull the canvas pouch and its contents backwards before letting it rip.
“Let’s give it a try!”, Mike said as he jumped to his feet. “I’ve got some balloons.” We all got caught up in the excitement and began filling up our arsenal in the bathroom. I finally had a chance to pee.
Our target was the dorm across the way. We ran down to the other end of the hall and took our positions. Mike and I were the stanchions, while Pete was the wingadoro. The first few attempts were clumsy, but soon we could nail the side of the building with surgical precision. The water balloon struck the bricks and burst into a shower for the unsuspecting students on the path below, who believed that it came from our rival dorm. We were having a wonderful time, laughing and reloading, when all of a sudden the unthinkable occurred.
Pete pulled back on a balloon that was under-filled. It took an unexpectedly low trajectory and struck the window of the dorm directly across from us and broke the window. The sound of glass shattering echoed in the courtyard below as we looked on in horror. Through the broken glass we saw a male student holding his arm. He had been standing next to the window and a piece of glass had cut his arm and there was blood running down towards his hand. Instinctively, we raced from the window and stashed the Funnellator under Pete’s bed. I sat back down at my desk, but was overwhelmed with feelings of remorse and fear.
This is the point in the story where things turn from bad to worse. Apparently, the floor where we launched our assault was inhabited by several members of the football team who conducted a quick investigation and concluded that the missile came from our floor. An angry mob assembled across the courtyard, armed with bats and letterman jackets instead of torches and pitchforks, and promptly marched towards our dorm. One of our dorm windows was broken as they stormed up to our floor. It was a standoff. They were thirsty for revenge and we all hid behind a thin veil of innocence.
The conflict was about to escalate when the Campus Police arrived, alerted by the reports of glass breaking. With clubs out and hands on their revolvers, they separated the two groups and took a full report from each. They assembled all the students on our floor into the lounge and issued an ultimatum. “Whoever is responsible for this, you know who you are. And we’re not going to give up until we find out. Someone was injured, so the town police had to be notified. If you don’t turn yourselves in to them by 5 PM tomorrow, the entire dorm is going to suffer because of you.” Pete, Mike and I exchanged glances. We knew what we had to do.
______________________________
“Is he OK?”
Detective Harris pulled another cigarette out of the wrinkled pack in his shirt pocket, lit it and took a long, slow drag that he did not expel until he responded to me. “He’ll be fine, but it took a few stitches. You should be grateful – he agreed not to press charges.”
I was. “So can I go?”
“Not yet, kid. It’s out of our hands now, but you’ll have to face J-R.”
“J-R?”
“Judicial Review. It’s judge and jury all in one. They’ll decide your punishment. Go on, get out of here.”
______________________________
The three of us went separately to Judicial Review. In retrospect, we didn’t suffer nearly enough for our carelessness. I was sentenced to work as a cook for a semester, flipping burgers and preparing food for a variety of campus functions. This skill served me well when I moved off campus the following year and cooking remains a passion for me to this day. I earned a B in Economics and never took another class in that department again. As for the three of us, we did not exactly retire the Funnellator. The following year, we entered the slingshot event at a fraternity competition, requiring us to launch water balloons into the football stadium portholes from the 50 yard line. Needless to say, we took first place. Proving that violence only leads to more violence, our prize was a dartboard.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Orgasmic
The other day a woman came into my office complaining of a burning sensation in the back of her throat. After examining her, I informed her that she was most likely suffering from acid reflux. I then went on to explain that the treatment for this condition was medication along with dietary changes. “Dietary changes?” she exclaimed, “My diet is just fine. Everything I eat is orgasmic!” After fighting back the urge to invite myself over for dinner, I went on to explain that eating organic foods is not a guarantee against developing illness and disease. This encounter made me realize two things: First of all, many people have unrealistic expectations about the benefits of organic foods and, secondly, some of us have no idea what organic actually means.
