When Magoo the Large was born, my body was a mess. 10.5 pounds of baby will do that to a wee flower like myself and so it was that my hip joints were unbearably painful. My doctor took some X-Rays and asked me if I’d like to see a specialist. Sure. Does he come with drugs? Send him in. Not enough people have seen me breastfeeding today.
Doctor Santanisto had dark wavy hair, pulled mostly back in a physician’s doo rag. He had a soul patch, expressive eyebrows and a slightly sinister look about him.
He was professional and helpful but I couldn’t get over the thought that I had just had a run-in with a caricature of an evil doctor from ER or possibly a Seinfeld-like nemesis.
“Hello Dr. Santanisto.” (In the voice Jerry reserves specially for Newman.)
A couple of days later I was back up at the hospital’s lactation center being fitted for a high quality mammary suspension device and I started to describe the specialist doctor to Dan.
“It was just weird. I wish you could have met him but there was something about him. It was like he’d stepped right out of a hospital drama, the ruthless surgeon who smooth-talks the patients and then goes off and fires interns for yawning or handing him the wrong scalpel. I picture his laugh to be a deep cackle. I really wish you could have seen him.”
Two minutes later I was hobbling out of the parking lot when something caught my eye. Not 10 feet from my car sat a black BMW convertible with red leather seats, the top down being driven by — DR. SANTANISTO!
“Dan! LOOK! That’s him and he’s driving Satan’s car!”
Dr. Santanisto’s wavy hair was loose in the wind, an extra-long cigarette dangling from his sneer.
“Wow,” said Dan, “That’s creepy.” This is what I’m saying.
You know I love casting people as I drive around town. If I’m ever the casting director for ER The Next Generation, Dr. Santanisto’s totally gonna play that one mean guy.