Fun And Games · Life in Da City!

RANDOM THOUGHTS, INSTALLMENT NUMBER VIII

@The other day, my MA gave me the typical “thumbnail” report of my next patient. “(sick person of some sort”), (vitals), ….And, you know, he’s older.”

This particular soul was born TEN YEARS after I was!

@ROBOCALLS: I receive telephone calls, from time to time, from unknown numbers. Almost every one is from some computer dialed bullshit. My practice is to say “Hello”, and then begin to count ten seconds. If there is no human being on the line by then, according to my (it’s a robo call: I’m not particularly patient) timer, I hang up.

If there is some human on the line by then, they have, maybe, ten or fifteen seconds to convince me that I have any interest whatsoever in speaking to them.

And, if it’s one of those “we need to speak to you about your computer repair the other day” idiots, it depends: if I’m feeling froggy, I may stay on the line simply to trifle with them and waste their time. If I’m feeling curmudgeonly (which, to be honest, is most of the time), I hang up. In mid word.

OVERHEARD THE OTHER DAY:

Joe-Bob arrives, asking if he could get the work note written for Cletus. The clerk inquired after Cletus’ last name. Joe-Bob did not know Cletus’ last name.

She asked if Joe-Bob knew Cletus’ date of birth? “Nope.”

Cletus’ phone number?

“Nope.”

Cletus’ SSN?

(surprisingly/sarc) “Nope!”

Did Joe-Bob know the date of the visit which elicited Cletus’ work note?

(say it with me, now…) “Nope.”

She wrote down *OUR* phone number, and suggested that, once Joe-Bob rejoined Cletus, perhaps he, Joe-Bob, could invite him, Cletus, to telephone us, and at that point arrangements could be made.

@ Life Lesson: A lesson learned from hard experience: No matter how frequently you look at your watch, in the middle of an awful shift, it is still 3 o’clock!

Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pre Planning Your Scene

“Reading the Room”, or, Situational Awareness

So, TINS©, TIWFDASL© as an ED RN. At this point in time, the ED employing me (which was Middling Freestanding ED (MFSED) was an entertainment subsidiary of Enormous Hospital System With Delusions Of Grandeur (EHSWDoG).

My subsidiary hospital had the system’s psych ward upstairs, and therefore we appeared to be the psych intake for the three or four county area at which we were the center. So, this one night, an enormous dude, dressed in a three piece suit, perfectly buttoned etc, and BACKWARDS appeared. There were no police accompanying him (so I assume he was not a police psych hold). For some reason, Mr. backwards Suit had decided that he needed to go for a stroll.

As I became aware of the excitement, I noticed a cloud of nurses, as well as several security, negotiating with him to lay back down for assessment, and so forth. Somebody had given him a pen (for Ghawd only knows what reason), and he was appearing to become more excited as time passed. I noticed him only paying attention to the officers, with his (pen holding) hand behind him. He was standing in a doorway from one hallway to another, and I was down the one hall to his right. I strode past him, as if going down that hallway, and, as I passed, I snatched the pen from his hands, and continued down the hallway, as if that were the only reason for my passage.

Mr. Backwards Suit soon de-escalated, was assessed, and (unsurprisingly) admitted for psych evaluation. And, nobody else gave him a pen.

Fun And Games · guns

Small Town Clinics

TINS©, TIWFDASL© in Da Nawth. I was working my weekends off in a rural hospital’s walk in clinic, and, surprisingly, saw folks who walked (and limped!) in to obtain care for their particular maladies. One snowy weekend, a gentleman limped in, with a complaint of bruising and knee pain after rolling his snowmobile.

Once the nurse had finished her interview of our friend, I entered for my share of the proceedings. I introduced myself, and asked him to tell me what happened.

“Well, Doc,” (No, I’m not a doctor, yet folks persist in addressing me as a physician, notwithstanding the fact that every single time I begin an interview, I introduce myself as ‘Hello, I’m Reltney McFee, a Nurse Practitioner. What can I do for you?’), he began, “Yesterday I rolled my snowmobile down an embankment, and it wound up on my leg, pinning me to the road. I rolled it right in front of a DNR officer, and he and one of my buddies rolled it off me. My knee feels pretty sore, even though I can walk on it. I have another bruise, here on my side, I guess from my Sig 365, that I had in my pocket.”

