His compact car was packed full of what looked like every piece of clothing he owned; I'd see him some mornings as he emerged, coffee and newspaper clumsily balanced during the struggle to pull on his lab coat which was stained with coffee and mysterious tire marks. At the clinic he kept to himself and often did little real work as was evidenced by unread x-rays hung on viewboxes at 8 am and still remaining -- unread -- at 5 pm. All most of the department knew of Stridden was that he was a Mensa Society member and that he was married to a woman who often spoke on his behalf (he was never available to answer the phone at home) and picked up his paychecks every two weeks. At lunchtime he'd often exit through the back door, walk across the parking lot to a heavily wooded area and vanish for an hour or so then return and pretend to work. This went on for some time before the chief radiologist called me into Dr. Sridden's office to formally witness his dismissal. "Just sign the document," she told him in a room illuminated by harsh white fluorescence, and all the poor guy could say was, "Please, no."