Everything is Copy
By Marilyn Simon Rothstein, Author of Who Loves You Best
I’m an author and a voracious reader. Naturally, I love libraries. A few weeks ago, I met Fran, my best friend from college, in Washington D.C. Fran suggested a tour of the Library of Congress. Lunch afterwards. I would’ve preferred lunch first. I worship libraries, but I’m into restaurants even more.
After the publication of my first novel, I received a notice informing me my book was in the Library of Congress. I cried happy tears, imagining a man in a wrinkled white short-sleeve shirt in a sterile office writing this correspondence. I thought of framing the letter, hanging it in my office next to the picture of my children.
Until that moment in bustling Union Station, I had no idea that the Library of Congress was a place to visit, an exquisite tourist spot with scheduled tours and a large gift shop. In my imagination, the Library of Congress was an endless storage facility—sort of like an Amazon warehouse of books you couldn’t buy.
We walked to the taxi stand in front of Union Station. A short dispatcher pointed to the first car in line, a mid-size, not-old but not-new yellow taxi. The cab driver, a heavy-set middle-aged man in a plaid flannel shirt, wore a flat tweed cap. He overfilled the seat, and didn’t—or couldn’t—turn around as he asked where we were headed.
“Library of Congress,” I said.
Slowly, the driver moved away from the taxi stand and informed us in a disappointed tenor that the library was a very short ride. I wondered how long he’d waited for the fare. I appreciated his disappointment. I planned to leave a generous tip.
The driver’s phone rang. I heard a cheerful voice. “Good morning, George. I’m Suzanne Flynn, a nurse in Dr. Carpenter’s office. The doctor will be on in a moment for your scheduled virtual appointment. Is this still a good time?”
My first thought: This was not a good time.
But George said he’d remain on the line.
I glanced at Fran with a side eye. After five decades of friendship, during which we’d travelled together, she knew what I was thinking: This can’t be. He’s planning to speak to his doctor while driving?
At the first red light, we heard the doctor’s voice. “Hello George. This is Dr. Carpenter. Today’s consultation will be recorded for AI purposes. Is that okay?”
Fran poked me. I grinned. I was ready to eavesdrop (was it eavesdropping?) already speculating in my head what type of medical conditions would be discussed.
Then it occurred to me. What if the doctor tells the driver something shocking—like he’s been diagnosed with advanced leukemia. Three-months to live.
George might slam on the brakes. Fran and I could go through the window. For years I’d be picking glass out of my face. I checked my seatbelt.
“Yes,” the driver said. “That’s fine.”
“Okay, so let’s get started,” the doctor said in a friendly tone.
Fran leaned forward and I knew she was about to tell George that he could not get a medical checkup while we were in the cab.
I shook my head. Fran rolled her eyes and sat back.
“We’ll go through your medications first. Metformin, correct?”
Immediately, because of the drug, I figured George the Driver was a Type 2 diabetic. This was a relief to me. What if the first pill mentioned had been something that curbed violent behavior? I was relieved George had diabetes, not psychosis.
“Lantus,” the doctor continued.
I knew this meant the driver was injecting insulin.
Six more medications followed. Checked off one at a time. But nothing for psychosis. Not even an SSRI.
So, I didn’t ask George to stop the car. Instead, I patted Fran (who is not a writer), hoping she’d keep quiet. I was hot to include this scenario in my next humorous novel—the story of a lifelong friendship. Truth is better than fiction, funnier too. Such great material.
Doctor Carpenter said he’d appreciate it if George held on while he obtained the results of the blood sugar test. Fran looked at her phone. She was ready to get out of the cab and walk the rest of the way and I knew it.
I began a conversation. “I don’t want you to think I was listening in…”
“That’s okay if you were,” the driver said.
Fran rolled her eyes.
“You’re a diabetic,” I said, sympathetically. “I have diabetes. It’s a tough disease.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Do you have neuropathy?” I asked—because I did.
“Yes, I do.”
It was good this was a brief ride, over before George couldn’t feel the brake.
The doctor said, “Still there? George, there’s good news.”
I was relieved for George. Like he was a relative.
“Your blood sugar is down.”
I waited to hear the number with bated breath.
“137,” the doctor said.
I looked at Fran. “137 is not bad.”
She shushed me.
“Not bad at all,” I said, like Larry David in his sit-com—and as though I had a stake in all of this.
Fran whispered sarcastically, “I’m glad to hear 137 is manageable.”
Then, she laughed, but I think she’d had enough of me. Like the time we were eighteen, when we landed in Israel and I suggested walking to Tel Aviv from the airport.
The doctor said, “Are you following the diet?”
I knew George was going to say yes. I also knew from my own experience, he was untruthful.
“And you’re exercising?”
“Yes,” George said, weakly.
“At least he’s exercising,” my friend whispered.
“He’s not exercising,” I said, always the cynic.
We were in a stand-still at a congested intersection. Packs of tourists in the crosswalk.
“The library is down the street. Let’s call it quits,” Fran whispered to me. “We’ll get out here,” she announced to George.
I didn’t want to interrupt his important conversation—who knew when George could get this doctor to call back, or if he had any other time to confer—but I had to pay. I waited a moment. Fran was already standing on the curb.
“How much?” I asked. George didn’t hear me. I waved some bills in the rearview mirror. I inquired again.
“$13.70.”
Which, coincidently, was his blood sugar without the zero at the end.
As I handed him the cash, I said, “Stay healthy.”
The doctor asked, “Who’s that speaking in the background?”
“Just my daughter,” George said.
Five humorous novels about women
(including two of my own)
by Maddie Dawson
The search for happiness turns a woman’s life upside down in a warm, quirky, and bighearted novel about the joys and chaos of finding love. Maddie Dawson’s books have been translated into fifteen languages.
by Ann Garvin
Two sisters scramble to save their family’s legacy in a funny, huge-hearted novel about grandiose plans and summers to remember by the acclaimed author of I Thought You Said This Would Work.
by Sara Goodman Confino
For two women generations apart, going home will change their lives in this funny, poignant and life-affirming novel about family, secrets, and broken dreams. Top of the Amazon fiction charts with 39,000 reviews.
by Marilyn Simon Rothstein
A busy Florida podiatrist drops everything to spend more time with her grandchild, only to discover new truths about herself, two other grandmas already on the job and her daughter’s marriage in shambles.
by Marilyn Simon Rothstein
Lauren Leo, a 41-year-old New York advertising executive, is in her gown and about to tie the knot. There’s just one thing missing: the groom. Will the worst day of Lauren’s life be the best thing that ever happened to her?
by Marilyn Simon Rothstein
A busy Florida podiatrist drops everything to spend more time with her grandchild, only to discover new truths about herself, two other grandmas already on the job and her daughter’s marriage in shambles.
—
Marilyn Simon Rothstein is the author of Who Loves You Best, Crazy to Leave You, Husbands and Other Sharp Objects, and Lift and Separate. She grew up in Flushing, New York, and lives in Avon, Connecticut She’d tell you about her two wonderful daughters and three grandchildren, but she doubts you have that kind of time.
Connect with Marilyn:
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=552642036
https://www.instagram.com/marilynsimonrothstein/
https://www.marilynsimonrothstein.com
Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing
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