For those in our studio audience who are not “gun guys”, a Sig 365 is a striker fired semi auto 9 mm handgun, with a 10 round detachable box magazine. It is relatively small sized, being just under 6 inches from muzzle to the back of the slide.

I asked him where his pistol was presently, and he responded, “Well, this is in the hospital, so I left it in my car. That’s what the regs regarding my CPL (concealed pistol license) call for.”

I performed my exam, and we chatted about firearms while I did so. I contributed, “My wife is looking at getting another concealed carry pistol, and she has considered the Sig. What do you think about that?”

“Well, I really like my Sig. It carries well, and I am pretty accurate with it. You read about firing pin drag on the primer, and some guys say that the firing pin may break because of that. I haven’t had any problems myself. Just in case, I carry it with the hammer down on an empty chamber.”

TDW bought a Springfield Armory Hellcat. And loves it!

Another, tangentially related, small town story. Several weeks ago TDW-Mark II and I went on vacation. We set our camper up, and decided that this night was a good choice for pizza. We went to the local pizza place, placed our order, and settled in to wait. It was getting on towards dusk, and I noticed that, as I turned on the lights, there did not appear to be any illumination from the passenger side tail light. Since I did not feel any particular desire to explain to Officer Friendly how this light might have failed, nor my plans to remedy this failure (let alone the conversation that begins, “Well, officer, you see, I have my CPL, and my sidearm is on my right hip. How would you like to proceed?” I have had a couple of friendly roadside conversations about carry sidearm choice, but, wouldn’t it be nice to not encounter Officer Friendly as the traffic stop just after he received a soliloquy regarding his mother’s poor life choices?)

So, the next day, TDW and I set off on our day, and detoured to the Rural Town Truck Dealership. I explained my need to the service advisor, and he said that one of the mechanics could set me right, once the present job was complete.

Cool by me.

I settled in for a spell of a wait, and soon met the mechanic, who identified my bulb type, and led me to the parts counter, there to pay for my bulb.

I typically wear a ball cap, and this one is from Freedom Munitions (no payola, simply a satisfied customer). The parts guy asked me if I worked there, and a conversation about The Ammo Drought ensued. We chatted about caliber, about carry choices, and about setting ammunition by for a “rainy day”.

At the end of the chat, my taillight was repaired, I was NOT charged for the mechanic’s time (despite the fact that I asked what I owed for his time!)

The moral of the story is that, as Commander Zero (http://www.commanderzero.com/)often notes, there are Like Minded Individuals all over the place, if you look carefully.

Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pre Planning Your Scene · Sometimes You Get to Think That You Have Accomplished Something!

First noc I wore fire boots at work: freeway run, on a snowy night.

TINS©, TIWFDASL©, and going to paramedic school in my off time (this was many, many years ago). In the course of this schooling, I spent some time in clinicals, variously in the local ED in a wretched hive of scum and villainy not so very far from Da City, or with one of the advanced life support crews running calls in the self same wretched hive.

It’s generally educational to spend time with other medics, as their organization’s culture, and lore, is likely to be kind of at a tangent to your home outfit. The education may run both ways. In any event, There I was, (studying) Fighting Disease, and Saving Lives in The Wretched Hive, and one of the host medics came on duty, ferrying his “load out” into the ambulance. I noticed that he tucked a pair of fire boots behind his seat, and asked him about them.

It being winter in The Northern Un-Named State, well, we were susceptible to receiving considerable amounts of snow from time to time. I believe the professional meteorological term is “ass loads”. My host noted that this could result in snowy shoes, and therefore wet feet, and that there were few things so miserable as cold, wet feet, in Da Nawth, in winter. Waterproof boots, that reached nigh up to one’s crotch, served admirably to avert this sort of undesirable outcome. I took notes.

Soon, I acquired my very own pair of “Storm King” (old standard) NFPA complaint boots. So, it happened that I wore them to work one snowy evening, and, early in the shift, Doug and I caught a run for “one down” on the expressway.

We pulled up behind the state police cruiser, and saw a figure prone in the snow and slush. The trooper told us that the patient had been struck by an overtaking vehicle, when the overtaking vehicle did not notice that our patient was bent over the lip of the trunk of his STOPPED vehicle, ON THE SHOULDER OF THE DAMNED EXPRESSWAY!

