I sat in my office, looking out the window at the cloudy Seattle sky. I tried to get comfortable, kicking up my legs, to scratch my balls before my next patient. The shitty Northwestern day was cold enough to warrant a jacket over my usual uniform of a white t-shirt and navy blue slacks. "Uniform," I muttered. The word made me chuckle. I would have been happier leaving med school to work at McDonald's. At least I might still be in Florida, smoking crack and boarding down the avenues.

Instead, I was working for a friend of my father. Now, don't get me wrong, Dr. Cho is not a bad guy. He's just a patronizing shit head who calls me 'son.' I ain't your son. Because his son is a world-renowned heart surgeon who never disappointed his family.

Me, I'm just some ghetto white boy from Tampa who managed to survive college and medical school, only to get absolutely no residency offers. I had to cut off my white-boy blonde dreads in order to graduate, but that did little to help my 'lack of professionalism.' Hence why I was stuck in rainy, tired, boring, Seattle.

"Hi, Jack," said Lucy, the office receptionist. She was an elderly woman who spent the majority of her day on the internet reading corny jokes like, 'What greeting can you never say on an airplane?'

It wasn't funny the first time of the hundredth, but apparently Hi-Jack is my name now. "I told you, I'm not answering to that name."