As I stand outside the Greyhound station in downtown Cleveland, I can’t help but think how backwards the interview process seems. Here I am, staying in luxurious hotels sometimes subsidized by the hospitals, being wined and dined for dinners and fed free lunches just to find out if I am a “right fit” for program XYZ. The contrast can’t be starker as I stand outside in windy cold of December evening with my backpack and my four-wheeled suitcase in a less than glamorous part of town. Considering that much of residency is spent taking care of underinsured, non-compliant, irresponsible, and disenfranchised populations, it would make more sense for programs to introduce us to the people we would actually be serving instead of touring us around the magnificent hospitals whose ever expanding presence testify to the failure of health care in this country. Wouldn’t it make more sense to see the homeless shelters, soup kitchens, and shanties that our patients would be coming from, the crack houses, drug warehouses, and other socially unacceptable settings from which many patients would return once they left the clinic?
It seems like an awful lot of money to be spending on such a self-serving cause. A part of me would much rather learn about the cities where I might spend the next three years or learn about how I would be serving the communities around these hospitals.
And still, in the midst of the grandiose thoughts, a man calls out to me. Inside I cringe because I know what is coming. I turn around and see a black man in a black cap smoking a joint.
“Hey, did the bus just get in?”
“Yes”
“Do you know if they found a wallet?”
“They did not.”
“Can you give me some money.”
“What do you need it for?”
“So I could get something to eat. I lost my wallet.”
"Did you go inside and ask if they found it?"
"Yes, they didn't find nothing."
I loathe myself because I know I shouldn’t go down this avenue of conversation. I know I have some cash in my wallet and am not in the mood to lie. Had I thought about this more, I would have asked how he got money for that joint. Instead, the following ensues.
“Is there somewhere you could get something to eat?”
“Yeah, there’s a Subway right around the corner.”
“How much do you need?”
“Five dollars…you know they have those five dollar foot longs.”
I pause and look around for the hotel shuttle. I wished it came earlier. I walk down the street to see if I missed it. Still nothing. I turn back to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Reggie.”
“Where are you from?”
“Toledo.”
“How did you end up here?”
“I’m familiar with this area. My people brought me here. I know the food pantries around here.”
His eyes look distant. He’s probably high.
“Promise me, you’ll use this for food.”
“Yeah…of course.”
I hate myself for this comment. But in the end I give the few bucks that I have. Because of my conversation I do not notice that the hotel van has come and that the driver has actually called out for me. I get in the van.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the driver asks somewhat irritated.
“No, I didn’t. Sorry. My bad.”
But at this point my mind is already lost in thinking about my encounter with Reggie and wondering what sort of drugs he’ll use the cash for next.
