Pollock No. 5 Read online

  “Alex, I don’t know how you do it, but you put Starbucks to shame,” I applauded.

  “Old family secret,” Alex replied. “Oh, by the way, Bill Lippert called me and filled me in on his meeting with Sid Fox. The meeting went well. By the time it was over, Fox conceded that our patent claims are solid, and he was going to convey that information to Mr. Morgan.

  “I knew it,” I exclaimed. “Lippert’s a great patent attorney. A real gem! How long before we hear back from Morgan Capital?”

  “Be patient. It should take them some time to confirm our business plan and come up with a decent term sheet. MATAL will be a reality, especially if we play our cards right.” Alex was very confident. At least he made me feel more at ease and less antsy.

  “Patients is my best virtue. Bad English included. Perhaps that’s why I am a DOCTOR!” I joked. I may be good as an inventor, but I was bad with the puns.

  After thoroughly enjoying the cappuccino, I bid farewell the best way I knew how.

  “Au revoir, Alexiev. À tout à l’heure. Un autre jour. Oh, and I’m ‘Shaw’ going to miss you! And give a big goodbye to Steven Seagal, will you please?” I joked.

  So, I began to drive from Alex’s place out to our vacation home in Westhampton Beach to meet my family. For me the drive has always been short and sweet, only a little more than an hour, and seldom any traffic. No traffic out in the Hamptons, you wonder? Perhaps you are thinking of East Hampton, Amagansett, or Montauk. Those places are further out than Westhampton Beach, and after you hit Southampton there is only a single lane road that leads to those destinations. Traffic after Southampton typically moves at a snail’s pace.

  But Westhampton has multiple highways to get you there. The highways themselves are nothing special. They all look the same. There is the LIE, also called the Long Island Expressway (or Distressway to some), the Northern State Parkway (this doesn’t fully get you there but is a big help), the Southern State Parkway, and even the Sunrise Highway. As John said to Mary, “All roads lead to Rome,” or should I say, Westhampton Beach.

  Chapter 9

  I set my BMW 650i convertible on cruise control and turned on one of my favorite SiriusXM stations, 067, and listened to “Real Jazz” all the way to exit 63 on the Sunrise Highway. The first song was Alex Bugnon’s “107 in the Shade.” What irony, after just having left Alex’s place. “Just don’t call him Al,” I thought. The piece was syncopated Bugnon piano jazz with a soothing occasional background vocal. A cacophony of bounce and beat. “What an upbeat way to start my vacation,” I said to myself. This car and its music were one of my last pleasures, of the good life, from a successful medical practice and an invention gig. Unfortunately, I was at the tail end of an expensive car lease. A lease I was not going to be able to renew, and I was not going to be able to buy the car off lease. I had bigger fish to fry, with one kid in college and the other about to go.

  As I passed exit 44 of the Southern State, I veered onto the Sunrise Highway. I was bopping and bouncing to the New York Trio’s “Cheek to Cheek.” My heart beat so that I could hardly speak. That jazzed-up mix of piano and drums was like a second shot of Alex’s espresso.

  I traveled down past Gabreski Airport and crossed over the railroad tracks, and around the circle past the movie theater on my left, Hamptons Coffee on my right, and then passed the stately brick façade known as the Westhampton Police Station. Then I made a left on Main Street and crossed Turkey Bridge into the little Hamlet of Quiogue (or little Quogue). I tell everybody I’m going to Westhampton Beach because most people don’t know of Quiogue. But in reality, I’m just over the border in this little nest egg of a place. Wedged between Westhampton Beach and Quogue. The latter is where Michael J. Fox vacations. My place is just over Turkey Bridge on the right on a beautiful hedged street called Homans Avenue. Or, as my son refers to it, “No Man’s Avenue.” As he would say, “No Man’s, because no man’s ever been there.”

  I have no idea why they even call it an avenue. If anything, the street is narrow and only one car can pass at a time. Tall privet hedges flank most of the road that is, of course, unless you arrive at my place, which is flanked by a small split-rail fence on one side and a stock wood fence across the street.