The dictionary is always a good place to start, so that is where I began my search. (Translation for the younger generation - the “dictionary” is a thick, heavy version of Google with lots of paper pages that you can actually turn.) The first definition of “organic” that this book offered was “a chemical compound that contains carbon.” I’ll have to admit, that does describe most of the food that I prepare, but I don’t think this is what they mean. The second definition was, “related to an organ.” That didn’t seem to apply here. I don’t remember the last time I saw a pancreas on the shelf of my local organic food store, or hearing cathedral music at the checkout counter, for that matter. I knew that I struck gold with the last definition, “grown without the use of chemicals or pesticides.”
The USDA states that organic food is grown by farmers who use renewable resources and emphasize the conservation of soil and water. Over 70% of organic food produced in the U.S. is fruits and vegetables. They are produced without conventional pesticides, synthetic fertilizers, bioengineering or ionizing radiation. Organic meat, poultry, eggs and dairy products come from animals that are not given antibiotics or growth hormones. To meet organic standards, farms are certified by Government-approved inspectors. To be labeled “organic”, at least 95% of the requirements must be met, but if all the requirements are met, the food may be stamped, “100% organic.” Organic foods do not have to be labeled as such, and many non-organic foods are labeled as “all-natural” or “hormone-free” to enhance their marketability. In general, organic foods are more expensive than their non-organic counterparts.
I don’t think anyone will disagree with the statement that our bodies are flooded with chemicals. They enter our bodies through the air we breathe, the food and water we eat and drink, and the creams, soaps and cosmetics we place on our skin every day. All of these chemicals are either broken down by our body or stored in our cells, and this not only consumes a tremendous amount of our energy, but may also lead to cell damage and certain diseases. Organically produced foods help us a great deal in this battle, but they also help promote good farming practices and environmental conservation. The danger comes when we accept an “organic” diet as a substitute for striking a balance in our lives. We all need a balanced, varied diet. Just whip the good, the bad and the ugly into a medium-sized shake and enjoy! Get out there and move your body safely in any way possible, try to love someone or something and, please, don’t forget to laugh! And if you’re still a bit confused by all this, don’t worry, because you’re not alone. I’m still wondering if I’d rather eat the pesticides or the pests!
The dictionary is always a good place to start, so that is where I began my search. (Translation for the younger generation - the “dictionary” is a thick, heavy version of Google with lots of paper pages that you can actually turn.) The first definition of “organic” that this book offered was “a chemical compound that contains carbon.” I’ll have to admit, that does describe most of the food that I prepare, but I don’t think this is what they mean. The second definition was, “related to an organ.” That didn’t seem to apply here. I don’t remember the last time I saw a pancreas on the shelf of my local organic food store, or hearing cathedral music at the checkout counter, for that matter. I knew that I struck gold with the last definition, “grown without the use of chemicals or pesticides.”
The USDA states that organic food is grown by farmers who use renewable resources and emphasize the conservation of soil and water. Over 70% of organic food produced in the U.S. is fruits and vegetables. They are produced without conventional pesticides, synthetic fertilizers, bioengineering or ionizing radiation. Organic meat, poultry, eggs and dairy products come from animals that are not given antibiotics or growth hormones. To meet organic standards, farms are certified by Government-approved inspectors. To be labeled “organic”, at least 95% of the requirements must be met, but if all the requirements are met, the food may be stamped, “100% organic.” Organic foods do not have to be labeled as such, and many non-organic foods are labeled as “all-natural” or “hormone-free” to enhance their marketability. In general, organic foods are more expensive than their non-organic counterparts.
I don’t think anyone will disagree with the statement that our bodies are flooded with chemicals. They enter our bodies through the air we breathe, the food and water we eat and drink, and the creams, soaps and cosmetics we place on our skin every day. All of these chemicals are either broken down by our body or stored in our cells, and this not only consumes a tremendous amount of our energy, but may also lead to cell damage and certain diseases. Organically produced foods help us a great deal in this battle, but they also help promote good farming practices and environmental conservation. The danger comes when we accept an “organic” diet as a substitute for striking a balance in our lives. We all need a balanced, varied diet. Just whip the good, the bad and the ugly into a medium-sized shake and enjoy! Get out there and move your body safely in any way possible, try to love someone or something and, please, don’t forget to laugh! And if you’re still a bit confused by all this, don’t worry, because you’re not alone. I’m still wondering if I’d rather eat the pesticides or the pests!
