Lucky Man Read Online Free Page B

seconds after I let up, away it would go again. Frustrated to the point of wanting to amputate, I was convinced that would only mean having to watch the little bugger skitter across the carpet like an extra from a Roger Corman movie.
    â€œFor Christ's sake, Mike,” I tried to tell myself. “It's just your freaking finger.” But that was just the point: it wasn't mine , it was somebody else's. My pinkie was possessed.
    Perspective was key, though, and since I'd clearly lost mine, it was time to avail myself of someone else's. I called Brigette, my assistant. Brig did a fantastic job running my office, but out on location, on nonindustry soil, she was a godsend. Her job, as she saw it, was to make my job as easy as possible. To that end, she'd keep track of my schedule, anticipate my needs and concerns, act as point person with the production company, and generally run interference with the whole outside world. In short, her mission was to protect and polish the bubble.
    Trying my best not to sound panicky, I casually mentioned that I might be having a minor physiological reaction to something. I described what was happening to my finger. She scared the hell out of me by suggesting that it sounded to her like a neurological problem, and did I want to speak to her brother, who happened to be a brain surgeon up in Boston? “No, that's okay. I really don't think it's that big a deal,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as her. “I'll just give Tracy a call.”
    Before hanging up, Brig reminded me I was on a “will notify,” which meant my call time had yet to be determined—I'd probably be needed on set later in the afternoon.
    Brigette may have had a doctor in the family but, in Tracy, I had the next best thing: a hypochondriac. By that I don't mean she's an obsessive-compulsive, doom-and-gloom, stay-in-bed-with-the-covers-pulled-over-her-head neurotic who spends her spare time taking her own blood pressure. She's not crazy, just a little sensitive to the subtlest fluctuation in her health, not to mention the health of all those around her. As long as I've known her, she's owned the latest edition of the Columbia School of Medicine Encyclopedia of Health , and has an uncanny knack for matching symptoms with life-threatening diseases. While I was in Florida, Tracy had remained in Manhattan with Sam. I reached her by telephone that morning at the gym. Tracy was just about to start her workout, but she encouraged me to take my time and explain in complete detail exactly what I was experiencing. Without sounding at all patronizing, she promised me that what I was describing didn't fit the profile of any disease, affliction, or injury that she was familiar with. I was relieved to hear this, and clung to her assurance that the episode would almost certainly pass and be forgotten by the end of the day. Had I ever been this patient and empathetic with her? So many times I'd dismissed her fears: “That's a freckle, Tracy, not a malignant melanoma.” “No, you're not going deaf, it's called swimmer's ear.” I felt guilty, but I felt better. She was right. This was nothing. It would blow over. I was fine. We traded “I love you and miss you's,” but just as I was about to hang up, as an afterthought she quickly added, “You know, Brigette's brother is a brain surgeon. Why don't you give him a call just for the hell of it?”
    Shit.
    Ten minutes after I'd spoken to Tracy, Brigette was in my room with her brother on the line. “Just a second, Phillip, here he is.” Brigette handed me the phone. And so I went through the whole pinkie deal one more time. Brigette's brother, Dr. Phillip Roux-Lough, very serious, very professional, came up with a host of possible explanations, each one more horrific than the last. I was amazed to learn that people my age actually had strokes and aneurysms—good God. The words brain tumor also surfaced, but this was not an