Full Body Chills - The Urology King Of Brighton Beach

Episode Date: October 1, 2021

A story about a doctor. A doctor who realized how much power he really has over his patientsThe Urology King Of Brighton BeachWritten by David McElweeYou can read the original story at http://fullbodychillspodcast.com/ Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck

Hi listeners, I'm Jake Weber, and today I want to tell you a story about a doctor. A doctor who realized how much power he really has over his patients. So gather round, and listen close. Most people don't realize how much power a doctor really has. You show up at our office, fill out forms with your most personal information, your address, your social security number, sexual history, you even trust us with your blood. And yet, throughout my career, I've always felt powerless. I had lived in Ukraine for most of my life, studying to be a doctor. I came to New York City in the summer of 2001 after finishing med school in my home country and receiving a job

at my uncle's urology practice in Brighton Beach. I had been told he was the king of Brighton Beach urology, and that sounded very impressive. But when I arrived at Brighton Beach, I thought, no, this cannot be America. This place is more backward than Moscow, and at least 30 years behind Odessa. My uncle's office served a community best described as angry babushka ladies and geriatric mobster men. The staff even worse. I was afraid of all of them. I thought, I'll only help him for a short time

and then start a practice of my own someplace nice. Someplace young people hang out someplace like Carroll Gardens on rare days off I take the train 15 stops to Carroll Gardens and watch the young carefree families stroll the three-lined streets. And back at the office, while patients yelled at me in Russian, I wouldn't mind. I'd go straight on telling them to take their pants down and cough, because my mind was fifteen subway stops away. Then less than a year after I arrived, my uncle was sued for a botched operation. He could no longer practice medicine, so he left his office to me.

I had just proposed to a fresh off the boat Russian hairdresser, the niece of a patient, and she was beautiful, but she had absurdly expensive tastes. I knew the only way to keep up with her was to put off my dream and stay in Brighton Beach a few more years. I even tricked myself. Now, now, now that I'm a head doctor, I thought it'll be worth it. Seventeen years later, and now I'm the urology king of Brighton Beach. And though the crumbly office and miserable clients never changed, I no longer dreamed of my clean, modern office in Carroll Gardens. Instead, I'd let the already rotting decor crumble and flake off

like the dead skin of a genital psoriasis patient. In the waiting room, all my magazines were over ten years old and the only VCR was jammed with a tape of My Girl. I knew better than anyone how much it stunk. But where was the money for the improvements? The little profit I made on Medicare patients went right to my succubus ex-wife. Year after year, I'd sit in my office

and hear my patients yelling at my receptionist. I'd hear my receptionist yelling back. I grew to hate them all. These people needed me more than I needed them. I'd like to hear them try to explain in Russian the burning sensation to some yuppie Manhattan TikTok. No chance. So they kept coming and I kept coming. Until one day, as I was explaining to a screaming 87-year-old lady in threadbare, juicy couture that she's going to die of bladder cancer in the next few weeks, I suddenly noticed that the chaotic waiting room had gone quiet. Then I heard the voice of an angel.

Is this Brighton Beach Urology? Spoken in a perfect American English. I peeked through the crack of my office door and saw a young man dressed casually. A hoodie that looked new and clean, like from a real store like Banana Republic or J.Crew. He was fit, not handsome, but not deformed. I watched him sit and fill out his patient forms. Everyone in the waiting room stared until the screaming began anew. But I couldn't stop thinking about him. I made my receptionist funnel all the other patients to my subordinates

as I sat in my office refuge, dreaming. My office was the one place I could hide, the one place that truly felt like it was mine. I decorated it with my favorite trinkets, lion statues for status and strength, Russian nesting dolls painted to look like my favorite American presidents to remind me of my sense of duty. And best of all, the delicate figurine of a sad clown. This piece sat on my desk and spoke to my very soul. I named him Dr. Weepy. And in my safe office I sat thinking what, what could possibly have brought this young man here.

When his prelim exams were complete, a nurse brought me his file. Kidney stones. Figures. According to his sonograms it was nothing alarming, but they were going to have to be taken out. I had to be the one to do it. How nice it would be to speak English with a patient and operate on a taut, firm body that wouldn't disintegrate in my touch. I'd give him all the bells and whistles.

