I sat on benches along with about 40 other inmates—most were complaining about their medical situation.

“Look at my face. This mole has gots to be cancerous,” complained a young inmate. Speaking with his hands, his body animated, he continued: “Shee-it, been up here four times; I gets the same old Chinaman doctor. He don’t want to refer me to a skin specialist. Keeps giving me skin cream…that shit P. Diddy and Jessica Simpson be endorsing on television, Proactiv®.”

“I hear you. I gots a foot problem, need orthopedic shoes, and all the doc keeps giving me is foot soles to place in my shoes,” said another inmate in his 60s.

I brought the latest Sacramento Bee to read while I waited. Normally it takes a whole day to see a doctor because of prison overcrowding. I flipped through the pages and noticed the headline, “Prison Medical System Under Federal Receivership.” A related item added, “State Looks for Ways to Cut Soaring Medical Costs for Aging Population.”

As I flipped through the comic section, a couple of inmates talked about their situation.

“Hey brotha, you won’t believe this, man. I saw a specialist yesterday. The guy was on a television screen, looked like one of those terrorists from Al Qaeda,” said an older, white inmate nicknamed Ziggy.

“Really? How does that work?” asked a young inmate nicknamed Cap.

“It’s like the program, ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?’ where a contestant picks an expert to help solve a question, a live Skype video feed in real time.”

“So you talk to the doctor, live on a television screen, even though he is somewhere else?”

“Yeah. I bet the guy is in Iraq somewhere, probably not even a licensed doctor in California,” answered Ziggy, smiling.

I chuckled, thinking they were full of shit. I figured they were both nuts, probably on psych meds, waiting to see the prison psychologist. I continued to read, occasionally looking up to check out a hot-looking nurse passing by. At 8:56 a.m., a Filipina nurse in her mid-50s, with short brown hair and trendy glasses, called my name.

“Mr. Baldez, last two, six-zero, you are next,” she said with a very thick accent. She stood about 5 feet tall, walked with attitude, seemed bossy.

I followed her into a room that resembled the familiar ordinary surroundings of the family doctor I saw as a kid: Medical cabinets, a table, and posters of the human anatomy. I sat down in a chair as she turned on two color television monitors, each had about a 25-inch screen. She dimmed the lights, saying, “Mr. Baldez, the doctor will be with you shortly.”

Each monitor displayed video images of white puffy clouds merging into spectacular views of the Grand Canyon, then sparkling streams. The speakers broadcasted meditation music, which sounded like it came from India.

Minutes later, at 9 a.m. exactly, the monitor on the left side began transmitting the image of a dark-skinned man, sitting sideways, wearing a turban. He reminded me of the clerk at the register of the local 7-Eleven convenience store when I was free. Or he could have been a guy at an hourly rate motel. At the bottom of the screen, words in another language (Hindi, I presume) were moving from left to right like updates of stock prices on Wall Street.

He turned towards the monitor, removing the turban, holding up a clipboard, looking right at me. The Hindi script was replaced with a graphic of his full name, displayed in English on the screen, along with the words “Bakersfield Group.” The nurse walked back in.

“Mr. Baldez? Baldez?” said the doctor in a thick Hindi accent. He had dark thick eyebrows that almost connected into a unibrow, and a full head of dark hair. He wore a white doctor’s jacket, a tie and stethoscope around his neck. His image suddenly started to fade off, flicker, became choppy like a live streaming video feed using technology from ten years ago. The nurse reached over, smacking the monitor with her hand, fixing the problem. The feed came in crystal clear.

“Mr. Baldez?” he asked.

The nurse, standing in front of the monitor, said: “Yes, doctor, Mr. Baldez is right here, present.”

I was shocked, baffled. I looked around the room, thinking that maybe I was on candid camera. This had to be a joke.

“Mr. Baldez, this is the new system under the federal receivership, to offer quality, timely and efficient medical care. I am here today to diagnose your problem. My name is Dr. Deepak Mumbai.”

