by Jay Begler
“The what?
Those untutored in the way to speak at a Marriott would call that the ‘terminal illness plan.’ In any event, you pay $1500 and you get the space for as long as our medical guest is with us. And it also covers parking at our comfort zone.”
“The what?”
“In the old days you’d call it a hospice. And here’s something special, if you are a 24 or above you can purchase a parking space and then resell or just use it for as long as you want. The Host-Pital also has a very generous parking space management program. We also have a sporting plus plan.”
“For very serious illnesses”
“Very good. You are getting it. That plan is excellent. It’s $900 for the first 60 days and $4 a day for every day thereafter. And, this is the best part; it converts to a final phase of treatment plan, once you hit $1500. You can also go a la carte, $15 per day. Unfortunately, our regulations require that I charge you $15 for today, but the good news is that if you present the parking receipt at the cafeteria you get a $15 credit.”
As Goodwin drove into the parking lot and towards the Host-Pital, he saw a huge electronic plasma television billboard, possibly 30 by 40 feet. It was devoid of any picture, but contained a large interior computer-generated message: “NEXT FEATURE FROM MED-TV ROOM-SHEILA GOODWIN.” Directly below that message was a rapidly changing dollar amount, like the number on some electronic national debt signs: “Medical Costs for Sheila Goodwin” It was already up to $30,000 and rising continuously.
The Host-Pital was an enormous glass building, approximating the size of the Venetian in Las Vegas. At one end of the facility, there was a large heated pool, tennis courts, putting greens, and various other resort amenities. As Goodwin walked from the parking lot to the Host-Pital building he passed a series of billboards with photographs of other Marriott Host-Pitals, including Marriott’s newest and proudest venture, the S.S. Lady Marriott, the world’s only floating Host-Pital. Its principal focus was on seasickness.
A glass enclosed directory with a speaker button stood immediately outside the entrance to the Host-Pital. When Goodwin pushed the button, it actuated a voice identical to that of the electronic operator, Patricia. Goodwin wondered if she had sisters or siblings and if so it there was sibling rivalry. “Mom, she’s imitating my voice again.”
“Welcome to Marriott’s Palace of Meditainment. If you are here to see a medical guest on the Concierge Floor please see Miss. Smithers at desk one. If you are here to be a medical guest or would like information on becoming a medical guest, please ask for Mr. Gross at desk number two and don’t forget to ask for our weekend package plan including a free glass of champagne for every new patient, except those visiting for languid liver, a term which Goodwin guessed correctly was used in place of sclerosis.
“If you would like to see a live operation, operating room one features micro surgery on Mrs. Harrison’s knee cap, rated G. Operating room two will show the removal of some nasty hemorrhoids from Mr. Cohen, rated PG-13, and in operating room three, there will be a breast augmentation, rated R. Next week and for the foreseeable future our special medical guest in the Med-TV Room will be Sheila Goodwin, a woman struck by lightning and now surrounded by a mysterious cocoon of bright light. Admission to the Med-TV Room is $21 for a three-day pass. Attendees are advised to bring strong sunglasses or purchase our Sheila brand 3-D glasses at the gift shop.”
Goodwin let out a slight “Whaaat?” followed by “Sheila brand 3-D sunglasses?”
The voice continued, “Please make reservations early for the Med TV room. Tickets are going quickly because most of the 2000 seats in the Med-TV Room will be taken up by reporters who are flying in from all over the world to cover the remarkable story of Sheila Goodwin’s courageous fight for life.” When he heard these final words, Goodwin felt the hair on the back of his neck rise ever so slightly caused no doubt by the realization that Sheila, who he had wished to be struck by lightning, was slipping into a heroine mode and gaining a degree of notoriety.
“If you want to know more about Sheila Goodwin, press the green button.” Following the voice’s instructions, Goodwin pressed the button and was stupefied by what he saw. The screen cleared followed by:
Medical Guest: Sheila Goodwin
Health Status: Beyond REM
SHEILA GOODWIN’S PPR= 23.2
Married to Philip Goodwin
Grace Harbor, New York
Owner Threads Inc. New York City
Separated and Planning to Divorce.