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Be Free!
Along the steep and curvy road towards the medical profession, many obstacles stood in my way. Some were speed bumps, some were hills and some were deep canyons that I had to race towards at top speed and hurdle myself blindly into the air, hoping that I landed safely on the other side. For me, Genetics was one of those canyons. It was a pre-med requirement in college and what many referred to as a “cut-throat” class. At first I thought that meant that if I failed the class, I would essentially be cutting my own throat by ruining my chances of getting into medical school. But by the end, I was pretty sure it meant that any other students in the class would gladly cut my throat if it improved their chances of doing well in the class. Either way, it was not a subject that I was going to enjoy, so I just wanted to survive it.
I entered the lecture hall on the morning of the first day of class. This large room was constructed almost entirely of wood and approximately 500 folded theater-type seats lined up like soldiers preparing for battle. The musty air was soaked with the odor of chalk dust and the audible tension in the voices of the students who were beginning to file in. I took a seat towards the front and smiled at the girl sitting next to me. “Don’t you just love Genetics?” she said with an inappropriately large smile on her face that caused mine to quickly fade. “Love is kind of a ... strong word”, I replied as I covered my neck and sat back in my seat. The Professor began speaking as the lights dimmed. He was a thin man in his 50’s who looked like he hadn’t smiled since Nixon was in office. His face almost cracked as he spoke, “This afternoon, you will begin your fruit fly experiment in lab. It counts for half your grade. Midterms are in 6 weeks. Shall we begin?” Suddenly, he smiled.
My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as I approached Genetics Lab. I looked in one of the classrooms along the way and saw a group of students sitting around a table staring at a green, foam block in the center trying to figure out how to arrange the colorful flowers piled up along the side. I longed to join them, but forced my feet to continue all the way to the double doors at the end of the hall. A pungent odor stung my nostrils the moment I opened the door. I saw the girl from the lecture, but managed to avoid getting sucked into the gravitational pull of her smile and took a seat at an empty lab bench. I stared at the jar of fruit flies in front of me as the instructor explained how we would be raising generations of flies over the next 2 months and recording traits such as patterns on their wings and eye color in each fly. The final goal was to tell which chromosome the gene for each trait was on and where it was located on the chromosome. This is referred to as gene mapping. Smiling girl was beaming brighter than ever.
I had to work very hard over those 2 months, partly because the information was challenging for me, but mostly because I was afraid of bugs. I managed to overcome both of these shortcomings, but events took a dramatic turn for the worse one Saturday morning. The experiment was drawing to a close and I was on my forth or fifth generation of flies. To count them, I had to place ether over the jar until they fell asleep, then dump them out and examine them one by one under the microscope. I frequently wondered how this was going to help me as a doctor, but one day several years later as a surgical intern, I was picking small pieces of glass from a broken beer bottle out of the scalp of a drunken man and finally understood.
The only other person in the lab that morning with me was smiling girl, who I finally learned would only smile when people who handed down grades were in the room. From the look on her face, she was as hung-over as I was. When I arrived at the lab, I started consuming large amounts of water to help dull my throbbing headache, and soon my bladder was throbbing as well. I had just spread my anesthetized flies out on the counting sheet. I quickly weighed my options and dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. I barely made it in time, and I had to brace myself in the stall for fear of being thrown backwards by the force of the stream.
I immediately knew something was wrong when I returned to the lab and saw smiling girl smiling again. I went over to my desk and a wave of nausea washed over me. Where my generation of about two hundred flies once lay sleeping, now only a couple of drunken flies remained, staggering towards the edge of the desk. My entire experiment was soon hovering silently in the air around me, darting to and fro as I comically tried to grab them in my fists. Soon, I was swatting at them with my textbook. I was determined to take them either dead or alive. They, however, had other things in mind as they promptly headed towards the window I had foolishly opened when I first arrived. In desperation, I began searching the lab for any dead creatures that had wings.
