DELANO'S WAITING ROOM

DELANO’S WAITING ROOM

Florence wasn’t surprised at the number of people across the street from Delano’s. Most were just curious, but some were still debating crossing Rivington Street. There was zero hesitation on Florence’s part. She walked east to Economy Candy and assembled a bag of Pic ‘n Mix root beer barrels, squirrel nut zippers, bats, and kits. Naughty. She had already had a tongue and corned beef sandwich from Katz’s Deli on Houston street, and further up the block, a  Yona Schimmel’s spinach knish. Then back west to Sara Roosevelt Park, where she enjoyed her little candy haul while watching a pick-up game of three-on-three hoops. Two protests collided into each other at Christie Street, One Iota Liberation coming up from Canal Street, The 28^th Amendment movement heading East from the Bowery. She heard only a few random gunshots over the shouting and smashing, and most of those were likely fireworks or trucks backfiring. It was getting close to her 3:00 PM appointment. Fortunately, The Clamshell Alliance was nowhere around. Walking from the north side of Rivington to the south, she had to dodge the Seamless/Grubhub riders as well as civilians trying to get somewhere by assorted types of bikes and scooters. She was shooed out of the bike lane while cutting a corner, even though the cyclist was heading into a red light. All of this reinforced Florence’s intention to enter Delano’s. Still, she had to take cover when a dust-devil came off Upper New York Bay and whizzed through the Lower East Side. She was buzzed in at 2:59.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. I’ll take your confirmation letter and we can start the process. Date and city of birth for security purposes, preferred pronoun and honorific?”

Florence passed the sheet of paper through the slit between the bottom of the glass partition and the Star Trek-looking workstation to the woman she assumed was a receptionist. Arla, the LED nametag on the woman’s futuristic-looking yellow blouse read, glanced at the paperwork and fed it into a laser shredder. Florence was beyond having her composure shaken at just any old disjointed interaction.

“December 7^th, 1963. Mahopac, New York. Mrs. She/her/hers.”

“Very good. Please follow the blue line to the green door and press the red button.”

“Thank you.” Florence had a bit of trouble distinguishing between a royal blue line and a teal line. She turned around and was rewarded with a non-robotic interaction with Arla. The intake woman had been worrying a gold nose pierce, but stopped and pointed the client in the right direction.

The royal blue line seemed to trace a fractal path. Florence wondered how, after such a distance, she was still in a building on Rivington Street and not out a back or side door on Houston or Allen. She almost tripped up one time, mistaking a left turn on a cerulean blue line for her true path. Fortunately, the cerulean line terminated at a blank wall. She retraced her steps and this time took the right turn, which led her to a door with a sign reading “STARE AT THE RED OVAL.” She did, and the door opened into what looked like an exam room and closed behind her after she entered. A woman who looked amazingly like Arla, dressed similarly as well, but in yellow with a chevron pattern on her sleeve, greeted her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jenkinson. I’m Amanda, and I will be running some parametrics on you and asking a few simple questions. I hope you don’t mind, but obviously we need everything to be perfect.” Florence took in the wall she was facing, fully covered in photographs of measuring devices from down the ages. The wall abutting the door she entered supported electronic devices she couldn’t recognize.

“Let’s see. You’re 57, 5’5”, 116 pounds. Is that about right?”

“Yes, and that’s a pretty neat trick. Let me guess, perfection, right?”

“Of course. The monitors on the wall are quite accurate. Can you wiggle your ears?”

“Yes, I can, as a matter of fact. I used to crack people up in middle school.” Amanda used an ordinary pencil on regular paper to note the answer.

“Can you curl your tongue?” The patron gave a quick demonstration.

“That was even more fun in High School.” Another tick mark.

“Do you have a Greek toe?”

“What is that?”

“Is your second toe longer than your big toe?”

“No, not at all. What kind of questions are these?”

“We’re collecting data to see how to improve the patron experience, who will benefit from what, and who wouldn’t get anything from our program. You agreed to this data collection as a condition of using Delano’s services. Are you circumcised?” 

“Excuse me?” Florence began looking for anything that might look like a door with a knob.

