For many years now, I have endured a mild skin disorder, rarely fatal. I usually am monitored by a fine doctor in Rancho Mirage. But I wanted a dermatologist near our home in Beverly Hills, so I asked around and got a reference for a Dr. Wang, as I will call him. (Not his real name.) This afternoon, I entered his tiny waiting room, introduced myself to the young women behind the counter and smiled.
The women asked me to fill out several forms, which I did and handed them back. The main receptionist, a woman of about 24, said to me, “Just have a seat, Benjamin.”
This really set me off. I don’t like total strangers calling me by my first name unless I ask them to. But I sat quietly for about 40 minutes while a large British man had a wild altercation on his cell phone, and then a middle aged woman with two truly snotty looking daughters came in and loudly made plans for a sleep over party.
Finally, another young staffer from behind the counter appeared and asked me to come into an examining room. “Right this way, Ben,” she said.