ArchivedLogs:First Chats and Second Guessing

First Chats and Second Guessing
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Rasheed
In Absentia	6 December, 2012 Doctors chat, clinically.
Location Busboys and Poets
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. The evening has just begun, and the cafe is busy with people having left their respective places of employment. Or, as often happens in this particular cafe, people who have left their places of education, or just wandered in off of the street with no particular job at all. The people whose job it is to work at the cafe, however, have their hands full of Work. Also, large amounts of coffee, tea, and pastries. One of the people sitting down at a table with a computer in front of them is a rather studious looking man, still wearing a white lab coat with his name embroidered over the chest. An ID hangs by his waist, showing his name - Iolaus Saavedro - his hospital - Mount Sinai - and his department, Genetics/Epidemiology. Headphones are loosely fitted over his ears, and quiet music plays from between them. The man who has just strolled in off the street looks somewhat more professional than many of the students scattered around the cafe, though in a different sort of way than Iolaus. Rasheed's slacks are crisp and creased, his pale button-down neat as well, although he wears it with a blazer but no tie. He is rather intently focused as he walks up to the counter, not on its menu but on a slim black phone in his hand. His thumb is industriously swiping, until he makes it to the front of the line -- in truth it is swiping even then. He looks up only when the barista behind the counter clears her throat a /second/ time, asks once /more/ what she can get him, with thin-veiled impatience given the long line behind him. "Ah -- oh." There is no apology forthcoming, only a long frown up at the menu board. Eventually he orders himself a mocha and a bowl of chili, and takes himself off to the seating area with his table number -- though this earns an additional frown as he finds no ready tables /available/. Brows creased, he looks around, hones in on Iolaus's table. He rests his hand on the back of a chair opposite the doctor. "I am going to sit here," he announces, rather than asks. It takes Iolaus a moment to even notice that the other man is talking to him, but when he does, he presses a button on his laptop and pulls his headphones off so they hang loosely around his neck. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asks, raising one eyebrow as he quickly sweeps the other man over, appraisingly. "Yeah, you can take the chair, if you want." he adds, taking a guess as to the topic of conversaton. His eyebrows furrow for a moment as he studies the other man's face again, more closely, though the look passes only a moment later. "There is nowhere to take it," Rasheed replies blandly, turning one hand up to gesture to the crowded rooms as a whole. "The tables are full. I am sitting here." This assertion repeated, he proceeds to /do/ so, shedding his blazer and draping it off the back of the chair and then seating himself. He places his number placard on one side of the table, props his elbows on its surface, and folds his fingers together. "Do you know Martin? Dixon?" Glancing around the room, Iolaus chuckles and waves at the seat. "Please, go right ahead." he says, politely shifting the laptop to one side so that it is not blocking fully his view of the other man. "Dixon?" He rubs a knuckle against his nose for a second, thoughtfully. "Does he work in... ICU? The name rings a bell - I've seen it on some orders, but I'm not sure I've ever met him." he says. "Oh, hang on." Iolaus leans forward slightly, smile widening. "Cardiothorasic surgery, right? Yeah, I think I've bumped into him in the caf once or twice." "Surgery," Rasheed agrees, with a slight downward tilt of his head, nod clipped and short. "Sarah Carmine?" This time, the doctor he names works in Oncology. His hands still folded together, now he steeples interlaced fingers, resting his narrow chin down on top of them. His gaze focuses rather intently on Iolaus, thoughtful. "Oncology. I work with her, occasionally. I'm over in Clinical Genetics and Epidemiology, so our paths cross when she has patients who need my assistance." Iolaus says, with a nod of his head. "Did you work at Mount Sinai, or do you just know a lot of people in the medical community?" he inquires, matching the other man's gaze unflinchingly. "She is a delightful woman." Rasheed unsteeples his fingers when his drink arrives, set down steaming and whipped-cream-topped on a square saucer beside his elbow. He gives the server the same slight clipped nod he gave to Iolaus's answer. "Many years ago. I worked there. When I was first starting out." He drags the mocha closer without looking at it, and shakes