S L P A H*
22 27 23 25 19
We don’t know you, but saw you on the news and think you’re great. Please get well and to cheer you up we voted for you.” “Go Sheila,” editors and staff of Jolt Magazine; “Sheila is the kindest, most wonderful woman alive,” members of the HH Society.
Goodwin had some difficulty processing what he was reading. The Host-Pital was now using PPRs to communicate information about patients. More shocking to him was that the last time he looked, Sheila had not been rated. People who didn’t even know her were now completing Pragat questionnaires based solely on impressions made by her avatar. This was reflected in her “Sense of Humor” category. He felt like shouting, “Folks, the woman has no sense of humor. Zero. She can’t be rated!” Then he saw the little asterisk next to the “H” in the ratings and the corresponding footnote from Pragat, “Complimentary Rating.”
The electronic voice advised, “If you would like to speak with Sheila’s avatar or any other of our avatars, please swipe your credit card and say the avatar’s name after your credit is approved. Please note that your discussions with avatars will be monitored for quality assurance.
Goodwin’s sense of total bewilderment was dislodged when two teenage girls, wearing “I (heart) Sheila T-shirts’ with an artistic rendering of her cocoon of light, asked him (“excuse me old man”) if he was finished looking at the directory because they needed desperately to get advice from Babaloo Constantine’s (the newest teen singing sensation that Goodwin never heard of) avatar. Had Goodwin waited to see what kind of advice this avatar would dispense, he could have witnessed the disappointment registered on the two girls’ faces when they were told that “Babaloo’s avatar is unavailable as he is presently getting advice himself from Dr. Phil’s avatar.”
The design of the Host-Pital building was architecturally consistent with many of the larger Marriott hotels, except that at its enormous entrance there were Disneyesque life-like statues of happy looking adults, children, and doctors. As Goodwin entered the building a young woman handed him a flyer promoting an “early bird special,” for certain types of operations performed before 7:30 AM. She was wearing a promotional button with the words, “Ask about our layaway plan.” While Goodwin wanted to ask if that related to finances or hospitalization, he decided to press on.
A 20-story interior atrium surrounded by ascending floors whose open corridors permitted guests to look down into the courtyard below or inwardly towards floor to ceiling windows of operating rooms formed the core of the building. The ground floor was open, spacious and housed several restaurants, registration desks, gift shops, and bookstores. Goodwin counted an equal number of medical personnel, patients and guests, strolling leisurely on the open floors or leaning over the railings and looking down at the ground floor of the building.
He learned later that all of the operating rooms contained television monitors that carried images of the viewers on the outside to the patient undergoing surgery. Members of this exterior audience were permitted to ask questions as the operation progressed. Hoping to gain a speck of television airtime, many of these viewers actually crammed in front of the television cameras outside of the operating rooms in a manner reminiscent of people outside of the Today Show studio at Rockefeller Center. Some even came with signs like “Estelle from Omaha.” Being on television, Goodwin theorized, was always special, even if the “audience” was a single patient who, more often than not, was unconscious.
When he arrived at a desk marked “Concierge Floor,” a rather severe looking, fortyish, woman dressed in a dark tailored suit acknowledged him in a polite, but rather perfunctory manner and said, “Welcome to Marriott’s Host-Pital. How may I help you?” He noted a rectangular Marriott Badge with the notation, “Miriam Smithers – PPR 21.”
“My name is Philip Goodwin. My wife is a…” Goodwin was about to say “patient,” but caught himself and said, “medical Guest of yours and is being treated by Dr. Kildare. He told me to ask for Miss Smithers at check-in and I see that is you.” Miss Smithers was no longer looking at him. Her focus was on her computer’s keyboard, which she started punching up with as much flourish as Liberace playing the piano for a handsome young stud.
