My Point...And I Do Have One

afraid of hurting somebody’s feelings. “Hey, I thought I was your worst enemy,” one of my lesser enemies might complain. I sort of wish I did have a worst enemy, though. Because, come to think of it, having them go to the emergency room is exactly the sort of thing that I would wish on them. I mean, what’s the point of having a worst enemy if you can’t take enjoyment from seeing them suffering and in pain? It would be kind of fun. As it was, it was me suffering and in pain.
    I got hurt in a real stupid way. Before they tape my sitcom, I go out and warm up the audience a little bit. Usually I tell jokes, but sometimes I perform feats of strength. You know, like pulling a jeep across the stage using my teeth. Well, this time I had people come up from the audience; I would tense my stomach muscles and they’d punch me as hard as they could. Everything was going fine until I relaxed for just one second. Out of nowhere this huge teamster ran over from the donut table and socked me in the gut. It was either a teamster or Dom DeLuise dressed up like a teamster.
    That’s not really what happened. I just don’t care to tell you why I really went to the emergency room. Okay, I had a cyst. See, it’s not quite as interesting as getting socked in the gut by Dom DeLuise. But still, it did hurt like hell.
    I was in bed doubled over in pain. It really confused my dogs. That’s not saying much, though. It doesn’t take a lot to confuse my dogs. Ringing the doorbell does the trick.
    My manager, a man who told me that it was in my best interest that I don’t know his name, so I refer to him always as “my manager,” drove me to the hospital. I wouldhave taken an ambulance, but when I called on the phone they told me that you had to book one two weeks in advance. It’s just as well. I never know how much to tip the drivers of those things anyway.
    We picked up my mother on the way. She wanted to come because that way we could ride in the car pool lane. Also, she works as a speech pathologist at the hospital I was going to. She figured since she was an employee she could make things easier for me. You know, like getting me a good table and giving me the skinny on how things work there. “You see that man in the white coat with a stethoscope? He’s a doctor.” (Thanks, Mom.) “If you were to speak to him you would call him Dr. Jones and not Mr. Jones. That is, assuming that his last name is Jones.”
    When you’re in terrible pain, you don’t care about the way you look; you’re not embarrassed by your facial contortions and grimaces; you don’t care if you’re wearing plaids with stripes, which, thank God, I wasn’t.
    I was doubled over in the car, my face pressed against the window (the passenger window, not the front window), crying out in pain. When we were stopped at red lights, people would look over from the next car. They’d see my manager driving and me sitting next to him crying. You could see on their faces what they were thinking. First they’d think that I was in an abusive relationship and had just been hit. Then they’d slowly recognize me, honk their horns, and give me a big thumbs up. My manager would never hit me, but while I was groggy from the pain he did have me sign something that gives him 50 percent of whatever I make.
    They rushed me into the emergency room: doors slamming, voices overlapping, people running—a flurry of activity. But as soon as I got in, I had to sit and wait and wait and wait. It’s not fair. It’s not like the bakery where you take a number and it’s first come first served. Here they have this crazy idea of bringing you in based on howserious they feel your illness or injury is. I knew I was in for a long wait when I saw a guy sitting next to me with his arm falling off and his head in his lap. As it was, he was only there for the happy hour. If you’re admitted between five and six there’s a buffet table with cocktail franks and nachos.
    The first thing I had to do, besides proving that I had insurance, was tell them what my symptoms were. Unfortunately, they recognized me as a comic, so they thought I was trying to be funny, that I was trying out a new part of my act.
    I said, “I have this sharp intense pain in my lower abdomen. I started feeling it about two hours ago.…”
    And the admitting nurse would interrupt me, barely able to control her giggling, “Yeah, yeah.… Then what happened? Wait! Mary, Stan, come over here, she’s really funny.