Heir Apparent

Alphabet City Blues

There was a time not very long ago when Ander Bennet's Tuesdays began at six o'clock in the morning, where after picking up a coffee and bagel from the shop down the street, he'd catch the orange line up into the Upper West Side for eight to ten hours of grueling rehearsal – or, depending on the season, performing. It was an exhausting schedule, but gratifying, if only because he was doing what he loved with some of the most talented people in the world.

On this particular Tuesday, however, he was not doing any of that. This Tuesday, he was staring at a dappled ceiling while a stranger had two fingers up his ass.

"The vaginal aperture seems fine. When was your last heat?"

"Twelve years ago."

The fingers were extricated a moment later, which was a marginal improvement. Ander could hear the doctor's footsteps as he crossed the room, and the sound of nitrile gloves peeling off skin. "Suppressants?"

Obviously, Ander didn't say.

"Yeah."

The doctor was scribbling something. Ander lifted his head to watch. The exam room was about as welcoming as any other OB/GYN – formica cabinets, cinder block walls, fluorescent lighting, pamphlets about gonorrhea with distressed-looking white people on the front – and the doctor looked like any other gynecologist. Ander considered for a moment asking if it was all right to take his feet out of the stirrups, then figured it was probably fine now, if the gloves were gone. He pulled his legs together and sat up, paper gown crinkling.

"Any family history of ovarian cancer?"

"Not to my knowledge."

The doctor – he'd introduced himself when he first walked in, but damned if Ander could remember it now – turned around, flipping through the contents of his clipboard. "It says here your parents are dead."

"Car accident," Ander said. "Not a genetic disease or whatever."

"Oh," the doctor returned, looking contrite. "I'm sorry, I—"

"It was ages ago," Ander assured him, "it's fine."

But Ander knew from experience that bringing up tragic parental deaths had a way of sucking the joy out of the room, no matter how many times Ander assured those around him that it was fine, really, it was almost a decade ago, please cool it with the sad eyes.

The doctor cleared his throat and returned his attention to the paperwork.

"Oh!" he said. "You're a violinist!"

It had struck him as weird for a medical form to ask if he had any artistic talent, but at least he didn't have to leave it embarrassingly blank.

"I played with the New York Philharmonic," Ander said, hopefully without the bitterness he felt rising in the back of his throat like bile. He played for the New York Philharmonic, and now he was here, trying to sell his eggs to make next month's rent. Fuck his luck.

If the gynecologist noticed his use of past tense, he graciously didn't mention it. "That's good," he said. "People are more likely to want your eggs if you're academically or artistically accomplished."

Ander wasn't really sure if violin skills were hereditary, but it seemed best not to question it, if it made his odds of getting that advertised $5000 better.

A moment later, Ander realized that the doctor was staring at him.

It wasn't really a lewd or lascivious stare, which he was more than used to on the subway or on the street. It was more owlish, as though something was occurring to him for the first time.