The Lawyer and the C-Word

The air in the oncologist's office was thick with unspoken dread, a stark contrast to the dull routine that Dr. George usually inhabited. Peter Katz, a man who exuded arrogance like a cheap suit, sat fidgeting, clearly out of his element.

“Get on with it, Doc,” Peter snapped, eyeing the expensive pens on the desk. “I have other things to do.”

Dr. George adjusted his glasses, the subtle tightness around his eyes the only hint of discomfort. “Please have a seat, Mr. Katz.”

“I’m already seated,” Peter replied, bouncing slightly in the chair to emphasize his point.

The conversation devolved into a battle of wills over sitting versus standing, a microcosm of Peter’s general disdain for authority and conventional behavior. Eventually, Peter, seizing an opportunity to escape, abruptly left the office, a brand new pen pilfered from Dr. George’s desk already picking his teeth.

But the doctor called his cell phone before he could get far.

“Mr. Katz, you left without hearing what I had to say.” Dr. George’s voice was strained.

Peter, cruising down 6th Avenue, smirked. “I remember hearing a lot about sitting down, Doc.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable before I said anything else,” Dr. George insisted.

“Well,” Peter drawled, affecting a fake Southern accent, “I reckon I wasn’t comfortable. So the mission failed, pardner.”

The doctor sighed, a deep rumbling sound over the phone. “Mr. Katz, please be serious. Your test results are in. You need to come back immediately.”

“You gotta be shitting me if you think I’m going back to that shit-hole.”

“Well,” Dr. George said, his voice flat, “that was an interesting wording. Your test result came in: Colon Cancer. The big C.”