Okay,
everybody, let's take the Way-Back Machine to the early 1990's, when
4th year medical student Dr. Grumpy is interviewing for residency.
After medical school, young docklings go off to residency in our chosen fields.
But
before we get into residency (through a mysterious process called "the
match") we go off on interviews. Just like any other job.
I
did my share of these interviews, traveling to 7 neurology programs in
the early 90's to peddle my wares. These aren't quite as stressful as
medical school interviews (for those you're begging them to take you,
while for residency they need you & you need them, so both sides
are trying in impress each other).
And this is the story of my least impressive interview:
I'd flown into the city the night before, and spent a relaxing night at a Motel 6.
The
interview instructions said I was to begin by attending the Shitzenfuk
Hospital Neurology conference at 7:30 a.m. This was several miles from
the residency program's main hospital. And they actually told me to
"ask around when you get there, and find a doctor willing to drive you
back to our offices after the meeting".
So I took a
cab from my motel to the hospital, and found the auditorium. Here I am,
in a strange city, dragging my overnight bag around, with a bunch of
docs who I don't know and who don't know me, and I'm walking around
trying to bum a ride. Finally, after several looked at me like I was a
sexual predator, one finally said. "Okay, I'm heading that way. I guess
I can give you a ride."
Guess what? He turned out to be the freakin'
chairman
of the program I was interviewing at! He'd signed the letter telling
me to bum a ride. You'd think he could have offered initially, since he
knew I'd be there, but no.
So we walk out to his car.
Mind you, I'm not a car snob. I don't expect doctors to be driving
expensive things (my own car is a 2000 Nissan), but nothing could have prepared me for Dr. Chairman's mean set of wheels.
It was an early
70's Japanese something. Missing the right front fender. The trunk was
half open, held down by a bungee cord threaded through a rust-hole.
I
opened the passenger door. And a pile of empty soda cans, newspapers,
fast food containers, orange peels, and heaven knows what else, fell
out. Dr. Chairman said "sorry, let me clear that off" and began
chucking the pile of garbage into the back seat (which was already
covered with trash).
And off we went. It was December,
and cold. My window was open. I tried rolling it up, but he said,
"there's no window there, it broke years ago." The heat didn't work,
either. So I was shivering away, with my overnight bag on my lap (no
space for it anywhere else in the car). I hoped his driving skills were
better than his car-care talents, because my seatbelt didn't work.
So
we got to Neurology HQ. Where Ms. Bitchy at the desk (Dr. Chairman
abandoned me as soon as we walked in) claimed I hadn't been invited for
an interview, even when I showed her my letter. Eventually she
realized she was looking at the previous week's schedule, and blamed me
for having handed her the wrong schedule (which she'd actually pulled
out of her desk).
Then it was time for my
tour of the esteemed facilities. Ms. Bitchy directed me down a hall,
and told me someone would meet me there.
Fortunately,
one did. It was a nice guy named Pete, who (allegedly) was the chief
resident. We talked for a minute in the middle of the building's lobby,
which had white pillars everywhere, and halls leading in different
directions.
After giving me a brief summary of the
areas we'd be going to, Pete said, "It's a beautiful hospital. Follow
me." He then turned around and walked straight into a pillar, breaking
his glasses.
I helped Pete up, while some other guys in white coats ran over to try and stop the blood now pouring out of his nose.
As
they led him away, Pete told me to wait in the lobby. A few minutes
later Ms. Bitchy showed up, leading a girl in scrubs who'd apparently
been on call the night before, and looked (understandably) less then
enthusiastic about showing me around. It was a pretty quick tour.
Afterwards
I had an interview with a doctor, who used most of our interview time
to return patient calls. He also called Mastercard to argue about some
charges, which he blamed on his ex-wife.
Then it was
(per the schedule) lunch with the residents. None showed up. It was me
and 3 attending physicians. Ms. Bitchy, the secretary-from-hell, had
only ordered 3 lunches. She gave one to each of the doctors, and told
me where I could find the hospital cafeteria.
I just went hungry, and spoke to the doctors. One of them told me he thought the newfangled MRA technology was a passing fad.
Then
it was another interview. This time with Dr. Chairman of the crappy
car. Who'd inexplicably left for the day. No one knew where he'd gone,
or why.
Thus ended the interview. Ms. Bitchy told me
she'd arrange a ride for me back to the airport, but given her
remarkable organizational skills displayed thus far, I declined. She
wouldn't let me use the phone on her desk, so I found a pay phone and
called a cab.
I ranked them last. I have no idea where they ranked me. And no, I didn't go there.
