How’s Wendy Williams doin’? She says she’s booked, busy and a soon-to-be doctor of naturopathy.”
“I didn’t tell her I’m a lawyer,” I said.
“You said you’re a doctor, I’d be surprised in that case,” he said.
“You’re a doctor too, aren’t you? The one with the license?” I said, referring to my medical school diploma.
“I’m not a doctor,” he said.
He’s not an employee of anyone, I thought, but then, how would I contact him? I wondered. I asked him to tell me his phone number, and then I wrote down “Dr. Robert Zwicker.”
“My brother,” he said, “is a lawyer.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “What happened to your brother?”
“He’s a doctor,” he said. “He’s a doctor of law. I mean not a doctor of naturopathy. But a lawyer.”
“I don’t think I know him,” I said.
He’s not a physician,” he said. “So, you don’t know him? He’s a lawyer?”
“I don’t know him,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, “you’re a doctor of law and you don’t know him, so I guess I’m really not your friend. But what difference that makes, anyway? I’m not your friend.”
I wondered if he was really a lawyer or if he was just trying to make me feel better. I wondered who was my friend.
“So, if I was a doctor, I’d have a sense of what to do,” he said.
“I don’t think so.”
“No, me either,” he said. “And a lawyer can’t tell me what to do. He’s just a guy who