An Affair Over Coffee

A Caffeine Addiction

There are two types of people in New York: The type who think New York is a piece of shit filled with capricious individuals, and the type who think New York is full of wonders with individuals who seem to have their bad day every day. I, for one, fall somewhere in the middle. I think New York is magical; the people, on the other hand, are somewhat lacking that. This morning, however, it was quite apparent the city's people were not in the mood for magical: They were in the mood for coffee. I mean, it was bad enough I stepped in dog shit as I was heading out for my first day of work (I have my post-frat boy neighbor to thank for that one), but Jeez Louise the line at the café was an injustice to all caffeine addicts around the globe. Unfortunately, I had to make the tough decision to forgo on the coffee and catch the subway to the hospital before the time on the clock voted against me keeping my new job. Quite wonderful, I know.

The subway always had a smell. Not a bad smell, but most definitely not a good one either. It smelled like sweat being masked by cheap perfume. It made the subway an acceptable place to breath through your mouth. Time felt slow. Slower than usual at that. There are plenty logical reasons to explain this feeling of long, drawn out time, like nerves or anxiety. However, I blamed it on caffeine withdraw. You know, like a person with a med school degree would do? Maybe the world was trying to tell me something about this new job by taking away my one true love. No, not a true love as in a person kind of love. A true love as in the fun liquid that goes in a mug kind of love.

The shrinks will say I love coffee because it gives me the warmth I fail to receive from people. I say it is because coffee is a stimulant. You'd think the shrinks would remember that lesson from Psych 101.

The subway finally reaches a halt. The abrupt break makes my muscles work extra hard to hold onto the rails to keep from bumping some old lady. Which, might I add, this in not some regular old lady. Let me paint a picture: she always wears the same vomit colored toboggan I am sure she hand knit herself, as well as, the same long black coat with Peter Pan looking shoes. She looks like a miserable hag every single day. She is always sitting in the same spot of the subway. I almost think she never leaves. Her eerie stare keeps New York's deepest, darkest secrets, and I just know she'll die with them. Although it is neither here nor there, I shall be forever curious of her.

I practically sprinted my way off the subway. I should really be famous or something because believe me, it took a special kind of talent to do so. As I inch towards the hospital, my steps get smaller and much slower. The nerves really start to get to me. I start to have thoughts, not rational ones of course, but thoughts like "Oh my God, I am actually gonna be dealing with people again!" I have not worked in eight months. It has been a really long eight months, too. I walk into the hospital making my way to the front desk. The receptionist pointed me to my new boss's office. I walked towards her door and noticed there was a tiny plaque that read "Dr. Maria Martinez". A nice alliterative name. I could have a plaque like that one day. I debate whether I should knock on the door and accidentally come off as an entitled bitch who demands to be seen pronto or just barging in and risking coming off as an ill-mannered bitch who demands to be seen pronto. The real problem is risking coming off as a bitch who demands to be seen pronto, if you catch my drift. I come to the conclusion to just knock, but knock the rhythm of a song to seem energetic and ready to save lives. I did just that, but in hindsight I probably seemed childish. I guess that is better than the "bitch" option, though.

Dr. Martinez welcomed me inside and I sat down in one of her nicely cushioned office chairs. "Dr. Elaine Burton, correct?", Dr. Martinez asked politely. "Yes, Doctor. Not to be associated with highly acclaimed filmmaker Tim Burton." I said. I thought the bad Tim Burton joke would ease the tension. Thank God she laughed because if she didn't there would need to be a clean up in her office from breaking into a million little pieces of embarrassment. "Ah yes, of course!" She said in laughter, "It's your first day at New York Memorial and I want you to feel comfortable here. It'll be hard taking care of patients and sometimes losing them. I mean, it is almost inevitable that at some point you'll lose a patient." Her facial expressions change,
I know where this is going. "I just know you haven't worked in a while," Yep. I was right. She continues, "and I don't want you diving in head first after taking some... personal time." I saw on your resumé this is your first job not as an intern." "Yes, I have graduated to resident status as of seven months ago. It has always been a dream to work as a neurologist, especially at an establishment like New York Memorial. I want to assure you I am more than capable to work here. Though, I appreciate your concern." I say. I am quite surprised with how professional I sound. Dr. Davis smiles and says, "I am glad to here that. I also saw on your resumé you graduated top of your class. As well as, making groundbreaking progress in your university's neuroscience program. Then, you went on to intern for some of New England's finest neurologists." She says with an impressed tone. Hearing all of my accomplishments thrown at me all at once makes me a bit flushed. You and I both know to combat this slight embarrassment and also shy away from modesty I bounce back with humor. "Oh well, yes. Guilty is charged. Take me to the jail cell while I await sentencing." I, actually, have your sentencing right here. I'm assigning you to work with Dr. John Elliot and his team of doctors. You will be working special cases that come through our door. Luckily, you will only have one or two patients a week. So, you should not be overwhelmed with patients, especially on your first day!" She explains. "Wow! Thank you so much for the opportunity. Really!" I exclaim. "I am honored to have you here. You will find Dr. Elliot's office on the 5th floor, room 538. By the way, good luck!" Still surprised I say, "Thanks. I'll need it."