A battered shin; violins, please begin

THE person you see scowling, unkempt and limping through L.A., looking every bit like an angry troll, is, I am sorry to say, me. I’m in pain.

I am in such shabby condition that while I was standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, someone gave me a dollar and said, “Buy yourself a hot dog.” It was my wife, the kindly Cinelli.

She gave me the money by way of indicating that she is not pleased with either my looks or my manner, but I can’t help it. Whenever I’m in pain, my whole life goes to hell, and that is where it is going at the moment.

A man’s response to discomfort is to lose all sense of self-respect and to whine bitterly at his fate. A woman in similar pain would nonetheless drag herself into the kitchen, beautifully coiffed and smiling cheerfully, and turn out a gourmet meal; it’s a major difference between the sexes. Men aren’t constituted to bear pain with a smile.

By now you’re probably wondering what happened that caused me to wander around unshaved and uncombed in a worn T-shirt that says “Put Me Out of My Pain” and a pair of disreputable Levis. It’s this way:

After an afternoon of signing books the other day in Topanga, I went whistling off toward my car, tripped on my left sandal and plunged face forward over a 2-foot concrete barrier, slamming my right shin on the killing edge of the barrier.

It was the same sort of accident that befell me as a Marine in Korea, except then it was in the dead of night; while running, I crashed into a machine gun that was set up along an unfamiliar pathway.

Both times the shin wound bled and swelled to the size of a grapefruit, and both times I felt as if I had broken my leg.

In Korea, a medical corpsman bandaged the wound and gave me pills with the curative powers of a baby aspirin and sent me back to fight the war.

In Topanga, I lay on my face for a moment and then sat up before anyone could see me, moaning softly and rocking back and forth. Passersby paid scant attention, no doubt assuming I was a religious mystic of some sort, practicing a little known Eastern ritual, of which there are probably many up here in the hills.

I made it home all right and was driven by Cinelli to an urgent care clinic. I gave the staffer my Cigna card and she asked what I wanted. I was wearing shorts and bleeding at the shin, so it should have been obvious. But in this new era of hiring the marginally aware, I explained that I didn’t want to die.

Finally noticing the wound, she asked: “Do you want it stitched up?”

I said, “I want it X-rayed and treated.”

She said, “We can’t X-ray it. We can only consult.”

When I asked why, she replied that my insurance wouldn’t pay for an X-ray. I said I would pay the $85 cost in cash, but was informed that Cigna wouldn’t allow that either.

Wincing with pain, I said I would pay cash for the whole thing (another $65), because I felt my life was worth more than $150. She said I couldn’t do that because I had insurance. Huh?

The upshot of all of this was that a female doctor looked at the injury, agreed that it was a nasty wound, had it bandaged and sent me to the Tarzana Hospital emergency ward after sympathizing with me about insurance rules. She told me that she had a $3,000 co-pay on her last medical treatment. For fear that it might have been a female problem, I didn’t ask what the bill was for -- I don’t talk about female problems with strangers. Even yeast infections make me nervous.

At Tarzana I was welcomed like an old friend because I drop in now and again to have something repaired or replaced. A nurse tended me with the loving care of a bartender, followed by another attendant who looked like a teenage volunteer. She was, I learned, a physician. I couldn’t help but think of Doogie Howser and almost requested a “grown-up” doctor, but I was in too much pain to think.

She began by asking a series of background questions, among which was, “Do you drink?”

In my pain-induced delusional state, I considered it an offer and replied, “Why, yes, thank you, I’d like a Grey Goose vodka martini, straight up, two olives on the side.”

She smiled in confusion. My wife stepped in and said, “He drinks, but he doesn’t smoke, and he’s a little crazy.”

An X-ray revealed that my leg wasn’t broken, so I was given a tetanus shot. The wound was cleaned and redressed, and I was sent home with a friendly little pat on the behind. When I turned to look, Cinelli said, “Don’t get your hopes up, I’m the one who patted your behind,” and gave me a kiss.

I am well cared for by this wonder of all women, but I am still not happy with my condition. I am generally miserable around the house -- which isn’t too different from my usual conduct -- but I am beginning to shower again and comb my hair a little. Tomorrow I’ll go back to brushing my teeth.