Our patient did not fare well in this exchange. I pulled up my bunker style boots, so that they reached nearly to my crotch, and knelt in the slush. Doug logrolled the man, and I slid the backboard beneath him, and logrolled him my way, so Doug and I could then center him on our spine splint. We buckled him in, collared him, schlepped him into our rig, and beat feet to TSBTCIDC, which happened to be one exit and a coupla turns away.

I remained dry and warm. If I had never worn those boots another day, that night, in that slush, they paid for themselves!

Fun And Games · Gratitude · Life in Da City! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

Random Thoughts Part VI

Assessment of the elderly, sounding confused.

When I am assessing a patient, and ask, in my interview, ref location/day of month/day of week/name/etcetera, when you are not the patient, and YOU answer, talking over the patient, please realize that IDGAF about YOUR mentation, and when you coach the patient, it really, really interferes with my assessment. Plus, it is entirely likely that I myself KNOW the place/day/date/season/etcetera, because, you can bet your ass that if it were NOT Tuesday March the 41st, I would certainly be somewhere else, doing something else, other than attempting to struggle my way through your interruptions of my evaluation of your parent.

In a similar vein, when I ask Jim-Bob where he hurts, probably, when you coach Jim-Bob, admonishing him to “Tell the doctor where you hurt”, you are not really contributing any value whatsoever to the interview. If Jim-Bob indeed comprehends my question, you are only adding noise and distraction and likely, that is NOT helpful. If, on the other hand, Jim-Bob does not understand my query, your repeating it IN THE VERY SAME FREAKING WORDS, neither adds to the information that I require, so that I may care for Jim-Bob properly, nor facilitates timely implementation of that care. So, unless Jim-Bob does NOT speak Engrish, himself, please STFU, and allow me to interview the patient. Or, perhaps, go boil some water, gather a fresh newspaper and some clean shoelaces, right now, please.

Which will, of course, require you depart the exam room and allow me to complete my interview and examination.

Thank you.

Thoughts about Cost vs Price:

Lowe’s “bargain bin” AA battery powered cell phone charger: $10

Having several in your Bag-O’-Tricks at work, so you can hand one to a patient you’re sending to ED via ambulance, whose phone is dead: Kharma.

Having that guy get my cheap-o, bought-on-a-whim charger back to me, with a thank you: PRICELESS!

EMS LAW OF ALTITUDE: Patient’s weight divided by number of floors above street level equals a constant, “K”. Therefore, a 300 pound inert patient on the first floor is roughly equivalent to a 1200 pound patient on the 4th floor. With no functional elevator. And the first due engine company out on a working fire.

(redacted)’s Law: (I don’t have permission to use his name, but it’s not *MY* formulation) When responding to an EMS call, and you are pretty sure that you are on the correct block, but, for some reason, folks in this neighborhood do NOT have any house numbers, seek out the most tumbledown anonymous house on that block, and knock, Your patient awaits inside.

(redacted’s partner)’s Corollary Number One: The one house on the block with ghetto gates (bars on the doors and windows), is your call.

Corollary Number Two: Occupants of the house with the gates KNOW who is performing all the neighborhood B & Es.

Corollary Number Three: There is nothing inside the grilled house worth stealing. The decor is milk crates, cast offs, soiled mattresses on the floor. Even odds that the smell makes the place a haz mat scene.

Final Thought”

Please, please, please! If your physician has ALREADY prescribed a medication for your affliction, take the freaking med, BEFORE your come to my clinic stating that you require treatment for that selfsame affliction! Because, it could happen that my self control may lapse, and I may, indeed, ask you just how exactly I may help you, when you not only were prescribed, but physically picked up, the very medication that I would have prescribed (and, indeed, wound up prescribing) for your problem.

But, OF COURSE, you weren’t here to get a work note! Totally!

Duty · Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

Vehicular Extrication

Long ago and far away, I spent my salad days as a street medic in Da City’s EMS. I know, right? Startlement abounds, amirite? Anyhow, this one time, we caught a run. We arrived to find an intoxicated gentleman seated in the rear seat of a four door sedan. Interestingly enough, he was seated upon the floor thereof, with his legs extended beneath the front seat.

We figured that extricating him from the vehicle would facilitate assessment (eg, WTF was his primary malfunction, and what, if any, would be our role in addressing it?). Therefore we started to attempt to move his legs so that he could return to being seated upon the rear seat, and exit the vehicle from there. No joy.