“Dr. what?” I asked, not really understanding what he said.

“Just call me by my nickname—Pak.”

Going along with the program, amused, I told him my problem. “Okay, Pak. I got this pimple on my right butt cheek; it is getting larger each day, and it hurts when I sit down. I don’t know if it’s a hemorrhoid, a fistula, or a boil. I’m eager to find out what is wrong.”

“Mr. Baldez, how long have you had this bump?” he asked, looking concerned as he wrote some things down on a clipboard.

“For the last week. It just came from nowhere.”

“Mr. Baldez, I need you to lie down on the table there, slide off your pants, let me see this bump.”

Feeling embarrassed since a woman nurse was in the room, I was uncomfortable, hesitant. She offered me encouraging words.

“Go ahead. Lie down,” she said. “This is not the first time I have seen someone in this position.” She rolled out a fresh section of white paper, the kind used as toilet seat covers, thin and brittle, spreading it out on the table.

I lay down on the table, slowly pulling my prison blues down, exposing my butt cheeks. I looked back towards the monitor and the nurse was angling what looked like a boom mic down towards my right cheek. It had a camera on the end of it. On the right monitor, my butt cheeks were on the screen, displayed in full color.

The doctor’s face got larger on the screen as he looked closer. “Mr. Baldez, I see the bump. Let me see if I can zoom in a little closer.”

On the right monitor, the entire screen displayed the large bump, which clearly showed discoloration.

“Uh huh. Mr. Baldez, this has been a common problem with many inmates. I’ve seen this before.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Looks like a bite from a brown recluse spider. But I’m still not sure, could be a boil. Tell me, do you use proper hygeine, shower daily?”

“Yes, I shower daily. Why?”

“Sometimes the pores around that area can get clogged if not washed regularly.”

“Well, Pak, we got these new timers on the toilets, which allow for only two flushes every five minutes. I’ve sometimes had to take a dump, leaving a turd in the toilet, while sitting down, waiting another two and a half minutes to flush, or else the toilet will lock up for one hour.”

“What do you mean? Do you flush while you are still sitting on the toilet? Do you leave the turd floating beneath you while flushing?”

“Yes. I drop, while sitting on the toilet, then flush. The water sometimes splashes my cheeks.”

“Oh no. This is not good, Mr. Baldez. When you flush, the blast radius is about six to ten feet high. Microbes, bacteria and germs spread everywhere. The proper way to flush is to finish defecating, wipe, get up, pull up your pants, step away from the toilet, then flush.”

“But Pak, I have a cellmate who doesn’t want to smell it, so I have no choice but to flush while sitting down.”

His facial expressions showed anger; he became irate. “This is not sanitary. Very, very bad. I will have to look into this further,” he said, writing on his clipboard. “This kind of condition can spread hepatitis. Is this the only bump you have?”

He started to zoom in and out, scanning both cheeks, a close and long view. I looked at the right monitor with disgust, horrified by the sight of my own hairy cheeks and their cellulite. In prison, we don’t have full body mirrors, so the last time I looked at my cheeks was fifteen years ago at home. Didn’t realize my ass was no longer firm at age 38.

“Mr. Baldez, I am going to write you a prescription for Proactiv®, a topical cream you can put on right after our appointment. This may be a zit, a large pimple. I am not sure. Try this cream. If it doesn’t work in one week, I will see you again and refer you to a dermatologist who can take a closer look at it. You can pull up your pants now.”

A printer, next to the monitor, suddenly ejected a paper. The nurse grabbed it, got up off her seat and exited the room.

I suddenly heard the cry of a baby in the background coming from the monitor speakers. I looked toward the left monitor and saw an attractive young dark woman with a dot on her forehead holding a baby as the doctor waved at her to go away. I had a full view of his surroundings. He was dressed in thermal sweatpants, sitting behind a console, in front of it, different monitors. I could hear a dog barking, parakeets chirping.