out his napkin to rest it almost primly in his lap. "Residency feels like another lifetime. How long have you been there?" "Since my residency." Iolaus replies, waving a hand with a little flick of his wrist in dismissal. "I stayed on afterwards. That was a few years ago, now, though. Changed departments once or twice, and fought off getting pinched into research as well." he says, a wry smile on his lips. "Barely, though. They have some very tempting tools of persuasion." "It sounds like you are in high demand." Rasheed picks up a teaspoon from the side of his saucer, carefully scooping the top off of his whipped cream. He lifts it halfway to his lips, dipping his head the rest of the way to lick it off the bowl. "Research has its appeal. For sure. But not quite the same /reward/ as working with patients." His brow creases, briefly. "Different rewards. It would be hard to give up, though." "These days, what competent doctor isn't?" Iolaus asks, raising one eyebrow and putting his hand on his laptop screen to close it gently. "They do, indeed. But, I find myself agreeing with you. And did, then, too. I enjoyed research when I was doing my post-doc, but I think I've always been happier once I started working with patients. It's more... fulfilling." "I never assume competence just because someone comes with a badge," Rasheed answers, lips for the first time curling up into a smile. A slight smile, but a smile at least, as he picks up his mocha. "Or because they come with a medical degree, for that matter. I often told myself I would go into research. I opened my own practice instead. It'd be harder still to leave." "Oh? How long did you wait before going into private practice? Do you have a clinic's license, or are you operating as a partnership?" Iolaus asks, questions bubbling forth quickly. He stops himself and mutters something under his breath in Greek. "Sorry. It's been a matter I've been giving some thought to, and I'd love to have the opportunity to pick your brain on it, if you don't mind." "I was at Mount Sinai for seven years. Excluding my residency. It has been --" For a moment Rasheed's eyebrows lift, and then furrow on some private mental calculation. "That same time that I've been in practice of my own." There are no doubt many details of the Ins and Outs of private practices to be shared, and Rasheed seems happy to share them; more forthcoming still once his chili arrives and he has some /food/ in him to fuel the conversation. Only after a short length of conversation does he pause to ask: "-- You say you are giving it some thought?" "Yes. Well, a somewhat private practice. A clinic, actually. I have a few people willing to put some money behind the effort, and I think I have the association almost worked out with the hospital. It's just a matter of tying up some bits of paperwork in a neat bow, and then deciding whether I really want to take the plunge or not." Iolaus smiles at the other man, glancing around the room and then back, eyes twinkling. "I want to. I really, really want to. But there's that last rational thread clinging on in the back of my mind." he says, tone low as if he was whispering some dark secret. "A clinic?" Rasheed taps his spoon against the side of his chili bowl, his smile widening a touch. "As it happens, I've got some experience there, too. Do you know the Common Ground Clinic? It's under Sinai's mantle." The clinic he names is one run under Mount Sinai's auspices, a free- and low-cost center in Clinton, that caters to many high-risk groups. "Starting your own practice is insanity," he proclaims seriously. "Starting a charity one is more insane still." Iolaus' eyes widen, and his smile widens. "I'm sure many would say that our meeting was one destined, it seems, for I do know it well." he says, eyes sparkling. "I've never been one to care much how insane an idea is, nor have I ever been one to care much about making money. If I did, I would certainly have gone into research. Pfizer would happily have paid my salary in return for tinkering with some of their new faux-personalized drugs, if just to put the name of another prestigious university that one of their doctor's studied at on the paper." he says, winking playfully. "I founded it." Rasheed says this without note of bragging or pride, only simple fact in the face of the other man's desire to do the same. "Helped found it. Though I can't say how it would have turned out as my full-time occupation. The time I spend there is unpaid. And the clinic is hardly a moneymaker." Shrugging one shoulder, he scoops up another bite of chili. "But the people who frequent it are glad enough it's there, I'm sure. I can't say Mount Sinai feels the same." "You? Well, perhaps you will make a believer out of me, yet. I didn't think I believed in miracles." Iolaus jokes, grinning with a flash of teeth. "I imagine