The Decline of Civilization

The desk clerk tried to hand back my parking slip, but I made no move to accept it.

“We are unable to validate” she said. “It’s twenty dollars. You pay at the cashier’s window.”

“As I explained, I’m the hotel doctor. They let me park.”

“Unfortunately, the hotel doesn’t own our parking service, so we have no control over the charges.”

“That’s true for most hotels, but they let me park.”

“Let me speak to my manager.”

It was a stretch to call myself that hotel’s doctor. The Mondrian was not a regular although I’d been there a dozen times over the years with no problem. Several minutes passed before the clerk returned.

“Regretfully, my manager says we’re unable to validate. The hotel doesn’t own our parking service, so we have no control over the charges.”

Not willing to hassle hotel staff, I took the slip. I’m not poor, but paying twenty dollars at a fraction of my hotel visits per year, say a hundred, is serious money. This is happening more often.

A Doctor Gets Sick

Years ago I suffered a stomach virus, not a serious illness but unpleasant. I was resting after a night of vomiting when the Beverly Garland called. I could have stalled or asked a colleague to make the visit, but symptoms were improving.

I had not entirely recovered, so my wife agreed to drive. As we approached the hotel, my nausea returned. It grew intense by the time the guest opened his door.

I remain proud of delivering an Academy Award-worthy performance, sitting quietly, focusing entirely on the guest, not hurrying, providing sympathy, advice, and medication as well as collecting my fee.

As soon as the door closed behind me, I dived into the nearest rest room and resumed vomiting. Several guests entered, saw my distress, and fled. But I got better. Most sick people get better.

Sometimes a Thankless Job

A three year-old at the Ramada was fussy and congested, but my exam was normal. She had a cold, I explained. It might last a few days, and staying in bed wouldn’t make it go away quicker. They were already giving Tylenol for the fever, and that was fine. They should try to enjoy themselves.

“So she doesn’t need anything,” said the father. I assured him she didn’t.

They thanked me as I left, but I was not fooled.

Understand their point of view. They were in a strange city on an expensive vacation, and their child was sick. Naturally, all fun was cancelled, and the doctor summoned fix things.

Had I written a prescription, I would be doing what a proper doctor does. They would have given the medicine and waited. Not giving “anything” meant that I considered the illness trivial.

Mind you, I had carefully explained that the child would feel under the weather for several days. They had listened and nodded.

I intended to call in 24 hours, but the following morning their travel insurer phoned to say the parents were requesting another visit. I explained that that wasn’t necessary. I would call.

“She’s the same. The cough hasn’t gone away,” said the mother.

I repeated that this was to be expected and that she should wait. She thanked me for calling.

No one answered when I phoned the next day. The insurance agency dispatcher explained that the mother had called earlier to demand another visit, so he had sent her to an urgent care clinic.

The child had barely swallowed the first spoonful of Amoxicillin when she began to improve. By the following day she was fine, and the parents were congratulating themselves. Who knows what might have happened if they hadn’t found a competent doctor? 

A Hotel Doctor Has His Car Serviced

I scheduled it for 8 a.m., hoping it wouldn’t be out of commission for long because my wife and her car were out of town. I cancelled the appointment when a hotel called at 7 a.m.

I delivered my car to the shop at 8 a.m. the following day. A hotel called at 10. The service manager said my car wouldn’t be available till the afternoon, but he would be happy to provide a loaner.

Auto shops pay little attention to loaners. Mine was a battered 1999 Volvo station wagon with 176,000 miles, the gas needle on empty, and an automatic transmission that paused for a few seconds before delivering power. Driving was a frightening experience compared to my tiny, nimble Honda.  

I bought gas and lumbered onto the freeway, praying that Swedish engineering deserved its reputation. VIP parking at a downtown hotel was out of the question because valets refused to believe that an important person would arrive in such a disreputable vehicle. But everything worked out.

No hotel doctor should live alone.

Caring for the King

The Airport Marriott is not a hotel that comes to mind at the mention of royalty, but that was where I saw the King of Tonga whose entourage took up the entire top floor.

Tonga is a group of Polynesian islands, an independent country and UN member. It contributed a few dozen troops to President Bush’s “Coalition of the Willing” that invaded Iraq in 2003. It’s also one of the few remaining hereditary monarchies, and the king is a person of influence and great wealth.

Everyone in the room wore Western clothes. The king himself was tall and fat but otherwise unremarkable, and he spoke English. Still, he was a royalty.

I'm Under a Doctor's Care

“I parked illegally, and they towed my car. It’s in an impound lot, and, wouldn’t you know.….”

Tales of misfortune (as opposed to complaints of illness) at one a.m. are a routine tactic of drug abusers.

“…My prescriptions were in the glove compartment. I don’t know when I can get them. I’m under a doctor’s care for….”

I declined his request for Oxycontin. The call had come from the desk clerk who had immediately handed the phone to the guest. As a result, when I hung up, I knew the guest might inform clerk of his disappointment with the hotel doctor. 

Under those circumstances, I phone the clerk and explain that the guest has made a request that I cannot, in good conscience, grant. Remembering his manners, the clerk expressed sympathy, but you never know…. 

Why I Hate Appointments, Part 2

“I need you to look at a rash,” said a Loews guest. “But I have meetings all day and dinner tonight. Could you be at my room at 9?”

He meant 9 p.m. His call arrived at 9 a.m. Appointments more than a few hours ahead end badly more often than not, so I avoid them.

“I’m always available,” I said. “But we’re both busy people. Phone just before you get to your room, and I’ll come over.”

He phoned at 7 p.m. to say he’d be delayed till 10. I waited at home. He phoned at 9:30 to say he was on his way. I arrived at 10. No one answered when I knocked. He appeared at 10:20 with apologies.