The Imprint Ch. 08: Playing A Part

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The Imprint ch 8: PLAYING A PART

“Good morning, Dr Mandy,” a uniformed female guard sitting in the center of the room In front of the entrance to my consulting room in the Hospital of the Holy Innocents, located in Cold Water, an old backwater factory town a couple of hours from what I regarded as the equally backward provincial capital prosaically in this fantasy land of a country Capitalland. The guard addressed me as “Doctor,” but I was more of a jailer than a medicine man. I’m sure behind my back, I was called “Cop Doc” in the hospital by all HHI personnel.

It was all an act anyway. What made me a Doctor whose commands had to be obeyed? Was it my props, the white lab coat and stethoscope?

To the right of the grey uniformed guard’s desk, a cage holding three or four women taken in by border control sometime last night were huddled together in a cage fashioned out of an old wardrobe. Out of their sight was a cage hallowed out of the plaster walls of this old building were a couple of men.

“I’m at 6s and 7s until I’ve had my morning cuppa — eh coffee,” I said holding my head. Smiling I had perfected my English persona. This silly act endeared me to most of the stupid provincial Yanks I came in contact with. (oops, I’ve been around these Yankees so long I can’t even think in real English — with whom I come in contact.)

Above the entrance door, Agent Picket had hung a small telly (TV in Amer-speak). I glanced at it in appropriate disgust. The discordant din blaring off the telly denounced radicals who seized the American embassy in a Middle East country as lunatics.

A dark-haired man held in the cage to the right stood and yelled out, “They ain’t insane. The radicals didn’t seize the Russian Embassy.”

“Gun boat diplomacy anyone?” My response drew a rousing round of cheers from the detainees. I elicited a smile from Margaret Picket, the Agent on duty when I leaned over to whisper, “At least the telly keeps the detainees distracted. I shouldn’t have thought so when I gave permission for its installation.”

“Late night at the Halloween Ball in the Government Building,” Agent Picket inquired politely, “I didn’t get over to your table. Did your wife the lovely Dr Barton come up from Capitalland to attend?”

“The prettiest pumpkin in the patch,” I replied, “certainly did.”

“Always the handsome guys who..” Agent Picket made an oblique reference to American folk wisdom on love mis — matches between the statuesque and the plainly ghastly.

Indeed, Ms Picket was quite right. Last night sitting together with Dr Barton at the October ball, Dr Barton now a hefty 110KG (=240lbs) on a 155 cm (=5ft 1in) frame complained about difficulty losing her “baby weight. I feel like an over – stuffed turkey in this angel costume.” With a look of annoyance, Dr Barton plunked the halo down on the table. “Somehow your Dracula costume makes you look distinguished even if it puts you in character as a vulture ready to swoop.”

“More of you to love, my butterball,” I feigned cooing, “I picked the prettiest pumpkin on the vine.”

A look of disgust shot across her face.

Opening the door to the examining room, I was struck with the familiar pungent odor of alcohol and bleach, hardly masking the bitter scent of fear. I guess doctors and nurses either accustom themselves or pretend to ignore to biting smells so powerful that it would make any normal person retch. Me? I knew I was at home.

In the examining room, petite dark haired Nurse Francie Pierce the loosely fitting top of her faded green scrubs fluttered, revealing a black bra tennis ball sized boobs as she sanitized the examining couch. Looking up at me, Nurse Pierce smiled, “I have your coffee ready. We need to hurry it along. You have three males and four female detainees taken at the border bridge over night. And at 10AM, you have prisoners from County jail…” she continued to blather on about my day, “and at 4PM you teach your course on Medical Ethics.”

“I guess,” I replied, “I need to crack on.”

“`Crack on,'” Nurse Pierce repeated by expression, “You’ll have to get me an English — to — English dictionary.”

At the Halloween Ball, Dr Barton shook her head when I invoked, “British subject,” to exempt myself from taking positions on the two main issues of the moment: the Middle East Hostage crisis and the presidential election.

“If these folk only knew,” snickered Dr Barton as she gazed at me with an accusing smile.

Dr Barton smiled at Nurse Pierce, and other people from the hospital as they introduced themselves with the polite wish that Barton visited her more often. Dr Barton sculpted eyebrows raised; though Pierce was slight of chest, Dr Barton’s eyes fixed on Pierce’s exposed cleavage when Pierce leaned over to rue, “It’s such a shame you two have to live so far apart to advance your careers.”