  Our neighborhood, with tall hedges surrounding large, private estates facing the water, is the closest Hampton to NYC, with all the grandeur of Southampton and East Hampton. My place is not like the others. When I first bought it, I called our local plumber, Hal Stanton, and told him the address, and he replied with his craggy voice, “So you bought the shed on the block.”

  Shed to him, perhaps compared to the ten thousand-plus square-foot mansions. But my three thousand square foot house still stood on luscious wetlands, smack between two mansions, and facing directly out onto Quantuck Bay. And the three thousand square feet were still plenty big for me—four bedrooms, four baths. Who needed all that space anyway? Billy Joel? Jerry Seinfeld? Charley Weisberg? Not MD.

  Chapter 10

  MD? Was it a curse? My fucking initials. My name. My full name is Matthew Dawson. No middle initials. Hey, I guess I could have been like Cher or Madonna and had only one name—Dawson, perhaps. Or maybe just plain MD. Most people called me one or the other. “Hey, Dawson,” “Yo, MD!” One or the other. But others played with the name as if it were a double entendre—“Hey, CLG”—even called me M-2-da-D. The name, or should I say the initials, were both a blessing and a curse.

  But not now. Out here I was somewhere else. Reborn if you wish. I remember the first time I set eyes on our place. Like usual:

  I was biking through the different neighborhoods in Westhampton beach and stopped for coffee at the Beach Bakery. I wandered back up Main Street to the Prudential office and started looking at the real estate photos of the local spots for sale.

  “Can I help you with something?” said the burly dark-haired man sitting on the step with his golden retriever.

  “Not really,” I replied. I was never serious, but in many respects always serious. “Hey, what the heck. Have anything interesting in the area? Maybe off the beaten path but near the water and near town, but definitely south of the highway?”

  By that, everybody knew that anything of value was south of the highway, Old Montauk Highway, that is.

  “Got a few minutes?” he responded.

  “Shaw thing,” I said, and I must have had Alexiev on the brain.

  He went inside, grabbed some keys, and hopped in his black Land Rover. “Goldie,” as his dog was called, jumped in the back.

  “Hop in. Name’s Hadley. Hadley Ferguson.”

  “Mine’s Dawson, Matt Dawson.”

  Ferguson proceeded down Main Street and over a little bridge, what he called Turkey Bridge. I had thought I had been all around Westhampton but hadn’t been here. Very private, hedged, small roads, and some of them were right there on the bay, Quantuck Bay. He pulled down Homans, made a left on Shepard Street.

  “Here you have it. This place has six bedrooms, five and a half baths, a pool, and a tennis court, is a brand-spanking new Shinnecock estate, and the owner is eager to sell.”

  As I looked it over, I knew it would not motivate Shari to move from our little bungalow in the village. Our present vacation spot was perfect in location, but north of the “highway.”

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t you even want to go in?”

  “No.” As he pulled away, he circled the small peninsula. As we went around the small loop, I saw a for sale sign on a cedar-shingled older home that looked beaten up and worn by its age and the weathered cedar shakes. But the view was to die for!

  “Now, this is something that would get Shari’s heart pumping,” I said. “When can we see it?”

  “I’ll call and make an appointment,” said the realtor.

  The next day we both went and saw the weathered place. Water-stained hardwoods, ’70s wallpaper and curtains. “Vintage” was not the word: “dated” was the word. But Shari and I could see right p
ast that.

  “Place has been on the market nearly three years,” said Ferguson. Only this past spring did they get a catwalk installed to give them access to the bay.”

  “Are the terms negotiable?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t hurt to try,” he said. “Market’s been dead as a doornail.”

  I looked at Shari and she looked at me. We both smiled.

  We went for breakfast at Bun and Burger. Shari ordered the flapjacks, and I ordered the oatmeal with banana, with two coffees. “Nothing special,” I thought. “But all under twenty bucks including tip, and in the Hamptons no less.”

  “That place is a real gem,” said Shari.

  “The view is priceless,” I said.

