Dealing With Miss Ethel

My wife was in the hospital recently for some relatively minor surgery and it made a nervous wreck out of me.

I do not say that lightly. The only obvious genetic traits passed down by my parents were my father’s short legs and my mother’s towering ability to worry.

So I paced the lobby of Tarzana Medical Center on my little short legs all during my wife’s surgery and worried myself into a frenzy.

Mom, had she not worried herself to death, would have been proud.

It occurred to me, however, on the fifth circle of the lobby that I had to do something to alleviate the stress. It isn’t easy pacing on short legs.

I thought about having a martini, but that probably wasn’t a good idea at that time of the morning and under those circumstances.

The hospital did not provide a cocktail lounge and I will not drink in bars that open at 6 a.m. I have principles.

My second response to stress is to read. So I went into the hospital gift shop.

Hospital gift shops, for those who have not visited them lately, are the province of old ladies with time on their hands. I met one of them on this day.

I could not quite read her name tag, so I am guessing when I say her name was Ethel. She was somewhere in her mid-70s, maybe older.

When I selected a book, a pot of flowers and some newspapers, Ethel said, “That’s all you want?” There was a tone of incredulity in her voice.

“Is there something else I ought to be buying?”

“Suit yourself,” she said.

Worry makes me snappish. Ethel was maybe 4-feet-9 and nearsighted. I could have taken her in a fair fight, but it wouldn’t have been right.

“What credit cards do you take?” I asked.

“Cash,” Ethel said firmly, “I need cash. This isn’t the Miami Hilton.”

“I don’t have cash,” I said. “I have credit cards. Everyone takes credit cards. Cash is going out of style.”

“I don’t have change,” Ethel said.

That was my first indication that Ethel and I were operating on different levels.

“You don’t need change with credit cards,” I said.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Ethel said. “It’s not my day. I don’t know why I’m here.”

I took it Ethel was a volunteer and had been brought in on an emergency basis. She wasn’t happy about it.

“How about a check?” I said.

“Is it good?” she asked. “Don’t get me into trouble.”

“It’s good,” I said.

“Don’t get me into trouble,” she said again.

I wrote the check and handed Ethel my driver’s license and a Citibank Visa as a matter of habit.

“I don’t take credit cards,” Ethel said.

“It’s for identification.”

“My son works for Citibank,” Ethel said. “He’s only 42 and he’s a vice president.”

She studied me in the manner of someone looking at a man who is over 42 and not a vice president. What went wrong?

Then she said, “This card’s no good. It expired in March.”

“No,” I said, “that’s when the period started. See?” I pointed. “ ‘Valid from 03/01/89 to 02/91.’ ”

“Don’t get me into trouble,” she said. “I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“The check is good,” I said. “You’re in safe hands.”

“Your driver’s license has expired!” she said suddenly. “It hasn’t been good for four years!”

I handed her a renewal card that indicated the expiration date had been extended.

“It’s good until July,” I said triumphantly.

“Well,” she said, “the picture doesn’t look like you.”

“Ethel,” I said, impatience creeping into my voice, “how long have you been doing this?”

“Who knows?” she said. “Forever. I need some other identification. I’m suspicious about the picture.”

I handed her my L. A. Times ID card. It is a card I use rarely as ultimate proof of my worth and my existence. Only a media pass to Vatican City is more impressive.

“Most doctors read the Herald Examiner,” Ethel said, studying the card. “It has more bad news. Doctors like bad news. What do you do?”

“I’m a nude model,” I said. “Just OK the check so I can get out of here.”

About then, I heard myself being paged. I left the gift shop with Ethel watching me suspiciously.

“Where’ve you been?” an angry old man at the front desk demanded. “This is the third time you’ve been paged.”

Ethel had followed me across the lobby. “You didn’t sign your check,” she said. “I knew there was something wrong!”

My wife was fine. I was exhausted.