Dr Barton forced a sick smile when I quipped, “It promotes marital bliss.” Drawing a reluctant Dr Barton close, I declared, “Why don’t we spend more time together?”

When mardin escort the others passed out of earshot, Dr Barton scowled, “because since my pregnancy, I sleep nude.”

“I can be trusted,” I protested.

“Trust?” Dr Barton snapped, “now, that could be a problem.” With an enticing smile, Dr Barton chuckled seductively, “I suppose …”

“That time,” I recalled, “in our senior year when our classmates drugged us, stripped us naked and put us in bed together, nothing happened.”

“Hmm, I’ve wondered what drug our classmates used,” Dr Barton went into that detached state she disappeared in when she was lost in thought, “Oh, I was aware of everything — from the time I was carried into the other room, laid face down, long narrow female fingers pulling at the waist band of my slacks and whisking them away, leaving me bare butted. My top was peeled off. I heard someone playing sling shot with my bra. Stripped naked, I found myself instinctively curling up for warmth to your body. I knew what was happening but didn’t care.”

“Did you ever expect our classmates capable of such a nasty prank?” I asked

“You forget why our classmates did that–they came into knowing too much,” Dr Barton snickered, “about the Dr Silvia Zaftig series you filmed. I had to get my roommate pick me up. I left covered in a sheet. Fortunately, her car’s heater worked that night. Eventually, I got my clothes back except for my panties.”

“Forsooth, I would imagine the goof was prompted by our public cheekiness to each other,” I suggested, “we have always been in competition even when we worked together on my sideline: steamy flicks.”

“At that moment, Father had cut me off and I needed the money to keep my apartment,” she admitted.

“C’m’n now,” I parried with her, “You not only read the scripts. You took over and left your mark. You suggested changes to take the giddy silliness out of the script and to present circumstances which seemed somewhat plausible. And even helped me find cubbyholes in The University Hospital plant for filming locations.”

“Seems like our classmates wasted their time,” Dr Barton shook her head and snickered, “Maybe that’s why,” Dr Barton paused and released a sigh, “you were acceptable to Father, who insisted I marry when I had Erica Erin, but for reasons I cannot fathom, none of my potential suitors were.”

“No doubt there were many,” I replied dryly.

“One, I’m sure genuinely loved me for who I am,” Dr Barton wistfully thought aloud, “the other fathered Erica Erin. He said he’d loved me, but I suspect he wanted to be responsible. Father thought those men would take advantage of my money and position and instead foisted you on me.”

“Moi, ma cherie?” I replied, “you use such cutting words.”

“Seems like you got a lot of goodies out of the deal,” Dr Baron leaning back in her chair continued, “a sinecure in the House of the Holy Innocents teaching nurses–medical ethics, prison doc at the Adams County jail, and consultant to the Border Patrol, plus the house on Parkside Drive.” After a pause, she shook her head “The two men who wanted me asked for nothing. And you got everything.” With a sigh she added, “Oh. I do enjoy that pleasant solarium. It’s so warm on one of those rare sunny days here in Cold River that I can tease you by sunbathing nude in middle of winter. I would miss that.”

“Do you want me to give you thanks? I proposed honourably to give your child a name,” I responded, amused by the way I used more of a French pronunciation– eu-ooor — to emphasize the slight difference between the American and English lexicon.

“Well, with giving birth in the midst of newspaper coverage of that lawsuit brought against me by my former female roommate,” Dr Barton conceded, “accepting you as a husband — under a pre — nup was a matter of weighing conveniences.”

“C’est moi, votre vrai amour, your knight in shining armour,” I replied,

“condescending to a Morganatic marriage to preserve your honour.” I smiled at the way I placed emphasis on the eu-ooor sound — highlighting a slight difference between American and British English.

“You?” Dr Barton questioned, “The imitation Saxon!”

Changing the subject, I chided Dr Barton, “Surprisingly and fortunately, filming that scene of the two of us drugged, stripped naked and left to cuddle up to each other drew no claim for a writing credit from our classmates.”

“No one wanted to make an imprint by an admission of having inspired pornography,” Dr Barton countered.

“Equally astounding,” I exclaimed, “that none of our classmates canaried out the Dr Zaftig series when you became a tabloid item with your roommate’s lawsuit!”

“Speaking of `Conspiracy of silence,'” Dr Barton insisted. A long pause followed. “Hmm, by the same token, if Father hadn’t been a friend and colleague of your father Dr Ike Madhi …”

“I prefer not even to think of my father,” I reminded Dr Barton, “How could he pick such a wrong moment to go afoul of the mardin escort bayan law in a gritty downstate working class county!”