Somehow, I managed to squeak a passing grade out of Genetics. I excelled on the written exams, but my fruit fly experiment left the Professor scratching his head. Clearly, I could not map my flies’ traits to the correct chromosome, nor could I even tell how many chromosomes the poor creatures had. In fact, some of the faculty thought that I actually discovered a brand new species. But in the end, only I and smiling girl knew the truth about what happened that morning. And to this very day, every time I see a fruit fly, I wonder what color eyes it has and if it might be a descendent of my lost generation.
I entered the lecture hall on the morning of the first day of class. This large room was constructed almost entirely of wood and approximately 500 folded theater-type seats lined up like soldiers preparing for battle. The musty air was soaked with the odor of chalk dust and the audible tension in the voices of the students who were beginning to file in. I took a seat towards the front and smiled at the girl sitting next to me. “Don’t you just love Genetics?” she said with an inappropriately large smile on her face that caused mine to quickly fade. “Love is kind of a ... strong word”, I replied as I covered my neck and sat back in my seat. The Professor began speaking as the lights dimmed. He was a thin man in his 50’s who looked like he hadn’t smiled since Nixon was in office. His face almost cracked as he spoke, “This afternoon, you will begin your fruit fly experiment in lab. It counts for half your grade. Midterms are in 6 weeks. Shall we begin?” Suddenly, he smiled.
My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as I approached Genetics Lab. I looked in one of the classrooms along the way and saw a group of students sitting around a table staring at a green, foam block in the center trying to figure out how to arrange the colorful flowers piled up along the side. I longed to join them, but forced my feet to continue all the way to the double doors at the end of the hall. A pungent odor stung my nostrils the moment I opened the door. I saw the girl from the lecture, but managed to avoid getting sucked into the gravitational pull of her smile and took a seat at an empty lab bench. I stared at the jar of fruit flies in front of me as the instructor explained how we would be raising generations of flies over the next 2 months and recording traits such as patterns on their wings and eye color in each fly. The final goal was to tell which chromosome the gene for each trait was on and where it was located on the chromosome. This is referred to as gene mapping. Smiling girl was beaming brighter than ever.
I had to work very hard over those 2 months, partly because the information was challenging for me, but mostly because I was afraid of bugs. I managed to overcome both of these shortcomings, but events took a dramatic turn for the worse one Saturday morning. The experiment was drawing to a close and I was on my forth or fifth generation of flies. To count them, I had to place ether over the jar until they fell asleep, then dump them out and examine them one by one under the microscope. I frequently wondered how this was going to help me as a doctor, but one day several years later as a surgical intern, I was picking small pieces of glass from a broken beer bottle out of the scalp of a drunken man and finally understood.
The only other person in the lab that morning with me was smiling girl, who I finally learned would only smile when people who handed down grades were in the room. From the look on her face, she was as hung-over as I was. When I arrived at the lab, I started consuming large amounts of water to help dull my throbbing headache, and soon my bladder was throbbing as well. I had just spread my anesthetized flies out on the counting sheet. I quickly weighed my options and dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. I barely made it in time, and I had to brace myself in the stall for fear of being thrown backwards by the force of the stream.
I immediately knew something was wrong when I returned to the lab and saw smiling girl smiling again. I went over to my desk and a wave of nausea washed over me. Where my generation of about two hundred flies once lay sleeping, now only a couple of drunken flies remained, staggering towards the edge of the desk. My entire experiment was soon hovering silently in the air around me, darting to and fro as I comically tried to grab them in my fists. Soon, I was swatting at them with my textbook. I was determined to take them either dead or alive. They, however, had other things in mind as they promptly headed towards the window I had foolishly opened when I first arrived. In desperation, I began searching the lab for any dead creatures that had wings.
Somehow, I managed to squeak a passing grade out of Genetics. I excelled on the written exams, but my fruit fly experiment left the Professor scratching his head. Clearly, I could not map my flies’ traits to the correct chromosome, nor could I even tell how many chromosomes the poor creatures had. In fact, some of the faculty thought that I actually discovered a brand new species. But in the end, only I and smiling girl knew the truth about what happened that morning. And to this very day, every time I see a fruit fly, I wonder what color eyes it has and if it might be a descendent of my lost generation.
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