Sociological Research Project—Organization of Medical Services in a Neighborhood. Part I

August 28th, 2007 Posted in Concepts, Research Confusion

Act I. Groping, I come to the edge of a research field.

(This narrative is presented in three parts.)

But First a Story…
Tolliver found Schlep near the stalls and they walked from there toward the paddock through the disciplined ritual of the parading of the horses before the race. The fifth was coming up and it was shaping as nearly unpredictable. Each animal finely trained, the slight difference in natural talent balanced by assigned weights. So closely tuned that expert touts like Tolly and Schlep were stunned. The measures of past performance, physical condition, handicap plus inside information from trainers and grooms and jockeys was usually enough for the touts to sense the slight edge upon which their livelihoods depended. But this upcoming race and the four that preceded it were like a new and unexpected gale to a yachtsman on a steady course. Each horse equally likely to win, the advantage of the professional gambler nullified.

Both men were glum and troubled but Tolly was agitated as well, not that an outsider would ever notice. A hint of a sigh, a hand motion toward an ear lobe, a strand of hair leaning as though ready to fall onto the brow, an almost imperceptible hitch in a stride.

“You having a nervous breakdown?” asked Schlep, “I’m expecting sweat to roll down your face.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper napkin and waved it. “You want?”

“Listen, I’ve got a situation,” whispered Tolly, “Now!

“The police?”

“This young guy. A client I picked up before the first race. An amateur punter. Can’t tell up from down, front from back. A horse might as well be a zebra.”

“That’s who we serve. We lead them to winners, like skippers on fishing yachts unerringly find the marlin for their Hemingways.”

“He thinks I’m his friend.” And Tolly took the napkin and began to twist it.

“Watch it. He thinks your service is free. He thinks you give him tips because you are his pal. You know better. He bets $100 for himself, he bets $10 for you. No buddy buddy bull shit. We’re professionals..”

“No, no. The friendship is on top. He bets $500, he buys me a ticket for $50.”

“$500? This is a live one then.”

“In the second race he put down $1000 for himself and $100 for me. All his pockets are full of $100 bills. He’s like a free ATM. A cornucopia.”

“You hit a tout’s jackpot. Congratulations.”

“But it’s the friendship thing, you catch? He can’t do enough for me. A carnation for my button hole, a shoe shine. After each race he gives more and more. Champaign and beluga caviar. A gratis C-note just because…”

“Is he hitting on you. Is he a …?

“No. After the third race he invited two beautiful women to join us. The blond is my date. The plan is we go to a four star restaurant tonight and party later.”

“I can’t stand this any more,” shouted Schlep,”Why the nervous break down?”

“I can’t win a race,” answered Tolly, as near to crying as he would ever get. “It’s like with the friendship and all I am letting down the side. And now with this fifth race coming up I can’t make a decision. My confidence and competence are draining away”

“Wait a minute,” Schlep is angry now. He throws his Racing Form on the ground and stomps on it. “Let me get this straight. You lost all four races?”

“That’s the horrible truth,” Tolly almost sobs.

Shlep grabs Tolly’s coat lapels and shakes him. “Listen. Don’t hesitate. Don’t question. Do exactly what I tell you. Understand?.”

Tolly shakes his head up and down. “I will. I will.”

“Drop this so-called benefactor now!” An emphatic Schlep jabs his index finder into Tolly’s chest. “Stay away from him, do you hear.. He is definitely and irrevocably a loser.”

Avoid sponsored research. The loyalty you owe your sponsor can contradict the reality you discover. And what do you do then?

^^^^^

Turning points are ubiquitous. The present second is always a choice. There is always something else to do or not to do. Continuing on as you are is a choice. Mainly we do not notice. One moment indistinguishable from the next. But then there are those points that catch our attention when we look back as the time when our world, private or public, shifted.

^^^^^
I can’t help it. I love a mystery with an unexpected denouement. The hound futilely chases the fox all day only to find him sleeping in front of the kennel that night.

^^^^^

I did a study of the medical organization of a neighborhood in my city. It was my largest canvas. It wasn’t my planned research–it did not arise out of my life or out of my mulling over theories or issues. It wasn’t a continuation of my previous work. It belonged to another, a sociological entrepreneur, brilliant Professor X, a man of energy, eager for reputation and influence. It was during the Vietnam War era and all my opportunities during this time, looking back, were part of the reaction of the various established social sectors struggling to maintain the old routines while blocking and diverting and destabilizing the revolutionary momentum. I was on both sides, without any discernible effect in either direction; marching anonymously in several large demonstrations while, without full consciousness, serving as a foot soldier in the thin red line of the old liberal-conservatives. There was no contradiction for me. I was earning a living and voting for the end of the war with my feet.

It started a few years before. I was back in Philadelphia because of my mother’s fatal illness and after her death I stayed on, renting a room out Chestnut Street to the west on the outskirts of the downtown section near the Schuylkill River. I continued my career as a journeyman sociologist by picking up two odd jobs. One at a sparkling new hospital on City Line Avenue in a park-like setting near the upper class Main Line, working in a unit dedicated to studying alcoholism and assisting medical-biological researchers in their cold-room studies. The other a stint with a prisoner advocacy group, assisting in a project to encourage the city to build a new prison.

Altogether three short projects that carried on three recurrent themes (there are others as well) in my life and career: the social context of (1) crime and violence and of (2) addictions and (3) the possibility of self-governance by the human group.

I also recognized at this time that my research metier, to the extent that I had one, was the informal interview complimented by direct participation. The research instrument and metric is the researcher himself. Perhaps the most primitive method, based on an almost universal talent tempered by a trained consciousness, an edge of self-awareness.

It was at this time that I met and worked with Solly W, a fine Canadian sociologist who played a pivotal role in my career when a few years later he phoned me with an offer. He was teaching in a college in Connecticut then and was acting as a consultant for Professor X who needed a journeyman researcher. It was an idle gesture, a search in the phone book, a shot in the dark. I materialized and was offered the job.

My wife who had been singing to her own accompaniment on the guitar “Why Don’t You Do Right” now switched to the banjo and sang. “Happy Days Are Here Again”

Of course, I accepted.
(End of Part I)