Doc Martin J. M. Strother I've never liked business travel. Worse yet is doing business travel alone. Trying to find your way about in unfamiliar territory, long silent commutes from hotel to job site, and worst of all, sitting in a restaurant feeling conspicuous while eating – alone. I just hate it. So on my last trip imagine my surprise and delight when I looked up while riding the Metro and who should I see standing near the door than my old family physician, Doc Martin. I had not seen him in years, not since he had retired, and had no idea he had moved to Washington DC. I tried to catch his eye, but he seemed oblivious. So I began struggling through the crowd, staggering at the occasional sway of the car, to try and catch him before he got off the train. Maybe, I hoped, we could do dinner. I had gotten on the Metro at the McPherson Square station and had not noticed him until a group of college kids got off at Foggy Bottom. At that point the crowd separated a little to reveal my old doc's profile. I'd know him anywhere. Heck, he treated me for everything from chicken pox when I was five, to a sprained ankle the week before my wedding, to a nasty reaction I had to some medication just before he retired. We went back a long way, old Doc Martin and me. “Rosslyn Station, next stop,” the conductor announced over the tinny speakers. Several people rose from their seats, cutting me off. I got some nasty looks as I desperately tried to wedge my way through the crowd, fearing that this may be where Doc would get off, and that I would miss him altogether. In a town the size of DC I may never get another chance. I strained forward just as the train braked for the stop. I lurched into an elderly woman, who gave me a baleful glare. “Keep your pants on, sonny,” she growled. “I'm sorry.” I looked up and relaxed. The doors had opened and Doc made no move to depart. “I really am sorry,” I apologized again to the old lady. Begrudgingly, the moved aside and let me pass. The doors closed and the train started up again. I grabbed the overhead bar just in time to keep from falling backwards into the same old woman. “Blue Line to Franconia-Springfield,” announced the tinny voice. “Next stop, Arlington.” As the train reached equilibrium I began my forward trek once more. “Doc! Doc Martin!” Several people glared at my breach of etiquette as I called out his name. But he did not hear me. So when I got close enough I put my hand on his shoulder and gave friendly squeeze. “Doc Martin. Fancy meeting you here?” He turned towards me and regarded me with the utmost disinterest. He glanced at my hand, laying on his shoulder, and I quickly snatched it away, the smile fading from my face. “Hey Doc, it's me. Jerry Sutherland. Don't you remember me?” “Hmm.” He just stared at me blankly. He looked a little peaked – a bit gray around the gills, so to speak. I wondered if he was getting motion sick. “You OK, Doc?” He just stood there, swaying with the rhythm of the train. “You are Doctor Victor Martin. Aren't you?” “Martin,” he seemed to agree. “Well, you remember me, don't you?” There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes. I began to wonder if he had had a stroke, or was suffering from Alzheimer's. He was pretty old, after all. He had been a highly decorated medic in the Korean War. That had impressed the daylights out of me as a kid. But heck that made him what, in his late sixties – early seventies? Plenty old enough for dementia to have set in. I could see my plans for dinner quickly evaporating. “Next stop, Arlington Cemetery,” the speaker announced. “So, Doc, you live here now, or are you just visiting?” I asked, still hoping to get some response – any response. “I'm in town for business, myself. I was thinking, if you're not busy, maybe we could do dinner tonight. Or not. Maybe tomorrow night? I'm leaving Friday. We could catch up on old times. Hey, Doc Flint is doing fine. Sure glad you sold the practice to her. She's great. Not as good as you, of course...” I was blathering by this point. The train slowed and we all swayed forward. Doc Martin still regarded me as if I were not there. The train jerked to a stop. “Excuse me,” he said and stepped around me. “This is my stop.” Oh, shoot! Of course. His wife had died years ago, and now I remembered that she had been buried in Arlington Cemetery. He was here visiting her grave. Probably their anniversary. No wonder he was so distracted. I felt like such an oaf. “Oh, yeah. Sure Doc. Hey, I'm staying at the Madison – Old Town. Give me a call, OK?” I got no response as the doors slid closed and cut us off. I felt so deflated as the train lumbered forward and dipped back underground. Man, I had really blown that. I ate dinner at a cheap Chinese place around the corner from the hotel. Alone. I felt very conspicuous and hurried through my egg rolls and Moo Shu pork just as fast as I could. I wandered back to my hotel and took a quick shower. That revived my spirits a bit so I decided to give my wife a call. “Hey, you'll never guess who I ran into today,” I teased. “Who?” “On the Metro. I couldn't believe it. Old Doc Martin.” “Who?” She sounded incredulous. “Doc Martin. Our old family doctor. He was on the Metro with me. I tried to make dinner plans, but...” “Jerry?” “Yeah?” “Doc Martin died four years ago. Hello. Jerry? Are you still there?”