Beat the reaper： a novel - By Josh Bazell Page 0,1

before I stand, I pick up his handgun.

The gun is a real piece of shit. Two pieces of pressed sheet-metal—no grips, even—and a slightly off-center cylinder. It looks like something that began life as a starter pistol at a track meet. For a second it makes me feel better about there being 350 million handguns in the United States. Then I see the bright brass ends of the bullets and am reminded how little it takes to kill someone.

I should throw it out. Bend the barrel and drop it down a storm drain.

Instead, I slip it into the back pocket of my scrub pants.

Old habits die harder than that.

In the elevator up to Medicine there’s a small blond drug rep in a black party dress, with a roller bag. She’s got a flat chest, and the arch of her back boosts her ass, so she’s shaped like a sexy, slender kidney bean. She’s twenty-six after a bit too much sun exposure,* and her nose is the kind that looks like a nose job but isn’t. Freckles, I shit you not. Her teeth are the cleanest things in the hospital.

“Hi,” she says like she’s from Oklahoma. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet, no,” I say. Thinking: Because you’re new on this job, or you wouldn’t have such shitty hours.

“Are you an orderly?” she asks.

“I’m an intern in Internal Medicine.”

An intern is a first-year resident, one year out of medical school, so typically about six years younger than I am. I don’t know what an orderly is. It sounds like someone who works in an insane asylum, if there are still insane asylums.

“Wow,” the drug rep says. “You’re cute for a doctor.”

If by “cute” she means brutal and stupid-looking, which in my experience most women do, she’s right. My scrub shirt is so tight you can see the tattoos on my shoulders.

Snake staff on the left, Star of David on the right.*

“You’re from Oklahoma?” I ask her.

“Well yes I am.”

“You’re twenty-two?”

“I wish. Twenty-four.”

“You took a couple of years off.”

“Yes, but oh my God that is a boring story.”

“It’s okay so far. What’s your name?”

“Staaaaacey,” she says, stepping closer with her arms behind her back.

I should say here that being chronically sleep-deprived is so demonstrably similar to being drunk that hospitals often feel like giant, ceaseless office Christmas parties. Except that at a Christmas party the schmuck standing next to you isn’t about to fillet your pancreas with something called a “hot knife.”

I should also maybe say that drug reps, of whom there is one for every seven physicians in the U.S., get paid to be flirtatious. Or else to actually fuck you—I’ve never been quite clear on that.

“What company do you work for?” I ask.

“Martin-Whiting Aldomed,” she says.

“Got any Moxfane?”

Moxfane is the drug they give to bomber pilots who need to take off from Michigan, bomb Iraq, then fly back to Michigan without stopping. You can swallow it or use it to run the engine.

“Well yes I do. But what are you gonna give me in return?”

“What do you want?” I say.

She’s right up under me. “What do I want? If I start thinking about that, I’ll start crying. Don’t tell me you want to see that.”

“Beats going to work.”

She gives me the play slap and leans over to unzip her bag. If she’s wearing underwear, it’s not of any technology I’m familiar with. “Anyway,” she says, “it’s just things like a career. Or not having three roommates. Or not having parents who think I should have stayed in Oklahoma. I don’t know that you can help me with that.”

She stands up with a sample pack of Moxfane and a pair of Dermagels, the Martin-Whiting Aldomed eighteen-dollar rubber gloves. She says, “In the meantime, I might settle for showing you our new gloves.”

“I’ve tried them,” I say.

“Have you ever tried kissing someone through them?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. And I’ve kind of been dying to.”

She hip-checks the elevator “stop” button. “Oops,” she says.

She bites the cuff of one of the gloves to tear it open, and I laugh. You know that feeling where you’re not sure whether you’re being hustled or in the presence of an actual human being?

I love that feeling.

“The ward is a fucking nightmare,” Akfal, the other intern on my service, says when I finally show up to relieve him. What “Hello” is to civilians, “The ward is a fucking nightmare” is to interns.

Akfal is a J-Card from Egypt. J-Cards are graduates of foreign medical schools whose visas can be rescinded if