It tuns out that highly intoxicated folks, like our friend here, were not so very good at listening to and following directions. Our entreaties that he fold one leg, and remove it from beneath the seat, seemed overly complex, as he did not successfully implement step one of our process.

So, we tried to move the seat forward, thinking that this would afford our patient enough maneuvering room so as to fold leg “A”, move it laterally, extend it, and repeat the process with leg “B”, and thereby achieve freedom.

Nope. As the seat moved, he shrieked as if we were removing the leg, likely anticipating reattachment on the sidewalk. So, that avenue of approach was foreclosed.

Doug and I consulted with the vehicle’s owner, who had been pacing about, intent that we not damage his baby. Or the patient, I suppose. Doug and I were fresh out of ideas, and figured that our friends in the firefighting division, with halligan bars, K-12 gasoline powered saws with metal cutting blades, hydraulic extrication tools, and similar toys for fun and games, likely could devise several new plans to remove this gentleman from the floor of the back seat.

I shared this thought with dispatch, noting that our patient appeared in no immediate life threat, and perhaps a “Code Three” (aka “Priority Three”, or no red lights no siren) response might be appropriate.

Dispatch acknowledged our request, told us that a squad would be on the way, and “Firefighters never respond ‘Code Three’, always ‘Code One’”.

Alrighty, then.

The vehicle owner overheard all this, and appeared to become considerably more excited. “You called the mother-f*@$ing firemen! They will f*@$ up my car!”

Doug and I agreed with him, that likely there would be some damage once the firefighters had extricated Mr. Drunk And Boneless from his car.

Mr. Drunk And Boneless thereupon became the recipient of a loud, profane, creative, and enthusiastic exhortation that he remove himself from the vehicle so as to greet the firefighters while sanding upon his own two feet, on the sidewalk, rather than seated upon the floor of the exhortor’s car. (Paraphrased). This was accompanied by pulling, pushing, tugging and bending, as the narrator demonstrated the contortions that he believed would facilitate the exit of the drunk and boneless fellow from the narrator’s vehicle.

And it came to pass that, once the squad had arrived on our scene, Mr. Drunk And Boneless was seated, relatively happily and nearly uninjured, upon somebody’s lawn, rather than enmeshed in the seat of the vehicle that had held him securely within it’s embrace.

The squad looked the scene over, returned to service, and our patient told us to bugger off, as he simply wanted to sleep.

Well, bye!

Fun And Games · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

BEFORE GOOGLE

Gather ’round, my children, and listen to a tale of long ago, and far away! In those far away, long ago times, there was electricity, yes, and telephones as well (although they were anchored to the walls of our homes, by “wires”). Why, indeed, we even had the Goddam Noisy Box, which you young ‘uns call “TV”.

Once upon a time, I was volunteering at a free clinic, serving as a nurse therein. The volunteer physician would interview, and examine the patient, and then provide orders for the treatment indicated. In those days, should one have symptoms of gonorrhea, the therapy was two injections of procaine penicillin g.

This turned out to be around 3 cc each, of a very, very viscous fluid, made particularly slow flowing because it was kept in the refrigerator.

At this point, I had been an RN for several years, working full time in ER. I had administered many, many, many injections intramuscularly as well as intravenously. I was familiar with injections, as well as strategies to mitigate patient discomfort while they were administered.

So, one gentleman was diagnosed with gonorrhea, and I received an order to administer two injections of 2.4 million units, each, of procaine penicillin g. I secured the medication, verified it’s outdate as well as the order, and made sure that the other medications the patient took, as well as his allergies, did not contraindicate this treatment.

I entered the room, and checked that the patient had been told of our plan of care. His reply? “Doc, doc, just shoot it on in!”

I informed him that he did NOT want me to “just shoot it on in”, and he would very much not enjoy the result of my doing so.

He reiterated his demand. I told him,” Sir? You are going to get two of these shots. You do not want me to simply ‘shoot it on in” because you will find it to be way, way more uncomfortable than it needs to be.”

Unmoved, he repeated his demand.

“Sir, how about I do as you insist, for the first injection. Then we can talk, and see if you would like to try it my way for your second shot, okay?”

