Someone at a Beverly Hills hotel had struck his head on
the edge of a table. Blood was gushing, and he wanted a doctor.
Scalp lacerations bleed heavily, but my long
experience with bumped heads reveals that the wound is rarely impressive. If victims
are willing to apply pressure and wait, they usually agree.
He didn’t want to wait.
This was an upscale hotel, but I am not its
doctor who was undoubtedly, this being midnight, fast asleep. Someone had
searched the internet and found a housecall service which called me. That meant
that I had to give the service forty percent of the fee. My wee-hour charge is
not skimpy, but none of this mattered. He wanted a doctor.
I told him I would arrive in half an hour,
and the manager expressed surprise when I turned up on time. He led me down a
hall, through the kitchen to a large room where the patient was resting on a
chair, a wet rag over his forehead. Half a dozen employees stood around.
Removing the rag revealed that the bleeding
had stopped. The wound was a shallow 1½ inch scratch. I delivered the good news
and applied a band-aid. Everyone was relieved, and the guest peeled off my fee
from a wad of bills.
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