2007-04-26

waiting room

Shoreline by Broder Daniel

Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, a radio plays "your favorite lite music." I plug into my headphones and drown out all those syurpy songs about hearts beating on forever. The receptionist hides behind a window like a bank teller. She shoves a wooden clipboard through the crack, along with a chewed-up pen that dangles from a chain. Just looking at it makes me want to puke. I scribble one-word answers about my allergies and contact lenses. I can't remember the date of my last monthly visit from Aunt Flo so I make it up. It's none of their beeswax anyway.

Mama scoots next to me on the stain-ridden couch. She unfolds a crossword puzzle from her purse, which is the size of a horse's feedbag. "What's a three-letter word for Tolkien tree?" she asks.

"Ent," I tell her.

"What?" she says in a too-loud voice.

Heads turn. A pregnant lady waddles past me and glares. I give her a four-letter look.

Mama says my headphones are blasting too loud. "I can hear it from here," she says.

The rhythm of her sentence sparks something in my brain. I spell the letters forwards and backwards. They are the same but different. H-E-A-R and H-E-R-E. A chain of round, even numbers, which means I'm okay for now.

I can taste the germs floating around the room. Mama passes a bottle of "hand sanitizer" to me. It glops into my palm with a farting noise. I rub my gluey fingers together, as if casting a spell. All I'm really doing is hatching super-bugs that will eventually destroy us all.

"Frances Nash?" the receptionist calls out.

I hate the old lady formality of my full name.

The receptionist wants me to fill out more forms. I promise not to sue the doctor if he/she forgets their tools inside my guts. I tell them to call my dad's call if something goes wrong. For some reason, his number is the only one I can remember.

When they finally lead me down the hall, I waste another twenty-two minutes sitting in another room, shivering in a paper gown. I could fit both of my legs through the armholes. A magazine lies crumpled under a chair. I recognize the smirky actor on the cover. He's not a doctor but he plays one on TV. I wish that he would stroll in here, crack a few one-liners and tell me to go home.

There's a portable radio in here too, leaking out commercials about "sedation dentistry." I get the point of all these radios now. Next door, the doctor's voice drones on, loud and clear:

"If you can't see your belt buckle...your belly's too big."

A male voice answers back: something about "rice and beans."

Geez. There's only one thing to do when the doctor finally sees me.

Whisper.

f-i-n at 10:33 a.m.

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