“It is Ms., not Miss. Miss, as everyone knows is an acronym for Me I’m So Single, and even if that is true, I don’t care for its implication. Now, Mr. Goodwin, you should know that we do not say ‘treated’ anymore, too much of a negative connotation. We say ‘being facilitated to wellness.’ Doesn’t that sound much nicer?’ Here is a little booklet entitled How to Speak in a Marriott Host-Pital. We are up to 500 appropriate words and phrases to make everyone’s stay an enjoyable experience. And it has such a nice tag line, ‘Speak Well, Feel Well.’ You know,” Smithers continued in a manner evidencing pride, “our program is so successful that the federal government has started a pilot vocabulary program for our citizens. Soon everyone will be much happier.”
The best that Goodwin could do at this point was, “Huh?”
“Oh, yes. We haven’t received any details yet, but heard that the term ‘poverty line’ will now be referred to by the government as ‘south of success.’” She paused for a moment and then satisfied with what appeared on the monitor said: “Why yes, Mrs. Goodwin is resting comfortably upstairs in the Med TV Room.”
“What do you mean comfortably?”
“She’s beyond REM.”
Goodwin couldn’t help himself, “You mean in a coma.”
“Were her eyes actually turning red?” Goodwin wondered. Smithers looked agitated at the mention of the word ‘coma’ and said with more than a slight tone of aggression in her voice, “No, not a coma, beyond REM. Look at the brochure I gave you.” And then she added the kicker, “To be perfectly candid, Mr. Goodwin, I would expect more from someone who is a 26.5”
“I’m a 27.5’
“Nope. Check the monitor. Minus one.”
“Fuck!” thought Goodwin. The PPR ratings that he had dismissed as a frivolous exercise when launched were now becoming more important to him. For the first time, he began to fret about his ratings.
Smithers resumed pounding on her computer’s keyboard and, without looking up, continued: “As I think you know Mr. Goodwin, your wife is in the Med-TV Room on the Concierge Floor and when she comes out of her beyond REM stage, she’s going to be extremely happy. We were not certain as to her preferences for the intravenous treatment; you know, whether she would prefer regular, high-vitamin, kosher, fat-free, or spa, so we put her on the Spa IV. It has the lowest calorie and fat content of all of our intravenous mixtures.
“It was such a difficult decision that we called in our specialist in IV Culinary Arts, a woman who trained under Julia Child and Dr. DeBakey. She surveyed the situation and noted that your wife had a Louis Vuitton purse, albeit a counterfeit, tch tch, hanging on her stretcher when she arrived, had a rather sinewy body, had zero body fat, and was struck by lightning while she was in Vogue trying on a couturier dress that will set you back $2500. Based on these observations, our intravenous specialist concluded that Mrs. Goodwin was a woman of fashion and one that probably always worried about gaining weight. Under these circumstances, she decided to give her our SPA IV, our most expensive intravenous mixture, containing fortified truffle juice and no fats. (An item on Sheila’s medical bill was “Consultation as to appropriate IV- $1800.”) I can assure you, however, that the fact that the specialist gets a percentage of all intravenous mixtures prescribed had nothing to do with her decision. In fact, she actually makes more money on the pork rind IV our number one seller for people on Atkins. By the way, did you know that all Atkins diet patients now carry ‘Do Not Carbohydrate’ cards?’”
Goodwin began to laugh at this last remark, but quickly realized from the scowl on Ms. Smithers’ face that she was not joking. He wondered if she was HH, but was afraid to ask.
“Our expert’s rationale,” she continued, “was that your wife might as well lose some weight while she’s our guest, so her experience with us would be a positive one. You know, one woman here was beyond REM and lost 30 pounds. She was so pleased when she awoke that she asked to be put back to sleep to lose another 20 pounds, but our lawyers wouldn’t let us do it unless she signed a release and acknowledged that we were not liable if she did not lose weight. We took your wife’s American Express card to register her. I hope that’s okay?”
“That’s fine, but I really would like to see my wife.”
“I understand. Just one question: Do you really want to put everything on your wife’s American Express Card? We checked your financial background thoroughly through our computers. In any event, based on your joint income as taken from last year’s tax returns, your wife qualifies for the Marriott’s special Meditainment Platinum Plus, Plus, Plus Card.”
Goodwin interrupted. “Can I ask you a question, suppose I was destitute?”
