Previously by S.J. Masty: Defusing the Foreign Policy Time-Bomb
"Please take a seat," smiled the pretty receptionist. I did, leafing disinterestedly through an out-dated copy of Keynesianism Today and trying not to notice the patient waiting next to me, pulling long gulps from a bottle of Jack Daniels wrapped in a brown paper bag.
"Here for the alcoholism recovery group?" he asked amiably and I said no. It was my first visit to The Krugman Wellness Center. I'd read about it in The New York Times of course, and everybody in Mid-Town Manhattan swore by its revolutionary treatments. Some even predicted that Dr. Krugman would be nominated for a Nobel Prize in Medicine.
I asked my neighbour if he wasn't hitting the bottle rather hard just before his consultation. He blew his nose noisily, explaining that the sour mash was on prescription and Dr. Krugman had him up to two quarts a day. "Since I doubled my drinking I feel a lot better," he explained, "except I fall down a lot." He pointed through the window to where a dozen gray-skinned people, huddled outside in the cold, sucked on cigarettes furiously. "They're giving up smoking," he added, "so Dr. Krugman has them on three packs a day."
I shuffled through the other old magazines but nothing caught my fancy. A December 2009 copy of Fabian Holiday promised "Spend Your Bailout in 10 Weekend Get-Aways," and an equally tattered copy of Populist Mechanics proclaimed "For $80 Billion Get Your Clunker Back on the Road."
A well-dressed, blue-rinse lady wrapped rubber surgical tubing around her forearm and held it tight in her clenched teeth. "Heroin detox?" I asked and she nodded sweetly, extracting a syringe from her purse.
The pretty receptionist sashayed across the room and gave me a form to fill out and a brochure entitled "Homeopathy & You." It explained that homeopathy works by prescribing various poisons in amounts so small that the water in which they were dissolved only u2018remembered' any molecular presence of the additive.
"Dr Krugman's epoch-making advance," it continued, "was to increase the additive dramatically and then keep upping the dose." This explained why Krugman kept his alcoholics on the sauce, his smokers sucking coffin-nails and grannies on smack. Eventually they would get over it but it was not clear how.
A portly man at the end of the room ate voraciously from a plastic salad bowl full of broccoli, Brussels sprouts and various beans. "Flatulence clinic," muttered my companion, offering me a slug from his bottle.
On the Financial Health & Recovery form I did not tick the box asking if I was a Central Banker: similarly no for politician, financier or stockbroker. I ticked yes for insomnia, credit card debt, negative equity on my mortgage and migraines. I ticked no for savings and current employment.
I hesitated when the form explained that treatment may require borrowing up to twice my annual earnings each year, dining out at least four times a week in expensive restaurants, buying a new car u2018on time' and quarterly holidays in Bali. Sure, everyone swore that Dr. Krugman was a genius but could I afford the treatment? They promised to arrange loans but it just did not make sense.
Then I saw it: a little, hand-written note scribbled on a three-by-five card that some other patient had stuck onto the bulletin board. The pretty receptionist announced that Dr. Krugman would see me now, but I did not answer as I keyed the numbers into my phone as fast as I could.
"Hello? Is this The Mises Clinic?" I asked. "May I please have an appointment with Dr. Rockwell?"
September 6, 2010
