Anthony Youn M.D. - Playing God: The Evolution of a Modern Surgeon

Wasting Away Again in Grand Haven

E yes closed, head thrown back, I punish the strings of my old black Telecaster and belt out the chorus to Margaritaville.

Oh, yeah!

I own this song.

I own this stage.

I own this entire room .

OK, its my living room I own, and its Saturday morning and Im singing and playing along to Jimmy Buffetts Songs You Know by Heart on my CD player. But still.

* * *

MarchApril.

Residency, year one.

My social life, such as it is, consists of catching a few half-awake hours here and there with Amy. I rarely see the interns from my group anymore, except in passing in the hallway or catching a quick, groggy snack break. I dont have friends, as such. My close friends from med school have scattered all over the country. Amy, as usual, cuts to the chase.

You have no life, she says one day as I try to focus on some movie on TV while keeping my eyelids from crashing down over my exhausted pupils. All you do is work and sleep. You need to get out more. Expand your horizons.

I hear you. One question. What are you talking about?

I dont know. Maybe take up a hobby.

A hobby? You mean like drawing my own comic books or dressing up and doing role-playing at Star Trek conventions?

Uh, no. Lets think about this. Amy scrunches her face in that cute way she has when shes solving a complex, challenging problem. OK, we know what you want to be when you grow up. A plastic surgeon. But when that happens youre going to be under a lot of pressure, right?

No! Pressure? I cant imagine that!

Whatever. So, you need a release. Something where you can blow off steam. OK, just for fun, lets say this doctor thing doesnt work out.

For fun ?

Work with me. You crash, you burn, you drop out of residency. What would be your second choice?

Easy. Id like to be Jimmy Buffett.

Great. And your third choice? Because Im pretty sure your second choice is already takenby Jimmy freaking Buffett.

I know. Im thinking of joining a Jimmy Buffett cover band.

Because you look so much like Jimmy Buffett?

Exactly!

Im being serious.

Me too.

Really? A pause. Shes trying to reconcile the image of a dutiful surgeon with that of an inebriated Parrot Head. Scanning my face for signs Im putting her on, backing off, buying it, stating a fact. Youre not kidding around.

Ive actually been checking out bulletin boards in music stores, seeing if anybodys looking for a rhythm guitarist who knows the entire Jimmy Buffett catalog by heart.

Which would be you?

Which would be me.

I find thathow shall I put thissomewhatAmy looks up at the ceiling grappling for a particular word, nods, finds itdisturbing.

I know. Awesome, right? I say. Hey, Ill need a roadie. Someone I can trust to handle my cable. And a groupie of course.

Amy raises her hand. Id like to apply for both jobs.

Youre hired.

Thats it? Thats the entire interview?

Theres a more extensive vetting process later. I think youll do fine. Well, its a short list. Youre the only applicant.

She snuggles into my shoulder. Better be.

* * *

For the next couple of weeks, I scour the bulletin boards at the local music stores in search of Jimmy Buffett cover bands that need a rhythm guitarist who can sing. Nothing. No sign of needy Parrot Head musicians anywhere. I go to plan B. The internet. I find a local Parrot Head club website and shoot off an email to the general Parrot Head population. Within days, I receive a reply. The webmaster, a guy named Duke, has in fact been considering forming a Jimmy Buffett cover band. Great minds, I think. Duke says that once summer starts, there will be no shortage of gigs at bars, beach clubs, and Parrot Head club meetings.

I email back: Duke, hey! Tony here. Id love to be in your band. I play rhythm guitar and I sing. Full disclosure. Im a mediocre guitarist and a mediocre singer. But Im really interested and if you dont find anyone else, Ill audition for you. Plus, I have my own gear! And my own roadie!

Duke replies within ten minutes.

Wow! You really know how to sell yourself! Youre in! We just need a percussionist and weve got a band!

A week later, Duke emails me again.

Found a guy! Names Troy. Lots of experience. Drums, congas, very Jimmy! Our first rehearsal is Saturday at noon, my house! Were gonna party with a purpose!

Wow. Could it be true? Am I going to be a surgeon and a rock star?

* * *

We meet in Dukes finished basement, dimly lit, his walls plastered with maps of Florida and Parrot Head posters and allegedly soundproofed to protect his wife and young son from losing their hearing, and Duke from getting divorced. Duke is a few years older than I am, early thirties. But Troy, the new recruit drummer, is nearly bald, a few lonely neon silver hairs poking up from the top of his scalp, and he sports a straggly gray mustache and beard. His flabby stomach flops over his belt and pops out beneath his oversize Hawaiian shirt. Troy admits to turning fifty-eight on his last birthday. He seems to know every Jimmy Buffett song ever recorded and despite an occasional confused, wan look that reminds me of someone in the middle of a three-day cleanse, he is pleasant and highly enthusiastic. Duke immediately surprises me with strong guitar skills and a sweet melodic voice, while Troy keeps perfect time. Winding up our rehearsal after a couple of hours, I think this could actually work. I am already on the road to becoming a rock legend. Or at least a guitar player in a semidecent Jimmy Buffett cover band.

Well, Duke says, nodding, grinning, that was pretty awesome.

Totally, Troy says.

I love your voice, I tell Duke.

Totally, Troy says.

Thanks, Duke says. Oh, listen, one thing you guys should know. I dont talk.

Huh? I say.

At gigs. I freeze. I can play, I can sing, I can even dance, but I dont talk.

I dont talk either, Troy says. Kills my image.

What image? I say.

The rock star sex thing. Strong. Silent. Groupies love that.

You said you were married, I say.

I am, Troy says, winking. In Muskegon.

We stare at him.

You know what they say, Troy continues, what happens in Grand Haven stays in Grand Haven.

He winks again for emphasis. I look at Duke, like WTF?

Duke shrugs. I dont judge. Anyway, about the talking. I clam up. Got nothing to say. I turn into a mime. He raises his hands, stuck in an invisible box.

Ill talk, I say, imagining myself all debonair and witty, wooing massive crowds of Parrot Heads from East Lansing to Detroit. Ill intro the songs, whatever.

Great, Duke says.

We need a name, Troy says.

We all nod dumbly and then for the next few minutes we toss out idiotic possibilities, each somehow worse than the next. Finally, someone suggests Migration, the name of a Jimmy Buffett song. It sticks.

Migration, I say.

I love it, Duke says.

Totally, Troy says.

Thus, our band is born.

* * *

We rehearse when we can in Dukes basement. We play open mics in redneck bars in the middle of nowhere, often before audiences of seven people, two being Dukes wife and Amy. Troys wife never shows. He rarely talks about her except to complain that shes always held him back, squashing his lifelong dream to become what he was born to be: a rock n roll drummer. Im no shrink but based on how Troy hits on every available (or unavailable for that matter) woman in the immediate area and the posse of twentysomethings he seems to hang out with, I think its safe to say hes in the middle of a midlife crisis.

As spring rolls around and the weather turns balmy, we book our first realalthough still unpaidgig: a Parrot Head club party in front of 150 people. We roar through our set list, each song earning more applause than the last. I cant believe it. Were actually sort of good. Or at least not horrible. Standing onstage after winding up our version of Volcano, I feel a bolt of energy and excitement crackling through me. As Duke tunes up and Troy wipes his sweat-soaked brow, I grab the mic and ad-lib, How you all doing?