“You mean living south of success?
“Yes. What would happen if I wandered in here for help?”
“Well, if you were a 22 or better, we would send you to our free clinic. If you were an 11 to a 21 you would be sent to our business center and if the computers were not taken up by paying guests, they have priority unless you were bleeding, you would get free advice on line through Doctor Siri, the medical equivalent to Siri on iPhone. Below that, I’m afraid you are out of luck.”
Goodwin was dumfounded. “You mean you make medical decisions on the basis of PPRs.”
“Of course. We use PPRs for many administrative matters. The system enabled us to eliminate our entire human resources department. We save hundreds of thousands of dollars. Now, we rely solely on our employees’ PPRs in terms of promotions, raises, and bonuses. Thank you, Pragat!”
Goodwin’s thought, “This PPR thing is getting insane,” was kept to himself.
“In any event, I strongly recommend that you go platinum for Mrs. Goodwin, because it’s about the best deal in town. Not only does your wife get traditional Marriot points for every dollar she spends, but she also gets dollar-for-dollar credit, up to $30,000 for elective surgery. So, if she wants something like a tummy tuck, it is virtually free. With what this is going to cost, I estimate that your wife will be able to improve many of her body parts.”
Smithers rang a small bell. In a matter of seconds a young man dressed in a uniform that blended elements from the Center’s medical and entertainment sides, namely a typical bellman’s jacket, combined with green scrub pants, nurses’ shoes, and a stethoscope, speckled with Hermes’ H logos, appeared at the desk. His identification badge read: “Andre-Bellman/Orderly, PPR 18. Andre told Goodwin en route to the Med-TV Room that he hated being called the reverse, an “Orderly/Bellman,” because it sounded too anal-retentive.
“I heard you are a 26.5, but was once a 28, awesome. Maybe you could make a big donation to charity to buck up your rating. My uncle Fred can help you in this connection. He used to be a life coach but switched over to being a PPR coach. He says the first step to a better life is a better PPR.”
The elevator that they entered had a single button, “Concierge Floor.” As it ascended, Andre was busy laying the groundwork for a tip: “Look, Mr. Goodwin, if you need anything: liquor, extra towels, additional mints on the bed, Amoxicillin, hot nurses, oxygen, just call me. Just between you and me, don’t let them sell you on the turn down service. Even though the maid leaves mints, it won’t do your wife any good until she’s out of her coma.”
“You
mean beyond REM.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
The elevator opened into a large lounge, a room reminiscent in look and feel to a first class lounge of an airport. Virtually all patients and guests were on their smart phones. “What ever happened to reading magazines in waiting rooms,” thought Goodwin. He had noticed a pay phone on a nearby wall. At that moment, a boy who was about six, accompanied by his mother, pointed to the pay phone and asked, “Mommy, what’s that?”
MED-TV
Two burly security guards, each of whom wore darkly tinted 3-D sunglasses, secured the entrance to the MED-TV room. “Boys,” Andre said, acknowledging the guards. “Mr. Goodwin, I’d like you to meet our two security guards, Lefty and Righty. We also have a third security guard named ‘Ambi,’ who sometimes guards both doors by himself.”
“Is that because he’s ambidextrous?”
“No. He works nights.”
Lefty and Righty raised their appropriate hands in a gesture that appeared to be a greeting and then, in unison said, “Hello.”
Righty handed Goodwin a pair of darkly tinted 3D sunglasses and warned him not to look directly at Sheila. Before he entered the room, Goodwin noticed an ultra-bright light straining to escape through a small crack below the doors.
“Wait until your eyes are adjusted to the light,” Andre warned.
Andre’s admonition notwithstanding, Goodwin was not prepared for the environment he had just entered. He was engulfed immediately by a powerful white light that was projected from the cocoon of light surrounding Sheila. At first, he could see nothing but shadows, but as his eyes adjusted to the intense light, Goodwin began to perceive silhouettes of people. Gradually, he could make out that most of the shadows were doctors, nurses, and technicians. Everyone in the room was wearing dark 3-D glasses and white hospital coats.