  “We can have so much fun out on the back deck,” she said. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  “We have to put a dock on the water—that’s where we’ll hang out!” I warmed up to the idea. “Imagine twilight dinner out on a dock on Quantuck, looking at the Seafield Estate. I can picture the sun setting right now!”

  We looked at each other and I got partially up across the bench and bent over across the table, almost knocking over her glass of water. And I kissed her.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you too,” Shari said.

  Those were the days. Not just buying the house but doing things together with Shari. We met in my residency! Love at first sight. Shari was a nurse in the coronary care unit, and I was a resident, drawing cardiac enzymes every six hours, titrating pressors, floating swans. Her warmth and companionship helped me survive being on call every other night. And then when I went to the West Coast to specialize in cardiology, it was too painful. We had to get married and seal our bond.

  Oh, yes, the letter. Our special moment! Would it be signed, and sealed, and delivered? Well, it was. Our love grew, and so did our family. First came Jason, then Bridgette, and finally we relocated to New York. All for the opportunity at the Mount! We were like-minded for many years and shared the same interests: art, the outdoors, biking, our kids, Thursday nights out in “the City” and even sex!

  Then the drinking started. I went with her to AA, and I thought it was working, but then a relapse, and then another, and then another. You don’t know what pain is until you experience this firsthand. But now, she seemed to be on the mend. Sober again. That was until the night of my NYC meeting. I started thinking of that Streisand song, “Maybe This Time.” But I remembered that it was first a Liza Minnelli song from the musical Cabaret, written by Ebb and Kander. My mom used to croon this one, never directing it to any of my relationships. I started to reflect to my mom’s crooning…

  Maybe this time, I'll be lucky

  Wishful thinking, I thought to myself. I could hear my mom finishing the number.

  It's got to happen, happen sometime

  Maybe this time, maybe this time, I'll win

  Chapter 11

  Ah, yes, “this time!” Back to vacation! Our Hamptons place is an aging cedar-shingled Cape Cod facing directly onto Quantuck Bay and looking innocently out towards the Seafield Estate. This vacation, Shari had invited her sister, Jackie, and Jackie’s two kids, David and Frank. Both kids got along great with Jason and Bridgette. Jason was in his second year at Pace University in the city, and Bridgette was in the midst of applying to colleges. As I said earlier, I don’t see either of my kids very much anymore. Maybe it’s their friends, their interests—or whatever it is, they no longer want to hang with their dad. Perhaps this could change with this vacation?

  After a big family meal, I went to our family room and fell asleep on the couch.

  “Uncle Matthew, I need help!” called David.

  I ran over to Dave, he was in the first-floor bathroom.

  “Toilet’s overflowing,” he said.

  “I can see that,” I calmly responded.

  I am an expert at unclogging the arteries of people but not toilets. I went on the web and searched for home remedies. I did have a plunger, but it failed to do the job. Water started pouring onto the floor, eventually flooding the bathroom. On the floor below, water seeping in between the tile and the molding hit the circuit breaker. Then the power went out.

  Shari went to grab for some flashlights. I still had my computer but lost the web service. Luckily, I found a few home remedies for unclogging the bowl that remained on the computer screen even without Internet service. It advised using liquid soap and hot water. The combination thereof led to a bubbling concoction, but no relief for the nonfunctional toilet.

  I ran down to the basement and looked at the circuit breaker with my flashlight. One circuit was shut off and when switched on nothing happened.

  “No power,” shouted Shari.

  I tried it again, to no avail. The switch appeared to be a 60-amp circuit breaker. Square D was the manufacturer, to be precise. The whole side of the house had no electricity. No electricity, no TV, no Internet. Only the kitchen on the other side had power. Just when I thought I was going to relax.

