Stanley Elkin - Boswell

I made her go to a gynecologist. She had all the tests. Her womb was not tipped, her tubes not stopped. She produced eggs like a million hens. “Then why aren’t you pregnant?” I demanded.

She shrugged. “The doctor says I can have children,” she said. “He thinks you ought to be examined.”

“Did you explain that I have already proved myself?”

But of course I went. I made an appointment with a Dr. Green, whom the Doctor’s Exchange listed as a specialist in these things.

“Your wife has been examined, I assume,” the doctor said.

“Yes. She’s all right.” I was looking at the certificate on the wall, from a medical school I had never heard of. Why did it have to be a school I never heard of?

“Yes, the husband’s always the last partner to be examined. That’s masculine vanity for you, isn’t it? And I suppose you thought it out of the question that a strapping fellow like yourself could be the sterile one.”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“Well, let’s go down to it then, shall we? We’re not here for recriminations or to fix blame, but out of scientific interest, am I right? Now I don’t know what I’m going to find in your case, but I don’t want you to worry. If we should discover that you’re infertile there may be some things we can do to build you up. If that fails there’s the possibility of adoption, isn’t there? So don’t look so nervous. As it happens, I handle a lot of adoptions and you don’t even have to wait as you would if you worked through an agency. It’s all legal, brother. I don’t want to hear any uninformed talk about a black market. It’s expensive, I won’t crap you, but how are you going to fix a price on human life, do you see? I mean it ought to be expensive.”

“I’m not interested in adopting children.”

“Now look here, son, I can see what you’re thinking. I’m way ahead of you in that respect. You’re thinking, ‘Why, he’s a quack.’”

“Something like that.”

“Sure you are. Well, it’s not true. I’ll tell you the truth — there’s a lot of prejudice in this business. Very few men are as honest as you evidently are and will even come in for an examination like this. The adoptions? That’s something I do just to keep my experimental work going. Because you see I haven’t put all my cards on the table for you. How’d you get my name?”

“Through the Doctor’s Exchange.”

“That’s what I thought. That’s just what I thought. Well, I’ll take care of you. Nobody could do it better. But do you know what we do here? It’s a fertility clinic. This is a donor station. I’m talking about artificial insemination. I only accept the very highest type of donor: intellectual, slightly left-wing Jewish medical students. How’d you like a son by one of those fellers? A very popular number right now. Well, we get them all. Artists from the Village, writers. All very good-looking as well as smart. It’s the surest way I know of to raise a family. Takes all the risk right out. It’s the genes — the genes are everything. Some of my patients come back two, three, four times. You’d be astonished to learn just how many of Dr. Green’s kids are the leaders of their communities today.”

“Are you a donor?”

“No. Oh God, no. In the early days when it was slow I won’t say I didn’t try to cut expenses by putting something in the bottle now and then, but that’s water under the bridge. Well, images change. Taste changes. This I promise, my young doctors are the highest example of the current image. To get on my list they take vows of celibacy. That keeps the stock up, you see. It’s a kind of quality control.”

“But let’s suppose, for argument’s sake, you don’t like the current image. Well then, pick any type you do like. If you don’t see what you want, just ask for it. If I haven’t got him now I know where I can get him. This I promise — the biggest depth in the City of New York. What do you want? An actor? A politician? I’ve even got scions of famous families who have to be specially solicited. Now for obvious reasons the donors have to remain anonymous, but if you want I could show you my library. It’s a file, you see, with the biography of the donor. What the father did, the mother, personality traits, IQ’s, medical histories — the works. You’d be surprised at the famous men represented in that library. They’re not all active donors now, of course, but when they were young they might have needed a little extra dough. You could get men just like them today. Every type, any type.

“Now this is all probably very premature. I’m not saying you’re going to need these services. I don’t know what I’ll find until I look through that microscope, but I just want you to keep it in mind if the news turns out to be bad. And this I promise, it’s perfectly painless. As a matter of fact, I’ll tell you the truth, many women enjoy it. Just a little injection into your wife and that’s all there is to it. We even mix a little of your own stuff in with it so you can’t ever be completely sure the kid isn’t actually yours — well, he is yours, of course, but you know what I mean. Incidentally, that’s a new wrinkle. The profits from some of those adoptions you scorn paid for that. Very tricky scientific problem to work out. To develop the seminal host so that the donor’s and the husband’s sperm can live together without eating each other up. What a contribution to the field that’s been, I don’t mind telling you! What solace it’s provided even prouder men than yourself! And no charge until conception. I don’t care how many injections it takes.”

“It’s not what I had in mind.”

“All right. All right. I’m not trying to sell it to you. I’m just telling you what the alternatives are in case the news isn’t what either of us wants to hear. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Dr. Green said. “Let’s see it.”

At first I didn’t understand. Then I showed him.

He looked at it thoughtfully. “May I?” He said.

“Of course.”

He held my penis in his palm for a moment and then flipped it casually to the other hand. “Not bad,” he said at last. “Nothing mechanically wrong anyway but you can’t judge a book by its cover. I’ll need a specimen. Now you’ve got a choice here. I can exercise the prostate and I can get enough that way to tell all we need to know, but it’s painful and frequently embarrassing to many men. The other thing is you can go into the lab — the same one the donors use — and bring something back in this bottle.”

“The lab,” I said.

“Through there,” said Dr. Green. He pointed to a doorway hung with a curtain, vaguely like the fitting room in a cheap department store.

“Turn on the light,” Dr. Green called. “There’s a switch on your left.”

“It can be done in the dark,” I said.

“You’re my patient,” Dr. Green said, “your vanity means nothing to me. The cure’s the thing.”

Oh, go away, I thought.

The doctor must have read my thoughts, for in a moment I could hear him padding about the office, opening drawers, tapping his pockets, like one making preparations to go out. “I need some cigarettes,” he announced. “I’ll just go down and get them. I’ll lock you in so you won’t be disturbed. Okay?”

“Okay,” I muttered.

“Okay?”

“Yes, yes. Fine.”

“Take your time. Turn on the light.” I heard him close the office door and lock it.

It was impossible; I felt ridiculous. For a moment I thought of escaping, but then it occurred to me that what was happening to me was a rare thing indeed. Masturbating for science. In a lab, for God’s sake. Sanctioned by society! Juvenile fantasies in a good cause! I thought, Why waste it? Still, I had never been less stirred. I removed my pants and underwear. Despite my sense of freedom I felt foolish and a little cold. For five minutes I stood there, idly manipulating myself, distracted. It occurred to me that the practical difficulties were insurmountable. Then I realized what it was: it was the bottle; I had to put the bottle down. I decided to turn on the lights so that I could find it easily when I needed it.