Paul

Let me tell you about Paul.

Paul is one of the providers in my ER.

Paul is brilliant medically (or so I've heard).

Paul looks 16, drives a Corvette, and if he didn't wear that bizarre green and pink striped shirt, would be pretty good looking.

And he makes me absolutely crazy. On so many different levels. Some of them too disturbing to relate here.

Even worse, Paul reads this blog. And Paul wants to be on the blog. So every time he does or says anything within earshot or eyesight of yours truly, he follows it with, "Are you gonna put that on your blog?"

The answer is always, "No, Paul, you're not funny enough for my blog."

Until the other night when Deborah Peel came in. She's a regular, comes in about twice a month for various psych issues. This time, she was just drunk. REALLY drunk. Almost .400 drunk.

Paul saw/treated her. Obviously, she wasn't going to be sober enough to go home anytime, oh, this week, so he signed her out to the next doc. I was in her room redrawing her ETOH level when he stuck his head around the corner to say goodbye. To me or Deborah, we'll never know.

Because he got a devilish gleam in his eyes and headed into the room with his arms spread wide, saying, "Deborah, honey, I'm leaving now, can I give you a goodbye hug?"

Did I mention that Deborah is about 100 years old, toothless, and stinks to high heaven?

She said, "Hell yeah, baby, you can give me anything you want, you sweet little thing! You're CUTE!"

Hug happened, my eyes burned, laughter exploded, and Paul left. At which point, Deborah looked at me and said, "I wish I was going to remember this in the morning. He's sure a cutie!"

As I walked out of the room, she said, "Hey, why don't you write down his number for me so I can have it when I wake up. I won't know where I got it, but I'll still have it!"

If I'd known his number, I think I might have.