I walked past a black doctor today. I think he was a surgeon. He wore light blue scrubs and he walked with a long stride. He wore running shoes, the newer thin ones in a neon color I don’t remember. I wondered if he’d started the day by running miles and miles but then decided that he’d probably started scrubbing up before dawn. He had cut into someone this morning, I thought. He probably saved somebody’s life. And now he was going for coffee.

I admired him because he was handsome but also because he was a doctor and a surgeon. I am impressed by accomplishment and good looks.

What happens to you, dear handsome surgeon, when you leave the hospital? How do you tell people on the street or the police officer who stops you for speeding that you are a surgeon who saved somebody’s life this morning? Do you keep wearing your scrubs or do you change into Levis and a t-shirt? Do you become ordinary?

I fear for you if you become ordinary.