Something is brewing...

I buried her five days later and a week after that I called my replacement at my practice and said I'd be back the next day. I had to work, my body couldn't handle all the drinking and the antidepressants I prescribed myself. I've never been one to drink and I really tried to get into the habit, but it just wasn't for me. Antidepressants worked better, much better. I packed on the pounds like an elephant calf, though. 

I ran my practice for another month and then I quit. Just like that. The condolences before each patient got to the point would likely stop eventually, but I found I wasn't giving them the care and attention they deserved. Or paid for, at any rate. I understand how an ingrown toenail is annoying, how a rash that's been there for two weeks needs to be checked out, I get all that. But I just couldn't bring myself to care. And those were the patients better off than me. Even though I had lost the only woman I had ever loved and, even worse, who ever bothered to love me, there were plenty of lost souls out there who were off much worse than me. Confined to wheelchairs. Early onset dementia. Cystic fibrosis. Riddled with cancer that would come back time after time, so they spent years of their life being sick and miserable during radiation and chemo. I saw young mothers who had lost children, fathers of five who went blind, people in constant pain. I couldn't handle that any more. I had enough on my plate. 

My patients were transferred to a group practice, which was better for them anyway. You don't need a special bond with your doctor because your back hurts or because you've got irritable bowls, you need to get some pills and piss off. 

Also, I began to detest the human body. Some doctors come to respect it more and more as their careers progress. I'm more of a glass half empty kind of guy. From where I was standing, mother nature was doing everything in her power to kill us and our bodies seemed almost eager to invite hardship and disease. Turn 18, have kids, raise them until they're about 15, then die. That's what nature likes to see. If you're over 35, you are in the way. And then the body begins to demand an insane amount of upkeep. Quite apart from the medical care, you need to exercise 30 minutes a day, restrict your diet to 2500 calories (2000 for women) and avoid the stuff that's particularly good. You know, the chocolate and anything potato-based. And if you do all that, as my wife did, one day you are going to wake up coughing blood and two months later you will be dead. Whereas if you could never be bothered, like me, you'll find yourself a widower with twenty to thirty years of loneliness to look forward to. 

I had my practice in a small, rural village in the North of the Dutch province of North-Holland. I was born and raised there, my father was the village doctor before me and his uncle before that. So when I gave up my practice, there was uproar. You'd think I had been sent there by God himself and was now abandoning my post. 

To make some money I did some medically-related things for a while. I visited people who had called in sick to their employers. Flu, bad backs, genuinely broken limbs, nothing special. I substituted for a colleague who had a son and wanted some time off. That was kind of nice, I wasn't supposed to know these people. But that got old too. 

One day, my mentor called. I had done a fairly large part of my internship in Glasgow, simply because there I could do what I wanted instead of praying one of the Dutch teaching hospitals would deign to take me in. I became fairly fluent in English, both the proper variety and the local accent, Glaswegian, which is nothing short of hilarious. Dr. Betjeman called me on a Sunday afternoon. He shares his name with the poet who died in 1984, which was a great relief to 'my' John. To make sure nobody thinks he is a dead English poet, he speaks Scottish and is very uncouth. Which is more or less the same thing, really. 

“Is tha yous, Martin?” 

“John. Good to hear from you. I trust you're well?” 

“Aye. Been hearing a lo o' bad news though. Since Mary died. Hung up yer steffercope, have ya?” 

That's 'stethoscope' in Scottish, the thing we hang around our necks to listen to your heart and lungs. You'd think one of the countries leading doctors would be able to pronounce it. 

“Sort of.” 

“Will ya come roond ta Glasgow then? Have a drink?” 

“No. Because before I know it, I'll end up working in your hospital, ya sneaky bastard.” 

My standard accent is fairly neutral, but I could slip into Scottish when I wanted. Which came in handy when I worked there, because some Scots are deeply mistrusting of 'those Sassenach bastards', as they call the English. Which I'm not, but they didn't care. 

“Well what'll ya do fer money then? Gonna rob a bank?” 

“I'm fine for a while.” 

“So yell sit on yer arse all dee and moap, is tha what yer sayin'?” 

“Basically.” 

“Ya bampot. I'll be callin' yes later.” 

“Bye John. Thanks for checking in.” 

 He did call back, the next day in fact. Which was sooner than I expected by about one year. 

“Martin, ya bas', it's John.” 

“I gathered. Not many people open with 'you bastard'. Hello John.” 

“Go' a wee job fer ya.” 

“Not interested.” 

“I dinnae ask you if ya were. D'ya like...” 

And then something that sounded like 'piranhas' or 'Tijuna'.” 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“Iguanas!” 

