DOC
Uncle Jack, a legend in his time, maybe a wannabe doctor
who held the staff of Aesculapius high in a cramped little
store in the wind-swept no-mans-land of South Ozone,
Queens, between the Rockaways and Jamaica Bay before
it became Idlewild and J.F.K.
His store was like a battalion aid station between the Siegfried
and Maginot lines where he treated the walking wounded of the
dirty thirties. Called “Doc” by a cavalcade of casualties, he
staunched the flow of gushing blood, splinted broken bones,
snapped back dislocated shoulders and removed thingamabobs
from the eyes. He used antediluvian anodynes, palliatives for the
egregious misery of ingrown toenails, toothaches, earaches, migraines,
scabies, syphilis and gonorrhea. He dispensed belladonna, camphor and
wintergreen liniments for muscle spasms and aching backs, calamine
and iodine for itchy rashes and infections, Carter’s Little Liver Pills
for jaundiced yellow eyes and Lydia Pinkham’s pink pills for whatever
ailed the ladies. For bronchial congestion Druidic nostrums like
horehound extract, mustard plaster and a guggle-muggle, sure to let
one breathe again. He mixed a mash of pitch black tar to subdue the
festering carbuncular and faruncular, counseled the constipated with
Ex-lax and Feenamint, paregoric for diarrhea, purple Gentian Violet
to cure everything from canker sores to fungal toes, advised one how
to tie off dangling hemorrhoids with rubber bands and avoid surgery
with a truss to hold a hernia in place.
Uncle Jack had “a friend of mine” for any problem you might have
and could always refer one to the best doctor, dentist, lawyer, even
had a “friend” in Pennsylvania for conceptions unexpected.
Sequestered in a dank cavernous back room he stirred colloidal
concoctions, healing potions, elixirs and emollients caring for
customers while chomping on a stogy, inhaling noxious fumes
till he succumbed to bladder cancer unable to find the best right
“friend” in time to save himself.
Milton P. Ehrlich 199 Christie St. Leonia, N.J. 07605