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Perhaps the most irritating thing about living in an apartment building with such a comparatively high proportion of neighbors who happen to be medical students—in this case attached for at least several years to the Yale School of Medicine and the sprawling Yale — New Haven Hospital just down York Street—is that a high proportion of these self-confident young people wear their dirty white coats, even their green pyjamas, to and from work every day, crowding into our two airless elevators without any regard to the feelings of revulsion they stimulate among non-medical passengers.
These protective garments are generally also festooned with wands of office: besmeared stethoscopes draped around the neck, clunky paging devices clipped to the belt, and an array of well chewed ballpoint pens poking forlornly from the breast and hip pockets. Instead, you find yourself outraged by the fact that in the course of an average working day these already unattractive garments soak up tens of billions of endemic, playfully airborne, hospital-dependent microbes issuing from the rheumy pipes and tubes of the chronically ill.
And by this simple process of basic epidemiology grotesque, slime- and catarrh-dwelling, tendril-dragging germs gain direct access to our apartment building.
The only solution is to hold your breath. True, the medical student is not the only agent of contagion in this forlorn community of ours. And we are well aware of the need to wash our hands frequently, cover our mouths when incommoded by a fit of coughing, and take all appropriate measures to insulate friends, colleagues, and neighbors from any and all harmful viruses or bacteria with which we for the time being may find ourselves afflicted.