The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari Page A

than the big stuff,” I continue.
    “What? What is it? You’re killing me. Do you want health insurance? Is that it?”
    “Well, yes, that is it. How do you expect me to go through life knowing that if I get hit by a taxi or beaten to a pulp on the subway, I will be receiving worse medical care than the guys in Attica? Plus, I have really bad acne and need to see a dermatologist.”
    “Finally tired of looking like a thirteen-year-old boy on the verge of getting his first boner?” Janice asks with a wry smile. “I’ll help you, but if you want insurance, you’re going to have to step it up. Maybe learn to cook?”
    I nod in assent. I don’t really care what I have to do, I just need help taking the next step here, and Janice is only too glad to provide it, offering me her dermatologist’s private number within minutes of my pronouncement.
    Skin care in New York is an institution with a protocol all its own. For instance, if you want to bypass the four-week-long waiting list to see a good doctor, you need either a rapidly growing mole or a referral. Janice puts in a call to her dermatologist, a man she sees once a month, allowing me to jump the list. By the look of Janice’s skin, I suspect she paid for her pores to be sewn shut, but if I can look half as good, I’ll be ecstatic.
    Arriving at Dr. Gunda’s Upper East Side office, I am decidedly nervous. I worry he will tell me that I am beyond help. My hands sweat as he enters the sanitary office. He’s nearing sixty, with glasses and a bald spot.
    “Hello, Anna.”
    “Hi,” I offer meekly as he approaches.
    He pulls a hanging light in my direction and begins inspecting. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
    Not to be critical, but his skin isn’t that impressive. A few feet away and I see blackheads on his nose. Isn’t he supposed to be a professional?
    “Anna, how long has your skin looked this way?”
    “Um, you know, I’m not exactly sure.”
    “An estimate. Six months? A year? Two?”
    “Um, more like fifteen.”
    “Fifteen years? Have you sought help before?”
    “I bought a lot of different stuff at Rite Aid: Neutrogena, Stridex, Oxy Pads— stuff like that.”
    “Most of that dries out your skin with alcohol, and that won’t help you since you have serious cystic acne. The only viable option is Accutane. But it is an incredibly strong drug that can cause birth defects. By law, you’ve got to use two forms of birth control. Is that an issue for you?”
    Oh my God, Dr. Gunda thinks I am sexually active. No one has ever made that assumption before. God bless him.
    “No, that won’t be a problem at all, Dr. Gunda,” I say happily. “When can I start?”
    “We’ll need to check your liver before we start. I’m going to send Martin in to draw some blood.”
    Martin is a male nurse dressed head to toe in white, including weird geriatric shoes with lifts. Watching him prep the needle and tying my arm off with a plastic band leaves me feeling strangely aroused. Not by the needle, but the man holding it. While not empirically attractive, he exudes confidence and authority in his white uniform. And it turns me on. Staring at him with dreamy girl eyes, my cheeks blush. The more I try to halt the blushing, the hotter I get. Martin returns my intense gaze, inserts the needle, and winks. Am I light-headed? Did that really happen? Or did I imagine it?
    “Are you feeling okay?”
    “Yeah,” I mumble, dizzy from the wink and loss of blood.
    “You probably hear this all the time, but you’ve got gorgeous veins,” Martin says reverently.
    “Really?”
    “They’re easy to find. Nice and big, like straws.”
    “Gee, thanks,” I respond, thoroughly enjoying the compliment. My cheeks are now cherry red with excitement. After he removes the plastic band, I plunge into depression knowing Martin will soon depart. With dangerously low blood sugar, I whimper to express my gloom. And yes, I whimper out loud. It sounds similar to a dog in heat.