“Have you ever had a ritual, religious, or medical procedure that mutilated any part of your genitals?” Florence faced a dilemma. Answer a question she didn’t want to answer and stay in the Waiting Room or follow the blue line backwards. She wanted to move forward.

“Well, after my second baby, the obstetrician gave me a husband’s stitch.”

A tick mark with no comment.

“Do you have any prostheses or implants of any kind? Crowned teeth, permanent bridgework, pins holding bones together, pacemaker, stent, transplanted organ, grafted skin or hair?”

“Just two crowns from two root canals, nothing else.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” As Amanda turned from her screen to her client, Florence caught sight of her inquisitor touching a gold nose pierce she hadn’t noticed. “If you’ll just follow the seafoam line, you’ll get to Adam’s office for the next step. The seafoam is a bit too close in color to the intersecting aquamarine line; we’re going to be fixing that. In the meantime, there are arrows spelling out which line is which.”

Adam’s office had a doorway with no door. There was a sill and two jambs. The right jamb had an inset for a deadbolt, but there was no hinge hardware on the left jamb. A man was waving her in, motioning her to a Lazy Boy recliner.

“Florence, hello! May I call you Florence? Have a seat, please.” She nodded, no more than 15 degrees declination, if that, her ascent. Adam had no desk, no computer screen, not even a pad. Just a knock-off Aeron chair. He made no attempt at hiding his relationship with his nose pierce. Do you have any questions for me?”

“I’m not sure. What is it you do?”

“I ask and answer questions. And then I review your kit.” Adam pointed to a corner of the room where the daypack she had sent in was sealed in plexiglass.

“Why do you all look alike?”

“Good question. This is a family business. The Delano family. You know the park around the corner?”

“Yes, of course.” A dash of realization dawned, a connection was made. “Of course. Sara Delano Roosevelt Park. I was just sitting there watching the jocks and having a snack before I came in. I have a bit of a thing for sweaty men. Pheromones, I understand. How does the facility fit without slamming up against the McDonalds on Houston?”

“Flo! Flo, hi! Naughty girl, you never told me you signed up for this.” Bruce, in his trademark lumberjack shirt, approaching from the aquamarine line, was frantically waving. Florence would tell Bruce absolutely everything, and each thing was gone over in great detail. This great detail somehow didn’t make it to her old Mahopac High School theater club friend. She waved back, blew him a kiss, and mouthed “Love you.”

“Friend of yours? Obviously.” But getting back to architecture, we do a pretty good job of tessellating the offices and corridors to fit the space. What were your three favorite television shows from when you were 13?”

“Let’s see. Okay. Welcome Back Kotter, MASH, and The Jefferson’s. No, wait. I think I liked The Bionic Woman better than The Jefferson’s. It’s close. Will I be seeing Bruce again before, you know?” 

“Seating isn’t my area, really. But based on the current headcount, I’d say you had a 35% chance. Will that be a problem, either way?”

“No, not really, just curious,” Florence lied. “Has anything ever gone seriously wrong? Everyone knows about the waiting rooms, but none of the details seem to make it into the news.”

“Not that we know of. We’re sure nobody died, if that’s any comfort to you. Let’s go over your kit.”

The plexiglass popped open at the same time Adam was rubbing his pierce. Florence couldn’t tell if there was a causal relationship. One thing everyone knew about the waiting rooms was that causality had a different meaning inside from its conventional meaning outside.

“Hmm… Baseball card collection, stamp collection; wait, is that a Gobbles the Turkey Beanie Baby? I can’t say for sure, but these appear to be excellent choices. And your Last Will and Testament. Good. Andrew will be going over that with you. Any other questions?”

“No, and thank you. I was beginning to think the entire staff was made up of androids or something, but you’re certainly human.” Florence got up and gave him a pinch on the cheek. “Human alright.”

“Follow the mauve line, it will take you to Andrew’s chambers.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Jenkinson. I’m Andrew. I will be taking care of any legal maters for you. I reviewed your will, everything seems to be in order, signed, notarized, sealed and filed in court. If there are any changes which need to be made, now would be the time to do it. The same applies to the Jenkinson Trust.”

