Years after the warehouse administration admitted me, I decided I needed surgery on my right hand. I figured there must exist a procedure that would relieve the tendons that forced my fingers to curl inward towards the palm. I especially hoped that surgery would render my thumb somewhere in the neighborhood of opposable—it would never regain the complete functionality I was used to. A hand surgeon practiced in a labyrinth of offices and lab facilities that sprawled throughout a cavernous brick building, located on a college campus in downtown Chicago. I’d grown accustomed to tardy cripplevans and lengthy interviews with secretaries and interns before the doctor graced me with a brief and invariably overdue appearance.
There are few people more irritating than receptionists and assistants that work in doctor’s offices. Usually they’re prime examples of marginally intelligent failures bullshiting themselves and patients that they’re “medical professionals.” In fact they’re unremarkable lackeys. They feel that their proximity to an MD entitles them to deference they don’t even come close to earning. Some of the forms they shuffle contain crucial information concerning a patient’s health, and occasionally you’ll encounter one that performs tasks with an expertise born of experience. But generally medical office workers only excel at snotty condescension toward patients while parking their dead weight on some arrogant doctor’s lab coattails. Most that I encountered during my warehouse days were self-important but expendable cogs that doctors only kept around because of their limitless capacity to kiss ass. (After all, medical doctors—like lawyers—are inherently superior to the rest of us.)