they would feel similar about my clinic. Still, it will be hard for them to back away from it, without causing a PR disaster the types that are much more expensive than filing the paperwork and being done with it." Iolaus pauses, a hard smile tightening his face into line for a moment. "And I have made sure that my attorneys have made sure that there are claws in those provisions." he drums his fingers once against the table, then leans back in his chair onto two legs, a few inches off of the ground. "Miracles?" Rasheed's eyebrows raise, a puzzled note in his tone. "-- Sinai is opening another clinic?" "No, no." Iolaus says, waving his hand once and chuckles. "Not Sinai. But either way, I haven't submitted the contract to them. I've been holding off, making sure I have all my I's dotted and T's crossed, and giving me more time to hesitate and second-guess myself." A wry, slanting smile. "You'll second-guess yourself into never existing, if you do it too long. Which, admittedly," Rasheed says with a slim twitch of smile and a quiet exhaled breath, "might allow you to keep paying rent far into the future. I was luckier than most. If I failed here, I had plenty of funds to fall back on. I would probably not have been so bold with real concerns about failure hanging over my head." "I, perhaps, don't. But I am used to being poor." Iolaus says, chuckling at his own little rather unfunny joke. "So the fear of it does not bother me. I know what lies down that road, and if that is the way I will end up walking, I am happy to do so, if it is along the right path." "And is it?" Rasheed looks over the other man thoughtfully. "Being poor might be hard," though admittedly he says this with the detachment of one who does not, really, /know/, "but failure is a hard path in a completely different way. What /sort/ of clinic are you looking to open? Some might be harder than others." "It's a specialty clinic." Iolaus says, somewhat evasively. "Catering to the needs of an underserved population. It is not often that clinical geneticists do work in low-income clinics, and that is a shame." he says, sighing once and looking somewhat annoyed. "Too many of us don't take the oaths that we took seriously enough, I think." "What specialty?" Rasheed's head tips to one side, interest in his expression. "All the patients who come by us are underserved. There are low-income clinics already in plenty, if you are looking to do good work in one. Given many of our clientele, we could certainly use a geneticist on staff." Iolaus watches the other man carefully, tilting his head from one side to the other, suspicion briefly flit in his expression. "I'm sorry," he says, slowly. "A man never tells on the first date." he drawls, a twinkle in his eye. "My lawyers have advised me to say little and write less. I'm sure you understand." "Not really, no," Rasheed answers blandly, polishing off his chili and setting his spoon down. "You are founding a clinic, not filing a patent. When I was working to found mine, I did little /but/ talk it up. Funding is hard to come by. Networking is one of the best things you can do." Pursing his lips, Iolaus studies the other man for a moment. "There are many parties who would seek to kill the funding for this clinic before it has even begun. That is my reason for my silence. I hope you will forgive me for my paranoid caution." he says, voice calm but not particularly apologetic. "Forgive you? Have you wronged me?" Rasheed shakes his head, lifting his napkin to dab at his lips. "Paranoia will get you nowhere except -- killed before you've begun," the other doctor says, wry. He pushes his chair back, standing. "I don't know if you are founding a clinic for the KKK, but I'll tell you something. If people want your project killed, it'll get killed. And if people want to fund you, they'll fund you. The first will happen whether you network or not, but the second will -- never happen. Ever. If you are too afraid to admit the work you're doing." He folds his napkin neatly, setting it down beside his empty bowl. Iolaus looks up at the other man placidly, eyes flickering over the other man's face. "Perhaps you are correct. Still, there is a time for action and a time for thought, and I am still not sure that I have crossed from the latter into the former. When I do, I will take your advice to heart, believe me." Rasheed does not answer this. He only tips his head down, one quick nod. Picking his jacket off the back of his chair, he shrugs into it even as he starts for the door. Iolaus falls silent as he watches the other man go. He does not take his eyes off of the door after the other man has stepped through it for several moments, deep in his own thought. Finally, he shakes his head and turns his attention back to his computer, lifting his headphones and once more shutting the world out in favor of work.