Fort Hamilton
The stripe first led to a wide room, where a row of doctors awaited us. Except for the underwear part, we looked like newly-arrived airline passengers, waiting to be called by the next available customs agent. One doctor beckoned me. He looked unhappy, as if he were expecting a tough day. I would prove him right. After checking that all my blank forms were in my clipboard, he looked quizzically at the full-length surgical scar on my forearm (a souvenir of my having once simultaneously incurred compound fractures of both its bones). I took from my helmet a letter from the orthopedic surgeon who had repaired the arm; the doctor read it and seemed satisfied.
Then he stared at my lone red spot. "What's this?" I gave him the letter from the dermatologist. He read it, asked some irrelevant questions, and began to look uncertain. He read the letter again. Clearly, he did not comprehend. He frowned and read the letter a third time. Suddenly, an idea struck. He stood up decisively, clutched my clipboard to his chest, and said, "Come with me; I want a second opinion. And when we see the other doctor, DON'T TELL HIM ANYTHING."
In a minute we were outside, walking on hot pavement, passing buildings and people. I wondered if he himself had been drafted. Was he worried about later, when he might have to explain to his superiors why he had left his post and the stripe behind? It dawned on me that not one of the people we were passing was walking around in his - or her - underwear. I began to feel conspicuous.
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