  Rather than call a plumber and an electrician, like I would have in my earlier years, I ran out to the local Westhampton Beach True Value hardware store. Why should the store be open at ten p.m.? Of course, it wasn’t, but I had met the proprietor a year ago and knew he lived upstairs. Fred Levy made a reputation by being inviting, and hopefully now he would live up to his promise. Last time I saw him, he told me his wife was deceased and he lived above the store all alone. He specifically said, “Dr. Dawson, if you ever need anything from me or my store and the store is closed, just ring the doorbell and I’ll come down and give you a hand.” I thought this very generous, and I also was sure I would never do it. I saw a dim light upstairs and hit the doorbell.

  Ring, ring!

  No answer.

  Chapter 12

  After a minute, I saw a slender, elderly grey-haired man in a white tank-top shirt and blue and white boxers. It was Mr. Levy. He opened the screen door and said, “What’s all the racket?”

  “It’s me, Fred, Dr. Matt Dawson. I need some help.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “A shorted-out circuit breaker, and a toilet clog that you wouldn’t believe!” I replied as I passed him the dead breaker.

  “Ah, a Square D. You’ll need a 60-amp breaker. Come with me.” He exited through the side door that led to his upstairs home, and then he went with me, briefs and all, to the front of his store. He put on his reading glasses and fished through his ring of keys until he found the one labeled store. Inserting the key into the slot, he opened up the dark store and flipped on the lights.

  “We’re in business,” he said.

  “Also need to unclog my toilet. What do you recommend?” I asked.

  “Good old reliable Mr. Cobra.” he said.

  “Cobra?” I questioned.

  “Cobra, it’s my way of saying ‘snake’ to you, you New Yorkers,” he joked. He pulled out a six-foot-long screwing device and then explained, “This spring-like metal hose needs to be inserted into the toilet bowl and shoved down its drain. Once it’s inserted, you rotate the red handle around and around and drive the metal snake, or shall I say cobra, further down the drain. You continue this motion until the cobra is down as far as it can go, and then you will have successfully unclogged your toilet.” Or, as we say in the heart biz, removed “the occlusion.” He also gave me instructions on how to safely handle the circuit breaker. “What a lifesaver,” I said to myself. “No wonder everybody, and I mean everybody, goes to Westhampton Hardware rather than travel to Home Depot in Riverhead.”

  When I got back, I went again down to the basement with my flashlight and did exactly what Fred had told me. I shut off the main and then attached the new breaker and snapped it into the box. I then switched back on the main, and switched the breaker back on and then the lights, and as Alex would say, “Voilà.”

  Electricity! Electricity had returned to the first floor. Within three minutes I heard my son shout from upstairs.

&n
bsp; “I got Internet service,” Jason yelled.

  “TV’s back on,” shouted back Bridgette.

  “We’re back in business,” I loudly announced.

  Back upstairs, I took the long, snaking device and proceeded to work my upper body around a large rotating handle in a circular motion in order to snake the “cobra” device through the clogged toilet. After a few twists and turns, it easily bypassed the occlusion and freed up the blockage. No stent needed! “Cobra,” I thought, “good name for a device that could unclog the coronaries.” Maybe I could use this in some way to break up or “Roto-Rooter” heart occlusions? I pondered to myself.

  I thought about Andreas Gruentzig, the originator of the angioplasty procedure developed in the late 1970s. Dr. Gruentzig was a German cardiologist, who in 1977 was the first to pass a balloon catheter, or thin flexible medical device with an inflatable balloon at its end, to a blockage within someone’s coronary artery. Once the device “crossed” the blockage, he would blow up a balloon and compress the blockage flat against the wall of the artery, to “unclog” the blood vessel. Dr. Gruentzig’s crude device was improved by Stanford’s own Dr. John Simpson, who developed the “over-the-wire technique,” in which a thin wire, a guide wire, was essentially snaked or “cobra-ed” across the blockage and a balloon catheter or device slid “over the wire” through the blockage. The balloon was then inflated for thirty seconds by a pump until the blockage remained completely open. The Simpson device made the “angioplasty” procedure much easier and more effective. The procedure became widely accepted and used in every cath lab across the country, and the world for that matter. Simpson’s invention while at Stanford was legendary and gave me a huge inspiration. His company, Advanced Cardiovascular Systems, Inc., was acquired by Guidant Corporation.