The Enhancer

Leo was a legend in the dermal life of the city, his skill as a plastic-surgeon, peerless. Leo's name was spoken in hallowed tones by the pole-dancers downtown as they saved their tips to run their cup-size up the alphabet under Leo's knife. The matrons who felt gravity had paid them unkindly for the years, sat in Leo's Park St. waiting room with their sisters of the dance, each eyeing the other's wardrobe choices with distaste.

I met Leo through his practice, too. Having foolishly mentioned to my dear wife of thirty years, that at fifty-six I still looked "buff" she graciously suggested that I change my point of view. A glance in the mirror sideways revealed the truth -- apparently some fat had drifted to my superstructure over the years. With a great deal of trepidation I made an appointment with Leo.

His waiting room was not as I expected. Oh, my fellows seekers of sculptured perfection were there, though I was the only one who brought a Y chromosome to the party, but the surroundings were less sterile, plastic, and expressionless than is usual for a waiting room. Instead of the predictable Monet prints in metal frames, large bold landscapes, oil-on-canvas with massive gilded frames, reminiscent of Church or Durand at their best, were spaced about the walls. Norfolk Pines were the vegetation of choice, used prolifically as screens between the groupings of comfortable waxed-leather chairs. The whole room spoke of a rich masculine comfort and I found myself slowly relaxing into it.

I did a visual tour of the other patients. As I thought, many, like me, were denying Age its due. The others, ranging in age from twenty to forty, were almost all very physically attractive. An imp of envy nibbled at my gut - my youth was past - then the very thought of my momentary envy brought out an audible chuckle. The attractive thirty-ish blond sitting across from me looked up from her magazine for a moment and caught my eye. "Your first time here?", she asked.
"Yes... you could tell?"
She smiled, "It's surgery, it should make you nervous. But, don't worry, Leo is a gem. He makes you feel... accepted."

Just then the receptionist called my name and ushered me into the doctor's office. Leo was a cherubic, balding, fifty-something with a welcoming grin that had all the potency mentioned a few moments before - I felt immediately in the home of a friend. Shaking my hand he introduced himself, motioned me to one of the matching leather club chairs and eased into its twin with a sigh. Leaning back he looked through the bottom of his bifocals at the four pages of personal information I'd laboriously provided the receptionist.
"Jim, you're fifty-six and in good physical condition."

"Yes...", uncertain where he was going.

"Your weight seems normal for your build and age and your doctor has not referred you so I assume you consider this surgery entirely cosmetic."

"Well, of course. If you are concerned about payment, I don't need to use medical insurance.."

Leo smiled, his eyes twinkling, "No, Jim, it's not money, I'm wondering about your motive. You look fine and you don't strike me as someone who is vain."

I chuckled, "I suppose I have my share of vanity. I just don't like the... well, you see, it looks like I have breasts."

"Hey, join the club, Jim, it's a basic design element of the species, not an optional extra. It says here that you are married.. how long?"

"Twenty-eight years."

"Did your wife suggest you get the surgery?"

"No."

"Then what is your motivation?"

I felt a bit irritated, primarily because I couldn't answer the question. "Does it matter why?"

"It does to me, Jim. It's not idle curiosity, if you want me to cut into you, I want you to have a good reason. Look, I'm going to ask Sarah to get us some coffee, do you want some?"

"Yeah, sure, fine."

As we sipped our coffee I re-examined my determination to have the surgery. Leo watched me quietly.

"Alright", I said, "I am just being foolish, I don't need this surgery, and I guess I don't want it."

Leo smiled, "Good for you, then my job is done. I did notice you eyeing the fly reel on the desk, do you fish?"

"Whenever I can, which is often. That is not just any reel though, that looks like an original Philbrook & Payne."

It is, I just got it at auction to use with a 7' 4wt Ed Payne..."

Within minutes Leo and I had arranged a fishing expedition to baptize the reel. From then on, for two years, it only took a phone call to get either of us to a meeting on the stream. We were both avid classic fly fishermen and knew different trout streams - a perfect combination. So, for two years we prowled the streams together...until he caught that beautiful brookie.

Leo dropped from sight the next day. His secretary couldn't provide his whereabouts and his office closed without fanfare a week later. There was still two weeks left in the trout season, so I was worried when I couldn't locate him. Leo wasn't married, three times apparently is not always the cure, but he had fixed habits and habitations, like any other city boy in his lethargic fifties. Yet, none of his usual haunts revealed his spirit. Finally, as a new trout season was rolling around I got a call from him.

Leo had purchased a building in the South part of town, almost in the seediest industrial area, its decay only relieved by some late 1960's urban renewal which demolished most of his block and left it vacant. His voice over the phone was gleeful, youthful, as he invited me to visit him.

The sign over the plate-glass window read "Leo's Taxidermy". A cow-bell jangled as I pushed open the door and stepped into the well-lit and delightfully stuffy interior, a mix of scents with fur and feathers predominating. Boone and Crockett records peered down at me from the walls. I had never seen such a collection of phenomenal mounts. It seemed improbable, nay, impossible, that such beasts could have been recently bagged without the front pages of every sporting journal blaring the news. A rampant grizzly towered above me, its skull wide and fine; a brown trout on the facing wall must have pulled the scales to twenty-five pounds in life; and then, behind the counter, above Leo's balding head as he spoke earnestly to a customer, was the brookie. I knew it was the same fish... but yet not the same. I'm pretty good at estimating the size of fish other people catch - a necessary caveat - and this fish was no longer seventeen inches, but at least twenty-three.

(to be continued)