Bernard was a young eighty-three, not a gomer, and able to talk. He'd been
transferred from MBH (Man's Best Hospital), the House's Rival. Founded in
Colonial times by the WASPs, the insemination of MBH by non-WASPs had taken
place only mid-twentieth century with the token multidextrous Oriental
surgeon and finally, with the token red-hot internal-medicine Jew. Yet,
MBH was still Brooks Brothers, while the House was still the Garment
District. For Jews at MBH the password was "Dress British, Think Yiddish."
It was rare to get a TURF from the MBH to the House, and the Fat Man was
curious. "Bernard, you went to the MBH, they did a great work-up, and you
told them, after they got done, you wanted to be transferred here. Why?"
"I rilly don't know," said Bernard.
"Was it the doctors there? The doctors you didn't like?"
"The doctus? Nah, the doctus I can't complain."
"The test or the room?"
"The tests or the room? Vell, nah, about them I can't complain."
"The nurses? The food?" asked Fats. But Bernard shook his head no.
Fats laughed and said, "Listen , Bernie, you went to the MBH, they did
this great workup, and when I asked you shy you came to the House of God,
all you tell me is, 'Nah, I can't complain.' So why did you come here?
Why, Bernie, why?"
"Vhy I come heah? Vell, said Bernie, "Heah I can complain."