Dr. No

It is Friday. The sun is beginning to wane. It is late afternoon. I am on my way across town to meet Dr. M for an interview. Dr. M works in the radiology department at Weill Medical College of Cornell University. My recruiter explains this to me, over the phone, in the tone of voice that conveys I should be impressed. I am not impressed. It is Friday. Friday afternoon. I am exhausted from a week of running up, down, and all around Manhattan for meetings and interviews. I am also beyond trying to disguise the exhaustion in my voice.

I meet Dr. M in the basement of a building off East 55th Street. I am reading on a couch in the lobby when he approaches. I notice several things at once- Dr. M has a grand total of three hairs on his head. He is standing in front of me. I am still glued to the couch, yet we are the same height. How can this be? I stand up, and he reaches my navel. We shake hands and I struggle to hear him over the whirr of machines. He leads me down a hallway to his office, and I count four signs that read, in all caps: DANGER MAGNETIC FIELD.

Dr. M leads me into his office and I struggle to navigate my way to a chair through the maze of boxes, papers, and an assortment of computers around the room. Dr. M explains the pipes have recently sprung a leak, which is why his diplomas have been removed from the wall. I struggle to not gape at the boxes, and the papers.

Dr. M explains asks me about my background, and what I like to do in my free time. It crosses my mind that this question is not pertinent to the interview, but I answer him anyway. I share I enjoy reading. Dr. M asks what my favorite book is- but I am distracted by the photo on his ID badge. It is a mystery in comparison to his current look. Ah, I think, he used to partake of the facial hair! I realize I am squinting at his chest. Answer the question. What was the question?

Dr. M shows me his medical journals. They line two bookshelves against an eight or nine foot span of his office. Each one is clearly labeled "Dr. M" on the spine. I know without looking they must be arranged by date and volume. Dr. M wonders what I think about his journals. He is grinning ear to ear and I am speechless. I offer that it seems like quite a collection, and he is pleased with this assessment.

Dr. M says that if he has to tell an employee what they need to do, that is too much work for him. Employees, he explains, should be able to understand X, Y, and Z without being asked. He sucks in a deep breath and fishes in his pocket for something. It is a small black comb. He runs it over his scalp, twice. Suddenly I want to reach across the desk and grab Dr. M by his three wiry hairs and shake him. Hard.

Dr. M asks if I have any questions. I am on the verge of bursting into hysterical giggling, and therefore can not think of anything even slightly intelligent to ask. But, I want to ask him what was making that whirring noise in the patient waiting area, and I want to ask him why he shaved off his mustache because it was really quite distinguished looking, and I want to ask him if he would ever consider taking a Mrs. M into his life because it would be so very good for him, and I want to tell him thank you but, no, Dr. M, no this will not work even though beggars can't be choosy, this simply will not work.

So we say goodbye, and Dr. M pumps my hand vigorously and waves at me until I step on the elevator. I smile and laugh and shake my head all the way across town.