At one a.m. in 1994, I received a call from Le
Montrose, a boutique hotel in West Hollywood. The guest told me the problem was
“personal.”
The man who opened the door was past sixty, short,
plump, balding, and tieless, wearing a rumpled suit which I suspected he’d put
on to greet me. Across the room, wearing a bathrobe, a young woman sat on the
bed, staring sullenly at the floor.
“There’s been an accident,” he said.
Neither guest seemed injured, so I knew I wasn’t going
to get off easy. This proved true as he explained that his friend seemed to
have an object in her rectum. He provided no details.
Bizarre incidents fascinate doctors no less than
laymen. Around the cafeteria table, interns compete in relating the latest.
Outside of working hours, they remain a mainstay for impressing girls at
parties.
Central to this adolescent obsession is the genre of
things-that-end-up-in-people’s-rectums. I no longer find these amusing, not
only because I’m a grown-up but because they make me nervous. I hate situations
that I might not be able to handle. Removing something from the rectum often
requires tools such as a proctoscope which I didn’t carry. Also practice. I had
never done it.
But I had to try. After introducing myself to the
woman, I put on a rubber glove and went to work. There is more space than you’d
think inside a rectum; I felt a hard object touch my fingertip and then drift
away. When something lies out of reach, it’s natural to stretch, and my
desperate efforts caused her to groan with pain.
Suddenly, I snagged something and pulled out a shot
glass. I almost danced with joy and relief. Although I expected an outpouring
of gratitude, none appeared. Gathering up her clothes, the woman disappeared
into the bathroom. The man nodded agreeably as if this were routine business.
Filling out my invoice, I asked the woman’s name.
“Elizabeth Anderson.” He hesitated before answering,
revealing that he had invented the name. Call girls lead a glamorous life in the
movies, but the reality is often miserable. I handed him the invoice. He
examined it thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of money,” he said. “You only spent
five minutes here.”
In 1994 my fee for a wee-hour call was $180. He had
not objected when I had informed him over the phone. When guests balk, I say
I’ll accept whatever they consider fair. They often reconsider and pay my
regular fee.
I told him I’d accept whatever he considered fair. He
handed over $80. I don’t want to think how the woman made out.
Posts