His face suddenly appeared large on the screen. “Mr. Baldez, sometimes these bumps can be caused by stress, anxiety. I am sure you feel these types of emotions, being in prison.”

“Sure, but I’ve never had this kind of problem before.”

“Our time is almost up. I want to leave you with some encouraging words. In life, most of our choices stem from three categories,” he said. At that moment, the left screen became like a white chalkboard, and, using an electronic marker, he drew three circles, labeling them with the numbers 1, 2, and 3. “First, we always focus on what we have. We always want more cars, more money, more women. I am sure you can relate, right?” he said, writing down the words ‘What We Have.’

“Well, in here Pak, we can’t get any of that.”

“I am speaking metaphorically. Maybe you still desire to have these things, since you don’t have access to them, right?”

“Okay, I see what you mean.”

“Second, we always focus on what we do daily, to give us purpose. We define ourselves by how efficiently we work or study,” he said, writing down the words ‘What We Do.’

“Okay.”

“And lastly, we forget sometimes to focus on just being. Sometimes we need to balance our experiences, pay attention to who we are,” he said, writing down the words “Just Be.”

“Pak, I am lost. What does this have to do with my medical problem?”

“It has everything to do with it. The mind always affects the body.”

Troubled, I asked, “Are you a psychologist or a medical doctor?”

Avoiding answering the question, he said, “Just listen, my friend...the reality of just being is profound and subtle. Very difficult to express in words, but I will explain as best as I can.”

Having some enthusiasm, I said, “I’m listening.”

“Jesus talked about being when he asked his followers to love God with all their heart, soul and mind.”

“I don’t believe in Jesus though.”

“Well maybe you can relate to this. An ancient Hindu text touches on the subject of being. You are what your deep driving desire is.”

“Are you related to Deepak Chopra?” I asked, feeling indifferent.

“No, but I am aware of his teachings.”

“Are you even in California? Are you licensed to practice medicine in California?” I asked.

“Mr. Baldez, don’t worry. I am a qualified doctor.” He pushed a button. His name came up again on the monitor, Deepak Mumbai, above the caption The Bakersfield Group.

The nurse came in, handing me the Proactiv® topical cream. Dr. Mumbai said, “Ms. Gambito, thank you for involving me in the care of this patient.”

She replied, “Yes doctor, thank you. Mr. Baldez, the appointment is over. Fifteen minutes are up. I need to call in the next appointment, please go back to the cage.”

I looked toward the monitors, the doctor was no longer there. The monitors both displayed images of puffy clouds, mountain ranges, canyons. The music from India played. “So your name is Gambito,” I asked her.

“Just call me Ito,” she said.

I went back to the cage to await an unlock so I could go back to my cell. I needed to apply the topical cream, give it a try. I could hear complaints of inmates again.

“Dog, I got some weird Iranian doctor today, talking to him on a television screen,” said a tall, buff white inmate nicknamed Cornhole.

“Really? I got some Korean guy,” said another white inmate, nicknamed Irish. “I couldn’t understand him. He spoke little English.”

In prison, it’s rare to see an American Caucasian doctor, unheard of to see a Hispanic or black doctor. Perhaps if there were such doctors working in California’s prisons inmates could communicate with them better and feel trustworthy of the medical care they receive.

As I was walking out the door of the infirmary, I overheard a comment, which was the best I had heard all day. It made sense.

“You know how we don’t get conjugal visits anymore, right?” said Cornhole.

“Yeah, totally sucks. Men can’t even get porn mags sent in anymore,” said Irish.

“Hey, dog. Wouldn’t it be cool if the state provided a beat-off room, like at the sperm donor clinics, where a hot chick was on the other end of the television monitor, talking dirty? Now that would be great therapy to relieve stress!” said Cornhole.

“Yeah, dog. I’d pay for that kind of medical care. It would be a great way for the State to raise money,” said Irish. §