The Elevator Eye

‘Oh, sorry!’ I awkwardly mouth to the old lady doing her knitting. I had just slapped my book down on the chair next to me for what must have been the fifth time since coming here. Usually I find murders and such quite interesting and gripping. In A&E? Not so much. The knowledge that everyone around you is undoubtably doing the elevator look on me; when you look someone top to bottom and then bottom to top, to try and decipher my so-called ailment. ‘Legs? No, they appear normal. Car crash? Nah too Holby City. Face messed up? Nope, two eyes, a nose and a mouth. Ear hanging off? Well, I can see one ear… oh maybe I’ve got it – nope they turned, there’s the other ear.’ To be fair, I have to admit I am also guilty of the dreaded elevator look. This look is one which is often hoped to appear subtle, but always comes across wrong. I think the only time such a look is required and acceptable is if you are the doctor or you are life-drawing. Neither of which any of us are currently being occupied with. Including me. However, when one is in an A&E waiting room, it is considered one’s duty, given the amount of time one must spend in such close proximity to strangers and fellow injured folk, that one must, for sanity’s sake, play the ‘Elevator Game’. I look over to a man slightly to the right of my direct gaze so that I can hopefully appear nonchalant. I give him the look. Hmmm. Probably mid-thirties, lives with some old uni friends. Likes a night out, but is a true mummy’s boy at heart. Now… regrading his reason for being in A&E…? I am going to guess that he is here because of a burst ear drum. Let’s be original. Too much loud music the night before and he’s paying for it today. Right. Who next? My eyes quickly sweep over the people arranged in very orderly lined chairs, almost like an audience watching the crazy show. I see Mums with kids they’re trying to settle, shoving the nasty A&E toys into their hands in the hopes of some quiet, cute old couples drifting into sleep whilst slowing lowering their heads to rest on each other, drunk young people slouched over their seats, looking precariously close to falling forward but impressively staying in such a pose. Ah. I find my next contestant. Grey haired man, sitting alone with his head bobbing up and down, arms crossed despite assuring himself he would not sleep in such a place but is clearly succumbing to the boredom induced fatigue. I’m going to guess that there was a drilling incident. I can’t see his hands clearly so I’m going to risk it and say he was sawing some wood and caught his thumb with the electric saw. Sounds plausible. I think. Alright, now I think I’ll really test myself, the lady – ‘Oy Jack! I’m done! Let’s go!’ Oh! An update on my first contestant, burst ear drum is actually here as seemingly driver or companion of drunken broken arm who has just burst through the double doors at the end of the corridor and wobbled forward to perfectly unburst ear drum man whom I can now call Jack, although unburst ear drum has a nice ring to it. No pun intended. Jack, or unburst ear drum, groggily and seemingly begrudgingly pushes himself out of his chair, grabs a couple of coats next to him and mumbles to drunk broken arm to come with him. Well, you can’t win ‘em all. Ok, back to the lady in the striped top with torn jeans, which I am surmising from her overall vibe, is a fashion choice as opposed to an injury clue. Okay, so, texting on her phone, oblivious to all that is happening around her; I’m going to say she really stubbed her toe hard on something like a sofa or dresser whilst texting and possibly has a broken toe. Good. I like down at my watch now. Only two hours since I arrived. Not too shabby. I overheard angry knitter earlier tell Kind crossword lady that she had been here since 12:30 (fifteen minutes before me) and that she has yet to be seen so I’m holding out hope that I’m right behind her. ‘Peter Clark’ is shouted through A&E. The guy who presumably must be THE Peter Clark required, as he jumps at the name, is not one of my past contestants so I am unable to cheer or commiserate at the movement and possible injury reveal of him. Shame. The declaration of Monsieur Clark has greatly agitated and startled grey hair. So much so that the hands have now emerged from the once crossed arms. Drat! Both hands intact. So long cool saw story. I rethink my strategy, review my evidence and resubmit my guess as a foot vs. wood injury. I’m going to go out there and say… left – no right foot. Right foot gets hit by wooden plank that is being drilled and a section falls off the table. ‘Patricia Jones’ rings out from the nurse halfway through the double doors leading to the hospital beds. UPDATE ALERT. Patricia Jones is angry knitter! I may be next. WHOOP! Regarding angry knitter’s injury, there’s nothing too obvious so I’m going to guess general older person issues. I dare not ask.

‘Gordon Smith’

Ooo we are speeding up at the minute. Clearly, I’m not next. Anyways this Mr Gordon Smith turned out to be THE grey-haired man. And guess what! He LIMPS! Grey hair is limp-hopping to the double doors whilst the nurse is awkwardly standing, holding a door open and trying to pretend that she is not in anyway waiting for him. The gaze around the room. The nod and smile at fellow nurses that you sort of know but not really. Anyways, regardless of his limping reasons, HE LIMPS. I’m taking that as a win. I thank you very much.

I glance over at the clock again. 1:45pm. I drop my gaze to my beaten-up book on the chair next to me. Sixth times the charm. I pick it up and begin looking for the page I was on. I never use a bookmark. Not sure why. I think I always start a book thinking, I’ll have this read in no time. I have no need for little bookmarks. Yeah, never happens that way. We are in month two of this book.

Jeanette Robinson!

Me! So long suckers of the waiting room! I quickly jolt up from my slumped reading position and gather my coat and bag and such. As I am doing this, I notice, out of the corner of my eye, a fellow waiting roomer eyeing me. Not with just any eye. With the elevator eye. I clock him, curl my hair behind my left, beaten up ear, which up until this point had been clothed in hair and invisible to said man, and proudly ask, ‘Did you guess right?’