Surely his insurance could handle it. Yes, I dreamt of a big payday. Sue me. More importantly, I once again dreamt of Carol Gardens. I dreamt he'd recommend all his hipster friends and I would be saved. I needed a cigarette to calm myself before we met, so I told the nurse to have him wait in my office. Outside, I reminded myself, I am the urology king of Brighton Beach.

I could be the urology king of Carroll Gardens. When finally I introduced myself, I felt 18 years younger. Like when I had just arrived from med school. I was charming and sharp as a tack. I made many jokes at the expense of my staff and patients to make it clear I was not like them. Oh, and get this, he's an actor, well, a bartender, but he's been on law and order. He gave me his business card and invited me for a drink at his bar. I gave him my coveted personal pageant number. He said he was engaged, so I gave him my coveted personal pageant number. He said he was engaged. So I gave him great advice.

I told him in my most serious doctor voice, do you know the worst food you can eat for your sex life? He seemed interested. I said, wedding cake. It's a wedding cake. He likes that, he liked it. But no, but I assured him that this is true and begged him to reconsider the wedding. Then I took a good long time examining him myself before telling him how serious his condition was.

I told him I'd need to get him on my chopping block ASAP. I said I'd bump the other patients to squeeze him in, but in the meantime he must drink more water. He thanked me and shook my hand. Something clicked in our eyes. I don't know exactly what, but I felt I could trust him. That's when I opened up about my dream.

I described to him a modern little office in Carroll Gardens, away from this place, and he supported me, said it was a great idea. We had a real connection. I sent him off so the nurse could draw blood and schedule his operation. That night I sketched designs for my new office, for my new logo. I looked online at real estate in Carroll Gardens. My ex-wife called demanding money and I told her to go fuck herself.

For the first time in my career, I felt powerful. In the morning, I come into work and asked my assistant when the young men's operation was scheduled for. The American boy, he cancelled. No, no, no, no, no. He left a message and asked us to send his test results to a Dr. Yank in Carroll Gardens.

So I called him. Who is this? he asked. When I told him, he hung up. I tried back several times, but no luck. When the receptionist from Dr. Yank's office in Carroll Gardens called for his test results, something snapped in me. I told her that if she stole my client, I would find Dr. Yang and make sure he never urinated through a urethra again. Then I put the young man's address in my GPS and left. His building was just like I expected on a beautiful three-lined street. I waited

and waited. When he finally left his apartment at 2.30 p.m., I called his phone again and watched him ignore my call. I nearly confronted him, but stopped myself. Back at the office, I heard emails waiting. New reviews on my Yelp page and ZocDoc in Google reviews. They read, Do not go to this doctor. He is a chauvinist pig who still uses a pager and won't let you have your test results,

which, if why I is totally illegal. Also, the office is disgusting. See pictures below. He posted cell phone pictures of peeling paint and the broken TV VCR, even a picture of Dr. Weepy looking sadder than ever. He went on, this quack is delusional and dreams in Carroll Gardens. L.O.L. That will never happen. I felt alone. Helpless.

Betrayed. But I reminded myself I am the motherfucking urology king of Brighton Beach. And he is just some third-rate actor-bot and who can't be bothered to drink enough water.

So I locked myself in the office with his file and proceeded to post his social security and home address to every nefarious message board I could find. That made me feel powerful again. But that wasn't enough. So next, I sent his sexual history and the dates of all his STDs to his emergency contact. My feeling of invincibility was growing, but I needed to do more. So I did. The next morning, I watched as the police dragged him from his apartment. I clipped every news article about the 87-year-old woman murdered by an aspiring actor who had recently been featured on Law & Order.

It was tabloid gold. The evidence against him was overwhelming. They found his business card and 2.5 milliliters of his blood at the crime scene. Still, he insisted he'd been framed. What a creep he was. All the articles said so. According to the autopsy, the Russian woman that dumb actor killed would have died soon anyway.

Bladder cancer. To be continued... This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. Full Body Chills is an Audiochuck production. So what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?