Dr Barton released an exasperated sigh, “By the way, have you planned to visit your father? Father had made arrangements to have your father transferred nearby to the light security High Country … Never mind! You wouldn’t want to do visit your father. It might … You have everyone here believing you’re English. That’s a laugh — and — a half!”

In the oversized closet which contained my private office, while sipping on my coffee, I read the directives from the Bureau of Immigration Control in the enchanter towers of Capitalland. There were the routine orders, especially in light of the on-going hostage crisis, not to engage in ethnic profiling. “The border agents are so snookered,” I declared aloud, “by these imperious fiats the guards only stop people believed to be white.”

Shaking her head, Nurse Pierce chuckled, “You English, Dr Mandy, have such a smooth way of speaking.”

Next came a cautionary advisory regarding the disparate length time female detainees are held. “What,” I complained to Nurse Pierce, “Career bureaucrats would like me to change the laws of anatomy. Female bodies have more curves, recesses, skin folds and orifices.”

“We’ll have to get moving with this morning’s work, Dr Mandy. Otherwise, the Bureau will have to go for something it hates more than inequality,” Nurse Pierce paused for emphasis, “overtime.”

At the Halloween Ball, Dr Barton, looking at couples dancing on the floor, grumbled, “Between the baby, returning to work and the dramatic conclusion of that lawsuit against me, I’ve been putting in too much OT. I’d like only one thing: rip this angel suit off, shower off my train ride here, and hop into bed.” Dr Barton sighed, “I’d prefer to check into a hotel for the night.”

“My sweet chouchou,” I fell into a faux seductive tone, “you honour this backwater town by your visit. The conclusion of your case spilt (I emphasized the “t” to stress the difference between the British and American lexicon) some ink here in the local tabloid. Your former roommate filed a claim–for palimony, was it?”

A stern look appeared on her face. Her eyes narrowed. “Counsel has instructed me not to discuss the case,” came her cold retort. “You never know when revelations from a wagging tongue can be used against you.”

“Tongues would wag,” I reminded her, “in this Cold River backwater, if you don’t return home with me to that splendid Parkside home which your father generously provided as our love nest. It’d be noticed. I’m sure your father was sorely disappointed when you returned to your job at Capitalland University Hospital’s Emergency Response Training Department.”

“Oh, not quite so disappointed,” Dr Barton’s tongue was sharp; her tone was angry, “as Father was to have learnt,” she stressed the British ‘t’ sound with a smirk, “you never visited your father at High Country after all the effort made to keep The Madhist out of the super-max.”

“If you’re so knackered, shall we, then, bid our hosts a fond toot-ta-loo and head home,” I broke off the interchange, “to kiss and make up rather than go to bed mad at each other.” Rising I said, “I do have a full schedule in my morrow.”

In my consulting room, Nurse Pierce asked, “are you ready for your first victim?” With a nod, she pushed a button which lifted a security gate. We were looking at a chubby man in his mid-30s, with balding black hair, behind the bars, sitting on a bench. “Mr Wesley Robinson,” Nurse Pierce announced.

I fell into my standard introduction. “Good morning Mr Robinson. My name is Dr Al Mandy, MD. My job is to render an examination You were stopped at the border and selected for secondary screening…” Rising from the wooden bench and holding his hands on the bars, Robinson demanded to know whether he was under arrest. “No, my good fellow, you are merely detained. I have a few questions initial questions in prelude to my enquiry.” I smiled with self — satisfaction at the way I had mastered the quibblesome difference between the British “en” sound and the American “in” sound.

“Government officials always grin when they are causing misery,” Robinson grumbled.

“First,” I asked ignoring the disparaging comment, “do you know why you were selected for closer inspection?” When he shook his head, I continued, “Do you have any property, valuables, or money on your person?”

“Naw,” Robinson scowled, “The heat, they swiped all my bread at the border.”

“Oh, bread? Quaint expression!” I strove to maintain an air of congeniality designed to maintain control and cooperation, by making a joke, “I’m sure you mean money. Transporting agricultural products across the border might be illegal.” Now, Mr Robinson,” I spoke in my stentorian British-ified tones that so impressed these daft Yankees–some of them at least. “I need you to disrobe straightway so that I might proceed with my examination.”

“I’m escort mardin not under arrest, but you want me to strip. When did this become a communist country?” Robinson complained. “I thought Checkpoint Charley over there in Berlin marked the boundary line between freedom and communism. That’s half a world away.”

