mention the sponge cake. He must have enjoyed his meal which the aide mistakenly offered him just before the ambulance crew came to take him to Albany Medical Center Hospital. The crackling and intermittently fading voice on the speaker phone continued, “I’m so sorry, Doctor, but our aide forgot that your patient was having surgery today. I don’t know what else to say.” Five hours to fix two complicated fractures. All planned out. Nursing home called three times to confirm the surgery date and time. Custom implants ordered from the orthopedic implant vendor. Mental blueprints drawn and sequence of steps reviewed last night during my hypnagogic state. Nerves and blood vessels to avoid. Would bone grafting be necessary? I hope the patient listens to my instructions. Sleep, you have a long day tomorrow. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. But no one told the aide not to give him breakfast on the morning of his surgery. The patient and I had the day off. In the past, I would welcome a day off from work. I used to go to the neighborhood duck pond, sit on a dilapidated wooden bench, and read Pride and Prejudice like a well-rounded present-day Renaissance man. I quickly realized that all the hoopla surrounding a strained romance could have been remedied easily by better modes of transportation and ineloquent and terse text messages. “Yo Darcy, after you proposed to me, I was ROFL!!! CU later, I’m going to Rio with my BFF Wickham. ” There would be no requirement for a long-winded letter of explanation written by a charlatan calligrapher, no dramatic tryst under a weeping willow in the dewy meadow, and no patience needed to listen to an ardent, pathetic soliloquy which normally follows the refrain of sobbing. Just a wet slap to jar the torpid, graceful romance. Bad grammar, misspellings, and arcane acronyms only would help accelerate disillusionment and end all future expectations. There were other times I would depart industrial Worcester and abscond to the nearest casino without my wife’s knowing. Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun, each venue with its unique tawdry decor and even more indistinguishable clientele. The odds were the same. The House always wins, even if you’re a Visiting “Professor” disguised in torn Levi’s and a T-shirt sporting a beer logo but deep inside hoping to card-count your way to financial solvency. But I always paused and didn’t display confidence (or probabilistic prudence) when it came to splitting nines against Blackjack Dealer’s eight. Never do it if the count is unfavorable or Dealer is a Vietnamese woman under the age of 25. And don’t drink the free alcohol. I had a system. But the one question I got wrong on my Math SAT blew my confidence for the rest of my life. The one that got away. I counted wrong. I never could be on the MIT Blackjack Team. UPAHAAR 2021 উপহার ১৪২৮ 9
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