Michael Crichton - A Case of Need

MONDAY OCTOBER 10     ONE ALL HEART SURGEONS ARE BASTARDS, and Conway is no exception. He came storming into the path lab at 8:30 in the morning, still wearing his green surgical gown and cap, and he was furious. When Conway is mad he clenches his teeth and speaks through them in a flat monotone. His face turns red, with purple blotches at the temples. "Morons," Conway hissed, "goddamned morons." He pounded the wall with his fist; bottles in the cabinets rattled. We all knew what was happening. Conway does two open-heart procedures a day, beginning the first at 6:30. When he shows up in the path lab two hours later, there's only one reason. "Stupid clumsy bastard," Conway said. He kicked over a wastebasket. It rolled noisily across the floor. "Beat his brains in, his goddamned brains," Conway said, grimacing and staring up at the ceil ing as if addressing God. God, like the rest of us, had heard it before. The same anger, the same clenched teeth and pounding and profanity. Conway always ran true to form, like the rerun of a movie. Sometimes his anger was directed against the thoracic man, sometimes against the nurses, sometimes against