“No,” I explained, “you are detained under a provision of the United States Code which requires persons entering the county to submit for inspection.” I dismissively looked down at my clipboard in front of me, as I continued, “I’m a medical doctor. I know nothing of political ideologies. Shall we proceed?”

“What if I refuse?” Robinson challenged me.

“Jolly good!” I exclaimed, “You would make my life very much uncomplicated,” I paused for emphasis. “Compliance is voluntary but not optional.”

“What!” exclaimed an exasperated Robinson, “I can refuse but I can’t?”

“Doctor,” Nurse Pierce interrupted, “We have seven other people to see before your regular patients at 10AM. Shall I call Agent Picket, the border agent on duty, to remove Mr Robinson?”

“Mr Robinson,” I addressed the detainee, “You are trying our patience. A refusal comes at your own peril. Declining inspection places you in violation of,” I looked down at my clipboard, “19 U.S. Code § 1459 which requires I quote, `individuals arriving in the United States … to present themselves, and all articles accompanying them for inspection… In addition to … a civil penalty … any individual who intentionally violates … this section is, upon conviction, liable for a fine of not more than $5,000, or imprisonment for not more than 1 year, or both.'”

“What?” Robinson grumbled.

“I’m no bloody solicitor, Mr Robinson, oops, in this country, lawyer,” I acted with disinterest. “The law seems pretty clear to me. Advise me, if you will, whether you want the Guard to book you into the Adams County Jail for a strip search over there. Your choice. I’ll give you half — a — minute to comply. Have your clothes off and handed to Nurse Pierce by the time I return.” Turning to Nurse Pierce, I promised, “Be back in a jiffy.”

I went into my office and closed the door and unlocked a drawer, inspecting my secret collection of women’ panties, in every size and color. I cherished them over copies of videotaped inspections.

Was my stash of panties purloined from female detainees a secret? I was unsure.

No complaint was ever drawn to my attention. I supposed their former owners were so happy to be released that they did not wish to risk further detention. Or did the staff bemused rendering further discomfort to detainees left sans culottes politely preserve a conspiracy of silence?

I sighed. With the draw nearly filled, soon it will be time to take some of my treasures home.

At home the night of the Halloween Party, I was in my locked private office inspecting my collection. My oldest pair was the one I stole from Dr Barton years ago, the night of the prank. There was a tap on the door. “Are we going through our little ritual?” Dr Barton’s voice was filled with impatience.

“Half a second, luv,” I shut the drawer and carefully locked it. When I emerged, I carefully secured the door behind me.

“I don’t even want to know what you have in there,” Dr Barton, standing outside the door in a white lab coat, with thigh high net stockings held up by a garter belt, disdainfully shook her head, “Let’s complete your examination.” Looking down at her outfit, Dr Barton cracked, “This ridiculous get — up would have made a better costume than the one I wore to the ball.”

“Apparel which sends a message,” I replied, “signifies status, position, and authority. It’s part of the act.”

“Come into my private office,” Dr Barton invited me into the water closet, in yank-speak, the bathroom. “Father certainly had good taste in selecting property.” Waving her arm around the room, she exclaimed, “This spacious spa boasts a hot tub, free standing shower, and tub and leads into an indoor pool. Dr Barton shook her head and snickered, “your acceptability to Father has brought you rewards beyond the expectations of a mighty Sultan or,” she leveled her gaze upon me with a gritty smile, “an imperious Shah.”

As she swirled enrapt with the attractions, her white lab coat opened. My eyes were fixated on her exposed pendulant breasts with enlarged dark areolas and protruding erect nipples. With a sigh, I managed to utter, “Somehow, that’s appropriate for exiled Persian nobility.”

With an impatient look on her face, Dr Barton ordered, “You’re wasting my time. You’re still fully clothed. I’ll give you a moment. Be fully disrobed when I return.”

In my consulting room, Mr Robinson was standing naked behind the bars. Passed a plastic cup, he obligingly urinated on request. Grasping the bars, Robinson looked own while Nurse Pierce passed an inventory of his clothing through a shoulder level, horizontal gap in the bars. Looking down on the list, Mr Robinson grumbled but signed it. With Robinson docilely watching Nurse Pierce staple a copy of the signed inventory to a clear plastic trash bag containing his clothing and putting the bag aside, I conducted my initial evaluation, noting his size, stocky shape, muscular arms, thick body hair and uncircumcised penis.

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