“So what’s wrong with it?”
Uncle Pundit, just back from a driving tour of Montana, and
testy on the subject of the absent flu vaccine, had dummied up an
ad for the Washington Post.
ATTENTION PHYSICIANS !!!
PATIENT AVAILABLE. MEDICARE, TWO CO-INSURERS.
PROMPT
FOR APPOINTMENTS. COURTEOUS TO OFFICE STAFF AND
NURSES.
YEARLY TAKE (YOUR INCOME) IN THE THOUSANDS.
CONSIDERATION; ONE FLU SHOT.
CONTACT; (PHONE NUMBER)
I tried to explain that no self-respecting doctor would answer
such an advertisement. Doctors simply do not advertise.
“Of course not. But this is a patient advertising. Me. You want
me to enter that stupid Montgomery County lottery?”
A Maryland county dangerously close to the District of Columbia
has announced a drawing for 800 flu shots it unaccountably has on
hand, and nearly all of its 13 million or so residents are expected
to submit their names for the lottery.
No, Uncle, unless you are a bigger gambler than I thought. But
what if some unscrupulous Doctor answers your ad, gives you a flu
shot, and then you discover he is a charlatan, a bad doctor?
“Then, I quit him. Like the guy I got now who won’t answer the
phone and has a recording by his nurse that says ‘Doctor’s office.
No flu shots. For other inquiries leave your name and phone number
after the beep.’”
But you promise to patronize this new guy in return for the
shot.
“What’s he gonna do? Sue? Admit publicly he took me on in return
for a measly flu shot? Excuse me. I gotta wash my hands.”
But, Uncle, you just did not five minutes ago.
“But it says in this pamphlet to wash your hands thoroughly and
often in order to avoid the flu.”
You sure you didn’t have an accident on that driving trip
through the Treasure State?
“Naw. But the driving. Lordy. You should see it. Miles and miles
of stuff right out of the National Geographic. The place
is so big, there’s a sign that says: ‘Rest stop, 2 miles ahead.
Next stop, 106 miles.’”
I could tell Uncle was about to rhapsodize once more about the
trip and that was okay, it might deep-six this “patient available”
ad idea.
“You cross the Continental Divide on several highways. They got
these signs on the steep upgrades, ‘Chain Up Area.’ Reminds me of
the sorority girl I once knew there who took those signs to be an
invitation to pull over and have a good time.”
Aw, com’on.”
“No really. A plain girl she was. Moved later to Hollywood and
had to hire a stalker.”
I slipped the “patient available” ad under the telephone.
“Montana is one of the few states where dogs ride in the back of
pick-up trucks. You go down to your Ford dealer and order a truck
and they’ll ask what color dog do you want?”
Sounds like you kinda miss the place.
“Yes, and what I really miss is the people. There aren’t any.
Most places.”
But you said lots of California folk are moving in, along with
ex-NBA coaches and former network anchor persons.
“All to the good. The California money is doing for the place
what Vermont money did for Colorado — saving it.”
Saving the state?
“Yep. You see, the folks who grow up there don’t really know
what they got. Don’t realize they are living in a National
Geographic cover. It’s the outsiders who come in, look around,
and realize this all could go away. They could clear cut it, strip
mine it, dam it, fence it, and not think about it. It’s the
newcomers who save states. Newcomers with new money.”
By now it was clear that we wouldn’t have to call in that
“attention physicians” ad. Uncle Pundit was telling about the
Wyoming delegate to a political convention in the '60s who defended
the heavy uranium mining then in progress by insisting that when it
was over the state would look just the same, “only 9 feet
lower.”
He went on, about the dams that had obscured the scenes
described by Lewis and Clark, the unquenchable thirst of a motorist
for the next range of mountains, the next river crossed, of high
plains and straight-ribbon highways. And, yes, dogs that ride in
the back of pickup trucks.