“What? For fuck's sake man, speak the Queen's English.”

“Go take a running fook at a rollin' doughnut. Ah said I-g-u-a-na. Dem' lizzards! Ugly fuckers wiv' a fierce loik a baw bag.” 

A lizard with a face like testicles... What could that be, I'm not a vet. Oh hang on! 

“Oh you mean a 'leguaan'. An iguana!” 

“That's woa I's been sayin', ya deaf bastard. Do ya like 'em?” 

“No.” 

“Fair enough. Are yes' afraid of 'em?” 

“I don't think so. Look, is there point to this?” 

“Like I ses, go' a wee job fer ya.” 

He explained to me he had a friend in Texas of all places, who was needed to take part in a research project. Said friend lived near Houston and would need a house sitter for both his dog and fifteen iguanas. Would I be interested? 

“Not in the slightest. America? Houston, Texas, no less? Well, that's the epicentre of the cradle of civilisation right there, isn't it? Such pleasant people, one hears. With their SWAT teams, border fences and police brutality.” 

“Yea but yer a white fooker aren't ya? So that's nae gonna be a problem for ya. Look, if yef got nothing on, do us a favour. You'll be oot the hoos.” 

“Away an' raffle yerself, John.” 

“Well, jiss ya give it a wee think, ya fud. Call me back.” 

 I did think about it. It was March and we were coming out of a miserable winter that I was heartily sick of. But it's not as if the summer would be any good, it never is. Houston might be a much nicer place to sit on a couch and contemplate suicide. In fact, all I'd have to do was apply some blackface and drive around, presumably one of those armed maniacs would end it for me. John emailed me information about the research project for which Dr. Thurmond would be needed: cancer research he couldn't get funded in America. American drug companies aren't interested in curing diseases, there is no money in that. You lose your repeat business. And so they only support research that's about alleviating any symptoms, which is why the project had moved abroad. I'm no researcher, but if my contribution could be to take care of the pets of someone who might one day make a difference... 

At the very least I'd be able to go somewhere without people asking me either how I was doing or when I'd be starting my practice again. I called John the next day and said I'd do it. Four days later I got on a plane. 

I had been to America once before, almost twenty years ago. A short trip to New York for a congress and a few days in Florida. I liked Epcot and that was about it. 

I had a transfer in New York, but saw nothing more than the skyline of Manhattan before I boarded a flight to Houston. The chat with the immigration officer was surprisingly pleasant. 

“Doctor Martin Kroon... Isn't that Dutch for crown?” 

The lady, who was as black as charcoal, made me put my fingers on a scanner. She pronounced the double 'o' as in 'crooner', whereas it should sound like 'load'. Still, I was impressed. 

“It is indeed. How did you know?” 

“I'm one sixteenth Dutch. And what brings you to the United States, Doctor Kroon?” 

“Well... I don't know how specific I should make this, but I'm going to look after someone's iguanas for a while. And their dog.” 

“Really?” 

“Too detailed? Vacation then.” 

“No... It's just that I've never, ever heard that one before. That's going in my book. You do know, Doctor, that you are not permitted to practice medicine here in the US?” 

“I won't prescribe so much as an aspirin.” 

“Have a nice trip, Doctor.” 

It was only when I was already on board my flight to Houston, when I was thinking about how courteous and professional that lady had been, that I realised my occupation is not in my passport, I don't use the honorific and somehow she knew I was a medical doctor, not a theologian or something similar. 

 In Houston I rented a car and then had a very unfortunate episode when I turned onto a toll road without any actual American money on me. I didn't know there would be one and it was unavoidable anyway. The booth also wouldn't take my credit card. Apparently fifty cents is worth making a massive fuss about and eventually I was lead away from the toll road by a police car to an exit and they made damned sure I took it. That took an hour, after a trip of almost twenty hours. I was just about ready to strangle someone. That person turned out to be the agent at Hertz who'd rented me that car, because I hadn't even left the fucking airport at that point. 

“The only way out of this airport is via a toll road that requires a pass. You might have mentioned that. You were awfully keen to sell me extra insurance I don't need but a toll pass would have been a bit more useful.” 

“You didn't ask,” was all he said. 

“What did you think I was going to do with that car, sleep in it in the rental car park? Get me a badge or a sticker or whatever the hell it is.” 

“Sir, Imma hafta ask you to lower your voice.” 

“Anything else I need to know that you consider common knowledge? It runs on petrol, right? I'm not going to have to keep an eye out for places that sell powdered unicorn testicles or anything?” 

I had a mandatory chat with a manager and a person with a badge after that, but eventually I was on my way to Galveston with a little device to stick behind the mirror. Americans... No wonder so many people the world over were keen to shoot at them. 