He stated that he would not change his mind. I injected the first syringe of medication, rapidly, as he had insisted. It took some effort, because the penicillin was very thick, and did not want to flow through the needle at all rapidly.

My patient was very, very impressed by his first injection. Not at all favorably.

He stood up, once I had removed the needle, and commenced to hopping around and swearing. “Goddam! That really, really hurt! Shit, shit, shit! Doc, let me cool myself for a while!”

I corrected him. “Sir, I am an RN, not a physician. Once you calm yourself, you have another injection coming. Why don’t you allow me to administer it in the way that I know I ought to, and you can tell me how it is compared to the first one?”

He soon calmed himself, and I administered the second injection, steadily and slowly. The advantage of doing so correctly, oddly enough, is that the deliberate pace of administration allows the medication to spread out, rather than remaining a single, irritating ball of foreign material in the muscle, eliciting a cramp and muscle spasm. A cramp about which my patient had testified loudly.

Once I was done with the second injection, he stood, adjusted his clothing, and rubbed the second injection site. “Ya know, doc, that second one was not anywhere near as painful as the first one!”

Gooll-llee, Sergeant Carter! Just as if I had gone to school for this stuff, or something!

Fun And Games · guns · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

Retail Pharmacy, So To Speak

A long, long time ago, in an ER very far away, I was a night shift ER nurse.

Surprise!

So, TINS, TIWFDASL, well, uh, not so much. I and the other nurses were capitalizing upon a slow moment and gabbing away at the nursing station, when one of our security officers ran in (literally!) and announced that “We got a shooting in the driveway!”

Having heard no loud noises, I was puzzled, but, these officers were not prone to overstatement, so I asked a couple of the other nurses to grab a cart, I grabbed some gloves, and off we went to the ambulance entrance.

Now, by way of background, this was in the early days of the crack cocaine epidemic (although, how one contracted “crack cocaine” from another person without active, willful action on one’s own part is unclear to me). A couple of blocks away was what might be considered to be an open air drug market. Folks (commonly suburbanites) would drive up, engage a soul in conversation and arrange a transaction, another confederate would be summoned and the exchange would take place, money from the buyer, drugs from the vendor.

We were told that in this particular transaction, the named patient, seated in the back seat of this two door vehicle, appeared to believe that he was the designated quality control inspector. Indeed, the tale appeared to paint this fellow as believing that he ought to remonstrate with the vendor regarding the unsatisfactory nature of the product that had been delivered.

As the History Of Present Illness unraveled, the vendor did not seem to have fully committed to a “Zero Product Defect”, nor a “Every Customer Fully Satisfied, Every-time” merchandising philosophy, as, when the shootee indicated that he, the shootee, intended to enforce his product quality complaint by with holding payment, he, the vendor, is reported to have produced a handgun, and shot the shootee.

Bad times ensued. The driver, unsurprisingly, panicked, and sped away. A few blocks later, he, the driver, noticed our bright “Emergency” sign, and pulled in, bellowing an incomprehensible narrative.

So, security cleared the car of the terrorized goslings, and I (and security, and my nursing partners) tried to extricate Mr. Beenshot’s inert form out of the rear seat of a coupe, indeed, a compact coupe.

It only closely resembled a cluster fuck. For a while.

We maneuvered Mr. Beenshot into our code room, and commenced to resuscitating. Before things had progressed very far, our doc had determined that this guy had a “STAT!” transfer in his very near future, and so the nursing supervisor, who had come at a run upon our paging a Code Blue overhead, peeled off to arrange with our transfer ambulance service that they produce a crew and truck RFQ (Right F*%king Quick), and then phoned TBTCIDC to provide them a heads up.

We eventually got him stabilized (kind of, sort of), and the physician had a detailed chat with TBTCIDC senior physician. Off Mr. Beenshot went, and we sought out the entourage, intending to elicit more history, more circumstances leading up to the shooting, more pretty nearly anything, so we could provide that information to TBTCIDC, as well as, well, notify next of kin.

Alas, the posse had unassed our waiting room sometime while we were distracted, trying to save the life of their friend, I mean, co conspirator.

Duty · Fun And Games · Having A Good Partner Is Very Important! · Life in Da City! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact

Random Thoughts, Part V

Another day, fighting disease, and saving lives. Another opportunity to consider the fact that everybody brings sunshine into my life. Sometimes, that is when an individual enters my life…….

