Lemonheartbattery

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And I would go all fucking out on this fit okay. We’re talking diving lessons until I can hold my breath for 7 minutes and go deep as fuck. Long hair, starfish, scales up to my tits, those funky contacts that make it so you can see under water, all of it- everything I could to make myself look as “thing of the deep but hot” as possible.  Then, I’d go get some shiny valuable rocks. Pearls, Uncut gems, like super fuck’n nice ones like diamonds and shit, and ofc some gold coins. Then I’d dawn my mermaid fit and hit public waterways. Rivers, beys, lakes, places where people are around and might be swimming, but where I’m not gonna die via boat propeller, and not super crowded areas where a lot of people are swimming.  Then I just prank people by poking my head out of the water and surprising them, then I motion them closer and reach into my hair or satchel or something and give them a fucking emerald, smiling all big the whole time then I just- swim the fuck away.  What the fuck they  gonna do now!? Keep it as a fun memory of that time a fuck’n mermaid larper gave them a shiny rock? Never know it’s actually valuable? Or do they take it to a jeweler and find out it’s real? How the fuck are they gonna explain that. They gonna tell the jeweler a fuck’n mermaid gave it to them?! I think the fuck not.  Gonna pop up at the peir and smile at people and give gold coins to whoever stops. Kids are gonna freak. Put a little wonder back in the world. Flirt with pretty girls. Swim down rivers, pop up and surprise some old lady sitting by the water and give her an uncut diamond then swim away without a word. 

Dr. Z. was, easily, the best and most competent doctor or dentist I’ve ever encountered – and after that accident, I encountered quite a number. He came stunningly highly recommended, had an excellent record, and the most calming bedside manner I’ve ever seen.

That last wasn’t the sweet gentle caretaking sort of manner, which some nurses have but you wouldn’t expect to see in a surgeon. No; when Dr. Z. told me that one of my broken molars was too badly damaged to save, and I (being seventeen and still moderately in shock) broke down crying, he stared at me incredulously and said, in a tone of utter bemusement, “But – I am very good.”

I stopped crying on the spot. In the last twenty-four hours or so of one doctor after another, no one had said anything that reassuring to me. He clearly just knew his own competence so well that the idea of someone being scared anyway was literally incomprehensible to him. What more could I possibly ask for?

(He was right. The procedure was very extended, because the tooth that needed to be removed was in bits, but there was zero pain at any point. And, as he promised, my teeth were so close together that they shifted to fill the gap to where there genuinely is none anymore, it’s just a little easier to floss on that side.)

But Dr. Z.’s insane competence wasn’t just limited to oral surgery.

When I met Dr. Z., he, like most doctors I’ve had, asked me if I was in college, and where, and what I was studying. When I say “math,” most doctors respond with “oh, wow, good for you” or possibly “what do you want to do with that after college?”

Dr. Z. wanted to know what kind of math.

I gave him the thirty-second layman’s summary that I give people who are foolish enough to ask that. He responded with “oh, you mean–” and the correct technical terms. I confirmed that was indeed what I meant (and keep in mind, this was upper-division college math, you don’t take this unless you’re a math major). He asked cogent follow-up questions, and there ensued ten or so minutes of what I’d call “small talk” except for how it was an intensely technical mathematical discussion.

He didn’t, as far as I can tell, have any kind of formal math background. He just … knew stuff.

I was a competitive fencer at this point in time, so when he asked if I had any questions about the surgery that would be necessary, I asked him if I’d be okay to fence while I had my jaw wired shut, or if it would interfere with breathing.

“Fencing?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “like swordfighting,” because this is another conversation I got to have a lot. (People assume they’ve misheard you, or occasionally they think you mean building fences.)

“Which weapon?”

“Uh. Foil.”

“No, it won’t be safe,” and he went off into an explanation of why.

Turns out, he was also a serious fencer – and, when I mentioned my fencing coach, an old friend of his. (I asked my fencing coach later, and, oh yes, Dr. Z., a good friend of mine, excellent fencer.) (My coach was French. Dr. Z. was Israeli. I never saw Dr. Z. around the club or anything. I have no idea how they knew each other.)

So this was weird enough that later, when I was home, I looked Dr. Z. up on Yelp. His reviews were stellar, of course, but that wasn’t the weird thing.

The weird thing was that the reviews were full of people – professionals in lots of different fields – saying the same thing: I went to Dr. Z. for oral surgery, and he asked me about what I did, and it turned out he knew all about my field and had a competent and educated discussion with me about the obscure technical details of such-and-such.

All sorts of different fields, saying this. Lawyers. Businessmen. Musicians.

As far as I can tell, it’s not that I just happened to be pursuing the two fields he had a serious amateur interest in – he just seemed to be extremely good at literally everything.

I have no explanation for this. Possibly he sold his soul to the devil.