What struck me most on the drive to the coast was how ugly this place was. And what didn't help were the millions upon millions of promotional displays. There were commercials everywhere, on billboards, on buildings, on trucks, everywhere. Obviously we have that too, but the idea here seemed to be: 'This city is ugly as sin anyway, we might as will try to hide it with a massive picture of a donut that looks as if it has been ejaculated on.' Everything was massive, sun bleached, utilitarian and filled with cars. And they seemed to dislike corners, or rather bends of any kind. It was all straight lines. Along the highway I saw endless lots for boxy buildings that were made to look at least somewhat human with fake bell towers or crenelations. There weren't really trees, but there was some grass here and there. Nothing you'd call a forest or a lush meadow. Just concrete and dust, arranged in squares and straight lines, with cars that were shaped like they had the mumps. 

Completely exhausted I arrived in Galveston, which is on a long, narrow island off the coast of Texas. It's 45 kilometres long but only about 4 kilometres wide at most and considerably less in most places. Around 50.000 people live there, though it's probably mostly filled with holiday homes that are only occupied during the weekend. It's connected to the mainland by a fairly impressive bridge. And I'm Dutch, I'm not easily impressed by infrastructure. Actually, it's not really a bridge but more of a dyke, with a bridge somewhere in the middle for ships to be able to pass. Americans call this a causeway, but it's a dyke, really. They probably don't like that word, because they'd rather use that to insult gay women. But I'm Dutch and I'll decide what is and what isn't a dyke, thankyouverymuch. And while I'm playing tour guide, you might as well know there's a smaller, round island called Pelican Island that connects to Galveston via another 'causeway'. There's a university there that specializes in marine sciences. I should have done that, rather than med school. I'd be a marine biologist or something else that isn't really a job but lets you see the world for free and go diving. 

Jock Thurmond was a fellow at the University of Texas Medical Branch, which has a campus in (or on) Galveston. They have over 2500 students, who mostly live on the island in what Americans call 'dormitories'. A nice perk if you're studying medicine, to do it on a near tropical island. I studied in Amsterdam and Scotland. There wasn't a lot of sunbathing involved, let me tell you. 

Thurmond had a house on, I kid you not, Pirates Beach Boulevard. That's one over from Mutiny Lane, if you were wondering. It was made of wood and it was unashamedly pink with parking under the house, which was partially raised on beams. They do that quite often here, presumably because if you don't park your car in the shade it becomes an oven. Or maybe this way it's easier to build on sand, I've no idea. 

A simple concrete driveway lead to that house, with palm trees on grass. Pirates Beach had dozens of similar homes, many with ludicrously large cars and boats on trailers around them. 

Jock looked to be in his fifties, with ridiculously muscular arms and a tan like a Victoria's Secret model. His teeth were suspiciously white and his hair alarmingly fake. I got the whirlwind tour of his house. 

“Okay all right so this is where you sleep, it's ma guest bedroom, you can have sleepovers if ya like, this is ma kitchen, you put your trash in the dumpsters near the end of the street, make sure to close the bags, this is the bathroom, you can use the jacuzzi if ya like, this here's where I keep ma keys, you can use mah car and ma jet ski, I don't know if ya know about boats?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well then ya can use ma boat, it's at the marina, the berth is on the key, she's called the Lady Liberty and this is where I keep ma darlings.” 

He had a massive cage filled with iguanas, that connected to his house from the kitchen door. They were laid out on rocks in the sun and there was shit everywhere. There were branches for them to climb and an indoor area with special lamps to keep them warm. 

“It's March so at night it still gets a bit cold for them, there's automatic lights in there that go on and keep 'em warm when it gets below 75 degrees. They know where to go. Basically what I need ya to do is to hose off the rocks with the power washer once day an' feed 'em. They eat collard greens, mustard greens, alfalfa, dandelion greens, watercress... no lettuce, ain't nuttin' in lettuce for them. And they can have fruit, just nothing sour. No lime, lemon, orange... Strawberries is fine, grapes, watermelon. Now I left instructions in the kitchen, basically you go to Seven Seas grocery on San Luis road and you ask for Dave, he'll give you food fer two days worth. It's paid for, just come pick it up every other day, he knows what I want. If he ain't got none you go to Walmart, ask for Judy, she knows too. No iceberg lettuce okay? Romaine is fine. Drinkin' water comes from that bowl, it refills itself from the tap, just make sure it stays nice and clean.” 