A long, long time ago, not so very far away, Doug and I had a run on a soul very much like our “O’BEAST!” friend. That reminded me that some folks have so much misery and unhappiness in their lives, that they have enough to share with everyone around them. Or, so they appear to think!

Regarding that: any particular miserable soul provides me the opportunity to be unhappy for a half hour, maybe an hour. On the other hand, they are wallowing in their sourness, unpleasantness, hour after hour, day and night, 24/7/365. Who is worse off?

Among THAT population, are folks who appear to lack an education in The Classics. This is manifested by their diction, their articulation, as well as their vocabulary. From time to time, “Back In The Day”, we in the ED would have one (or more) of these souls gracing us for an extended time, while their livers metabolized them towards freedom. (It takes a while to detox from a high level drunk!) Such a philosopher would feel compelled to share with us all his ruminations about Maternal-child relationships, and conjecture about our particular manifestation of those relationships. (generally running along Oedipal sorts of speculations) Along with thoughts about hygiene and the value to be found in regularity, and legitimacy of parentage (or something like that).

One physician characterized one individual’s declamations as reflecting a certain “Poverty of conversational themes”.

Fun And Games · Fun With Suits! · Pains in my Fifth Point of Contact · School Fun And Games

“Engendering Collectivity In Nursing”

So, TINS, TIWFDASL, and I had been admitted into the BHSU College of Nursing. I had moved on from Da City’s EMF (“The ‘Mergency Muthafuggers!”, as we had been so colorfully denominated on so many occasions), and was nursing in the ED of one of the nearly dozen small (at that time, around 300 beds) hospitals dotting Da City. I went from being chief steward of the union representing the medics, to a staff peon working nights.

Another of the nurses working with me was also pursuing her BSN, and so we study buddied up. We both had been old schooled in The Wisdom Of The Student, as so found ourselves in the rear 1/3 of this cavernous several hundred seat lecture hall, where the Blue Hive State University held it’s class on “Transitions in Nursing”. This was aimed at those of us entering the BSN program. The instructor of this particular class appeared enamored of Florence Nightingale, the Victorian English woman whose work caring for wounded and ill British soldiers in The Crimean War laid the foundation of contemporary Nursing.

This infatuation was reflected as this instructor read to us all from a book of Nightingale’s life. Amusingly, from time to time, she (the instructor) would hold the book above her head, turned towards us so that we could “see” some illustration or another, and detail the citation accompanying the illustration. (“Did you bring your binoculars?”)

From our seats, some 50 or more meters away, this was not as informative as our instructor appeared to consider it.

Once she had exhausted her store of Florence Nightingale trivia, she (the instructor, not Ms. Nightingale) moved on to instruct us in the advantages to be found in group efforts to improve the workplace. She described these efforts as “engendering collectivity” (and, do we not all wonder if, forty years later, in The Enlightened Twenty First Century, if the Thought Police would allow any of us to speak in those terms?), and appeared to believe that this was an unmitigated Good! Thing!.

Let me follow a tangent, if you please, for a brief intermission. I had mentioned that I had been a steward for the union representing Da City’s EMS. Interestingly, my father in his own youthful years, had had a hand in the formation of the American Newspaper Guild, which was a union for (surprisingly) newspaper folks.

So, I kinda grew up steeped in old school, Democrat political world view (think Scoop Jackson and Jack Kennedy, Not Occasio Cortez or Gavin Newsome), including the value to be found in an organized workplace. In that world view was the “real politik” perspective of the cost paid by the organizers initially struggling to create that organization. Examples such as The Fight Of The Overpass as the UAW attempted to unionize the Ford Motor Rouge Plant, or the Homestead Steel Strike, and other struggles as folks attempted to start, and foster, unions, including organizers being blackballed, being intimidated or outright assaulted.

So, as the instructor droned about “engendering collectivity in the workplace”, I eventually let my boyish enthusiasm overcome my naturally shy nature.

I raised my hand, was called upon, and stood. “Ma’am, I was a steward for the union representing EMS in Da City. My father helped organize the American Newspaper Guild. In the professional labor circles with which I am acquainted, we have a technical term for those who seek to engender collectivity in a previously unorganized workplace. That term, is ‘unemployed’.”

I sat down. Oddly enough, I was never again called upon, for the balance of that semester!