DOCTOR BRINKHAUS
After lunch with the devil, Brent and I drove over to the hospital. We had no idea where to begin looking for the King, Dr. Brinkhaus.
Brad told me the story of how, when he lived in Chapel Hill, he was in dire need of clotting factor and went to the treatment center at the hospital. They said that they couldn’t treat him. He limped to the parking garage and couldn’t find his car. He cowered in a corner of the garage until he could gather strength to continue looking, eventually finding his car and driving home to treat himself.
We pulled into the side lot of the hospital and approached a man in a white lab coat. I puffed on my cigarette as we approached the man. I told Brent to stop. I got the man’s attention as I stifled a cough.
“Hey, Doc, we’re looking for the King, Dr. Brinkhaus.”
“I’m his doctor,” he said. “You can find him on the eighth floor of his building,” he said.
“Of course, thanks,” I answered.
We may not have deserved this treasure, but something had led us further along the path to hope or hell. Whether it be the devil or the deep blue sea, the work was what mattered.
Brad parked the car in the garage and pointed out the corner where he had once cringed in pain, and I didn’t feel his pain. There was no way that I could comprehend what he had gone through. I’ve had my own moments, but they were exclusive to me, as his were exclusive to him. I listened, but I didn’t fully comprehend—and maybe it didn’t really matter. Above all, I couldn’t lose my objectivity. We caught the shuttle train to the hospital main entrance and eventually found our way to the eighth floor of the Brinkhaus Building and ran into The King, Dr. Brinkhaus in the hallway. He was tall and white-haired. He wore a tie on a white shirt under his lab coat. He was The Doctor. He was The King. We spoke for fifteen minutes. I told him we were making a movie about hemophilia and asked him if he would be interested in participating. He was old. He doddled and sputtered and spoke a lot in a very enthusiastic manner. “Sure,” he said.
We passed him our card and left. To most people it wouldn’t mean anything. I wasn’t sure what it meant to me. To Brent it was meeting a legend in hemophilia research, a man whose work had helped to make his life tolerable. As we approached the elevator on the eighth floor I showed him Kay’s list and asked who was next.
“That was the King,” he said, “nobody can follow that.”
We got on the elevator and Brent’s normal sarcasm broke through as he winced with pain in his knee from the day’s strenuous activities.
“He’s a doddering old fool,” he said, smiling.
“Brent, at least wait until you leave his building.”
“I know,” he said, “we met him in his building, and he’s a doddering old fool.”
“He said he’d consider being in our film.” I said.
“He did,” Brent said, “he’s God. Where are the dogs? I wanta see the dogs.”
Brent dragged his leg out to the front of the hospital and waited for the train. I hopped across the pedestrian bridge to the parking garage, so as not to take up any unnecessary space on the crowded train, and met him at the car. We smoked cigars and drove with the top down back to Wilmington.