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days, had no patience for them. "Triage! I assert triage," is all that he had actually said. It was his face, though. Jesus, he could look scary, and that might be trumped up to a charge of being threatening. Even so, bumping a cosmetic surgeon to another operating room, a loss of an hour in turn over, just shouldn't matter. Life and limb, not some babe's sulky pouty lips and tight buns. If you are a cosmetic surgeon, tough shit. That's just the way it is. You're too damn overpaid anyway. There's gotta be some downside to being lavished with up front money for unnecessary low skill surgery. Christ, every real surgeon knows that those guys have no useful surgical talent. Macaluso didn't endear himself to the bottom line people with his candid snarling opinions. Anyway, you didn't get the tirade unless you prodded him. Don't want to hear it? Then stay away. Fatigue can make anybody a bit crusty. And Macaluso? Well. OK, so put yourself into his shoes. What would you do or say when a huffy administrator, who knows nothing of what has been going on, and doesn't seem to care, calls you right in the middle of a great reversal of a near disaster, demanding an immediate meeting, right now, in his office to discuss what he is going to have to do with you because you, he was told, behaved disparagingly - even menacingly - to a colleague, a cosmetic surgeon, who was "merely asserting his own practice interests." Sometimes, you know, you can listen to stuff like that and it rolls right off. But today? After all this? With what could have happened not having happened because everything was done well and fast? No. Not today. Today, you are putting together a child's bloodied crushed limbs while other surgeons repair liver lacerations and ruptured intestines. You are also helping the real plastic surgeons - the ones who are trying to avert a life of prolonged depression, one of avoiding mirrors. This is the second child of three. There's still one more to go, from that accident on Route 48. That third kid is