And that was basically it. He taught me how to handle them and explained how they're usually territorial but they had enough space here. Essentially he'd written a book on Iguana care and how his house worked. I'd be fine. All I had to pay for was shopping and fuel, all his bills were paid for automatically. 

“Now that car of yours, is that a rental?” 

No. I bought a car fresh from the airport. Then I got a Hertz sticker for it, because I like yellow. 

“Yes.” 

“How 'bout I bring it back to the airport for ya, you can use my car.” 

His car was a Ford F150 truck, a vehicle that will get you laughed off the streets in the Netherlands. Seriously, the police will pull you over and want to know if you've gone mental if you drive that. You won't be able to it park anywhere, the spaces are just not large enough. It's absolutely massive. I wouldn't be seen dead near one. Underneath one, possibly. Likely, even. 

“Well thanks but the car is paid for, so...” 

“That ain't no problem, I'll give it back, get ya a refund!”

That was 300 dollars a week... I sighed. And then I stopped sighing because it would seem impolite. 

“Sorry, long day so far That's very kind, if you can manage that I'd be very grateful,” 

“Sure I can. When I come back I'll rent something and you can drive that back for me. Saves money. Now you get some sleep, when you wake up we'll get something to eat.” 

“Right. Oh, isn't there supposed to be a dog?” 

“Bandit. He'll show up, eventually.” 

I slept for four hours in the guest bedroom, a perfectly adequate room although with a rather ambitious double bed. Jock took me to dinner at Alex's Seafood and we discussed medicine, though not for long. I'm 'just' a GP, a general practitioner. What Americans call a family doctor. I had never done research, I'd done only a few fellowships in surgery and some other fields, to see what they were like and essentially I was about as interesting to him as a colleague as someone who runs a first-aid station during a pop concert is to me. He seemed almost perplexed by the things I had NOT done. No, I'd never taught. No, no papers to my name. Yes, I had practiced family medicine for fifteen years and that was it. He even seemed to think it was a bit careless of me that my wife had died. 

“So didn't you get her scanned?” 

“We don't scan people just for the hell of it. She was fit as a fiddle until it was too late.” 

“It's not how we do it.” 

I got defensive about it. 

“Yes. That might be why the average cost per day in a hospital is 2000 dollars, six times the Dutch average.” 

He quickly changed the subject and discovered another set of things I apparently suck at: I had no kids, I didn't play golf, I owned my home but it was not a villa, I had no boat, no sports car, no jet ski, no pilot's license and I didn't know how to fire a gun. I also clearly didn't have a tan, muscular arms or a six pack. He then asked me how much I made. He actually asked me that! 

 I was so shocked, I answered him. As a family doctor, I make around twice the Dutch national average, which comes to 80,000 euro per year. That's after I pay for two part-time assistants, supplies, insurance, an office and all the rest of it, but before taxes. And income tax is 52% for me. In other words, I made about 50,000 dollars a year after taxes. And I worked 50 hours a week, running a practice with 2800 patients. Jock's jaw dropped to the floor. Then he told me he made five times that amount. He actually TOLD ME THAT. 

“Yes sir, quite the little underachiever, aren't I? That's why you're off to do research and I'm here to hose off the iguana shit,” I smiled. 

We ran out of things to talk about after that. Well, at least I had not been through three divorces, unlike Mr. Successful over there. And I didn't wear a toupee. I was just bald. 

As we got home and I stepped out of the car, a dog ran up to me and barked furiously. 

“This is Bandit! Here boy! He doesn't usually bark. Bandit! Quiet!” 

I don't like dogs. Okay, that's not strictly true: I've never met a dog I liked, would be more accurate. I'm a cat person. Dogs just sit there, waiting for permission to take a dump. It took a while before Bandit seemed resigned to the fact that I existed. I couldn't really tell what race he was, he wasn't very big but not very small either and he had teeth and hair. He was mostly brownish and wore a leather collar that gave him a rugged look. 

“He comes and goes as he pleases, usually shows up at night. I feed him and he sleeps outdoors. Don't need to walk him.” 

“Right. I've had a similar relationship with a swan once. Given that he seems to dislike me, probably on account of my extremely disappointing medical career, you do realise there is every chance he'll stop coming to the house entirely, right?” 

“Yeah... Well, I'm guessing he'll come back for food.” 

The next day Jock was bound to leave. When he was sure I could handle the iguanas he threw two bags into the rental car, shook my hand and disappeared. And there I was, on an island off the coast of Texas, with a set of keys, fifteen lizards and a dog that growled at me.

This is chapter one of 'Our Man in Texas', which Ron Dudderie will no doubt finish one day (he's 200 pages in already). But he has already finished NINE other books, available at funnyandsexyebooks.com. Have a look!