Perspective

Jack fingered the worn corners of his magazine, some outdated home-and-garden edition that would have embarrassed the most adorable of 80s’ kitsch. He had made the mistake of choosing a seat directly facing the only clock in the room. It grinned at him like a Cheshire cat on Schadenfreude, only too pleased with itself in reminding him of the minutes of life that were wasting away. A waiting room without windows should be illegal, he thought behind grit teeth. The name was certainly being put to the test; he’d waited nearly an hour and a half for the appointment for which he’d arrived early.

At his wife’s insistence, his cellphone remained at home. She had predicted a waiting situation such as this and had been concerned for his eyesight. Lately, Jack had been suffering migraines which she surmised were triggered by eye strain—the very reason he was here today. Though he denied it to her, the pain that pulsed behind his left eye after only minutes of blue-light exposure made it impossible for him to deny it to himself. At this very moment, however, he would have happily traded the agonizing spiritual migraine that was this hellish waiting room for a bit of a headache.

A windowless cell, the room already would have required extra sensitivity to its interiors. Unfortunately, it appeared as though the designer had made their selection and never bothered to look back. Olive and maroon collided with navy and garish white in too many places than were easy to avoid looking at. If it wasn’t going to be his phone that triggered a migraine, it would be this cacophonic dinge, punctuated only by the clock. It was ironic, he thought, that the text of the oily magazines scattered across the tables in front of him was smaller and duller than that of his phone, the size and colour of which could easily be manipulated.

Two hours in and his hip began to cramp, his pelvic area slowly spreading with numbness. As he stood to shake it out, his hip involuntarily jutted, throwing him off balance. Frustrated more at the presence of witnesses than the movement itself, Jack glared round at the other patients as if challenging them to mock him, but they were as disinterested at the fake plants staggered around the room. Noses stuck into magazines the contents of which Jack could not imagine was actually being consumed; mothers were more invested in a moment’s peace than the irate-looking older man wobbling in the corner of the doctor’s office. Children crawled off into corners, littering the floor with the ancient in-house toys sporting the grimy imprints of countless toddlers.

One child in particular, a roundish creature just before walking age, was seated splay-legged at the knee of a woman whose head, bowed into her phone, was a neat diagonal from the infernal clock. As Jack was returning from a lap around the seating area, the base of his skull was struck by a soft, firm object—a tiny white shoe that landed neatly in the collar of his shirt. Jack turned in disgust to the mother, gripping the shoe like a softball, inspecting it like a grenade with an eyeball that bulged in its socket. Dirt lined the shoe’s once-white creases; its Velcro curdled; the heel was slack from being jammed on too many times. The child grinned impishly in a way that made it clear he knew what he had done. His mother remained stolidly engaged in her phone. Wordlessly, Jack strode toward them and released the shoe from his grip, while releasing none of the tension that presently seized him. His eyes narrowed at the gremlin on the ground, moved up to its mother, then to the clock whose pronouncement of a hundred and fifty minutes’ waiting time caused him to forget this silent rivalry.

How had he not yet been called? Others around him turned their heads and he realized the complaint had been aloud. Boredom and inertness were blurring the lines of reality. The lateness was unbelievable; the waiting room had by now significantly filtered its population. Just how incompetent was this place? Jack felt a gentle hand on his arm—a nurse, white smock and dusty peach tights, featureless white shoes: Could she help?

Where the hell was the doctor, that’s what he wanted to know. At sixty-six years old, Jack hadn’t the time nor the constitution to sit cramped up in this closet they called an office that smelled worse than rotting potpourri.

Did he have an appointment? sang the twinkling voice.

Well, of course, he had an appointment, was he an idiot? He knew how doctor’s offices worked. Had probably been in and out of them longer than she’d been alive.

She doubted that, but smiled kindly and would he please follow her? She settled into a chair at a computer behind reception. Who was his doctor, sir?

Er, McCarthy.

Armentrout?

M c C a r t h y.

Jack leaned his forearms on the counter as the nurse clacked away at the keyboard. He surveyed the passive ecosystem that had become the waiting room. From afar he could appreciate its easy, slow rhythm; no need or purpose for urgency. A telephone trilled pleasantly in the background. Nurses appeared, summoning in their chiming voices patients who rose to follow, and disappeared back into non-existence. There was the contented murmur of things running smoothly; not quickly, or hurriedly, but efficiently. In fact, not a single face was familiar from when he had first walked in.

“Mr. Bowman?” The recitation of his name brought his attention forward. “I have you scheduled here for a two o’clock appointment.” Two heads turned instinctively toward the clock.

“It’s nearly five,” Jack said first. The nurse’s brow furrowed as she scanned the computer screen. Jack continued: “I’ve seen about four families come in, be seen to, and leave before I’ve even had a nurse speak to me. Why, ‘cause I don’t have kids? My time’s clearly not valuable, I couldn’t possibly be needed elsewhere! Well, I’ll tell you what, I’ve got five bucks here for the next street urchin I see, if a rat kid’s what’ll get me seen to in time.” The mother of the shoe-launching child lifted her head at this, scowled at Jack. He returned the glance but said no more.

“Oh, that’s funny,” said the nurse, “you’re not checked in.”

“I’m not what?”

“Checked in. It says here you haven’t checked in for your appointment. Did you speak with anyone at the counter when you arrived?”

Jack stared at the woman. His mouth opened and closed. Opened and closed.

“Don’t feel bad, happens all the time,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s just too bad you spent all afternoon in this dump for nothing!” She asked him if Monday or Thursday worked better for the rescheduled appointment.

“Monday,” Jack mumbled, privately grateful for the same professional apathy she had extended to his exaggerated sighs not mere hours before. “Please,” he added.