A simple case of drug dealing

A fresh Tale from the Clinic. Announcing a new (free) photography book. And the meaning of a "grotesque" is explained. Plus a special White Rabbit.

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Dec 02, 2024

*Click on the cover image to see the entire book.*

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MINERAL collects thirty-two of my photographs, mostly landscapes from western parks taken over the past three years. A few birds and other animals make appearances. I made several of the pictures during my trip with Brian Goodman this fall to Rocky Mountain, Grand Tetons, and Yellowstone national parks—a glorious experience.

Rather than print and sell the book, I’ve decided to offer it free on my web site as a slideshow. The pages are arranged as spreads of two images, intentionally paired to highlight my obsessions with color, texture and pictorial design. Many reflect my current love affair with a new wide-angle lens and camera. They are best seen on a large screen. If you do take a look, I’d love to hear any feelings or thoughts that you have. –Kerry

TALES FROM THE CLINIC

Desk Job

By Barbara Ramsey

I FOUND OUT about the cocaine on Monday morning right before lunch.

“Diana is selling coke, right here in the clinic,” Shirley said. “She keeps it in her desk.” Shirley was our main receptionist and a woman of few words. Diana was my medical assistant, the person who took patients to the exam rooms, recorded their vital signs, and helped me with blood draws and vaccines and the like. My patients depended on their work every day. I didn’t want to think badly of either of them.

But now either Diana was a drug dealer or Shirley was a liar. Even my well-honed mechanisms of conflict-aversion couldn’t make this go away.

I asked Shirley how she knew. Her answers were credible and delivered in a flat, even tone of voice. Neither gloating nor gloomy, she sounded like a court reporter reading back testimony to the judge. I believed her. And she gave me names of other clinic staff who could back her up.

Sure enough, Shirley’s story checked out with the others. That Diana was dealing coke had apparently been common knowledge for months, which made me feel foolish. She did it right under my nose in a small office that I was nominally in charge of running. What else didn’t I know?

Reluctantly, I trudged up the third floor steps to my boss’s office. Marty Waukazoo was behind his desk, finishing a phone call. As the clinic’s medical director, I avoided involving Marty, the executive director, in the day-to-day running of the clinic. But this was over my head.

“Marty, we’ve got a problem,” I said as he he put down the phone. I was flustered and unclear on our options. But Marty took the news with equanimity. Having been to more than one training for executive directors, he seemed clear-headed about the legal and HR issues. And as a graduate of a local drug and alcohol treatment program, he was wise in the ways of habituating substances. This problem was right in the middle of his wheelhouse.

“Tomorrow I’ll notify Diana that I need to see her here in my office at eleven o’clock sharp,” he said. “You be here, too. We’ll talk to her together.”

Marty and I had worked together for more than fifteen years at that point and I’d come to appreciate certain leadership strengths he possessed. But dealing coke in the middle of a health clinic? Where was that in the employee handbook? What would Marty do?

The next morning came too soon. I dreaded the conversation. But when I went to Marty’s office a bit before eleven, he was relaxed, sitting at his desk as if it was a perfectly ordinary day. Diana arrived on time and Marty had her take a chair directly across from him. I sat in an uncomfortable wooden seat off to the side. A tall, lanky Native woman, Diana often had a rather bored, insouciant demeanor. With us, she doubled down on that overall vibe, adding a dollop of I-have-no-idea-why-I’m-here.

Marty got right to the point. In a matter-of-fact tone, as if commenting on the weather, he said, “Your co-workers have told Dr. Ramsey you’re selling cocaine here on clinic property.”

She didn’t bother to act surprised, bewildered, or even just taken aback. She went for totally pissed off. “That’s a lie! That’s not true! No way!” Her lower lip stuck out, defying us to challenge her.

Marty deflected this nicely. “Unfortunately we have no choice but to suspend you while we investigate,” he said. “This is a serious charge, a criminal allegation.” I was suddenly glad that Law & Order was one of Marty’s favorite shows. He knew the lingo perfectly. I sat on the sidelines, nodding.

“Your suspension begins this morning,” he said and started to explain what a suspension entails. But Diana couldn’t hold back. “You can’t do this! I only sell coke on my lunch hour,” she said. “You can’t tell me what to do on my lunch hour.”

I was gobsmacked. Even the dumbest perp on Law & Order never gave it up that easy. And she was about to make it easier yet.

“You can’t suspend me,” she said. “In fact, I don’t even want this stupid job. I quit!” She said this confidently, like a woman with a lucrative side hustle.

“Ok then,” Marty said, magically producing a a blank piece of paper and a pen. He slid them over to Diana’s side of the desk. “Just write ‘I resign from my job as a medical assistant at Native American Health Center’.”

She grabbed the pen with snarl on her face, eager to prove she wasn’t bluffing. As she wrote, I reflected on the fact that, while she’d never been a very good medical assistant, she’d always had beautiful penmanship. A real plus.

“Date it at the top,” Marty added. “It’s the seventeenth.” He had the tone of a bank clerk helping an adolescent write her first check.

When she was done, Marty instructed her to remove her property from the clinic premises and called his assistant to escort her downstairs. The whole business, start to finish, had taken less than ten minutes. I leaned back in my chair, stunned.

Marty looked over at me with a smile. “Wanna go to lunch?” he said.

FOR THE LOVE OF TYPE

Troo dat

TYPEFACES of this vintage are called Grotesque, which they are anything but. The term, from the Italian word “grottesco” refers to Roman decorative arts found in caves (grottos). Later, it was expanded to mean anything unusual or irregular or even shocking—which these new sans serif typefaces were when introduced to a 19th-century public long conditioned to seeing end strokes (serifs) on their letterforms. This playful treatment of a grotesque typeface on a Seattle Center building caught my eye last summer. –Kerry

VIDEO OF THE WEEK

MY FRIEND PAUL claims he has watched this recording of White Rabbit by Molly Tuttle and Golden Highway every day since I shared it with him two weeks ago. Though I don’t believe Grace Slick will ever be surpassed, I love it, too. Their musicianship and costumes bring back the spirit of bohemian San Francisco so many of us cherished in the days before the California Silicon Rush. Hope you like it, too. –Kerry