Andrew did not have a visible nose pierce, and his suit was the opposite of futuristic. The wall behind the attorney’s cherrywood desk was a law library with actual paper books. Instead of a computer, Andrew had an antique Lexis terminal.

“No changes. Let’s hope it doesn’t need to be executed.” Andrew rose to shake hands while informing her that the mauve line would take her to the penultimate stop. Florence held out her hand, walked widdershins around the back of the lawyer’s desk, and ran her hand over the lawbooks. They were just spines, no pages.

The Terminus of the mauve line could have been a break room in any small to mid-size paper pushing or bean counting firm. The walls were, for no good reason Florence could discern, covered with stills from The Honeymooners, The Flintstones, and The Jetsons. Bruce and four people Florence did not recognize were doing breakroom-type things, having coffee, showing pictures from their phones, mainly children, grandchildren, and pets; no vacation photos. Conversation centered around how the people and animals in the phones would or would not be missed.

“Lay of the land?” Florence had her hand on Bruce’s arm.

“There’s six of us. Probably won’t be long now.

“I desperately need a smoke.”

“Ask the robot for anything you want. It’s not going to think worse of you, it’s a machine.”

“Hokie Dokie, Smokey. Robot, where can I go to have a quick cigarette?”

“Mrs. Jenkinson. When the wall opens up into a Moorish arch, you can go through and smoke or do anything else you like for the next 14 minutes, which is one minute less than when the wall will close back up.”

The arch opened as promised. Florence found herself in a garden in the park behind the fence where the free sandwich truck used to park. Sammy from the room followed her out and lit her cigarette.

“My kit is entirely Marlboros and Newports. Adam seemed disappointed, but we’ll see.”

Bruce came through as well to make sure his friend was safely harbored. Then Lynn, Bethany, and Boris came through to join the party. The conversation turned to everyone’s motives for coming to Delano’s. Bruce, surprising Florence, declared that he could never be free here. Boris and Bethany, like Florence, were just worn down, weary, and worried about what was going on now. Lynn was a cancer patient. When the group realized they had tumbled into to a pity party, Bruce turned the discussion around, for the last three minutes available to them, to the contents of people’s kits. Bethany fessed up that she misunderstood the purpose of the kit; hers contained only a few outfits and a couple of pairs of shoes. She added that Adam told her she had made an excellent choice. The garden started whistling Simon & Garfunkle’s “Homeward Bound” and the group shuffled back indoors, where they found Antonia waiting for them.

“It’s getting close, folks. We need to pick a team leader who is good at calming people down. We’ll also need what we call a ‘mailman,’ any of you who could confidently hold a three-foot by four-foot rectangle weighing 23 pounds. Just like getting the exit row on a plane for extra legroom. With legroom comes responsibility. I’ll be back in 20 minutes. If you’ve got your team leader and your mailman, you’ll be all set to go. If not, you’ll all have to reapply. Choose wisely!”

Florence surprised herself; this would be the first time she addressed the group. “Lynn has the most skin in this game, so to speak, Lynn, and she seems to be the calmest of us. I nominate Lynn for team leader!” Bruce came to her to keep her from keeling over; he knew the effort she had to expend for her little speech. Sammy beat him to the punch in seconding the nomination, which was approved by acclamation. Boris, being the biggest, was a shoe-in for mailman. They were all ship-shape and polished brass when Antonia returned, handing out straps for the patron’s kits and pins that declared “I WAITED.” She whistled through her teeth to get everyone’s attention.

“This is it, folks. Mailman on point, team leader picking up the rear. Single file down the corridor with no line. Open the door marked Alpha 24 and enter the tunnel. Don’t be shocked when all light is completely extinguished. When the light comes back on, Boris, pick up the device, which will be on your right. Walk to the tunnel exit and hold it up, black side facing you. Count to three and then put it back in its slot and walk out. Lynn, your job is to nudge people to the exit and keep them calm. Chop, chop, on my whistle, forward march!”

The exit from the tunnel led the team into a bright day under a clear sky where what looked like a cross between a party and the limo driver waiting area at LaGuardia Airport with everyone holding up name signs. The biggest sign was painted, if it was paint, “WELCOME TO 2056, A VERY GOOD YEAR.” Florence caught sight of one sign printed “Jenkinson.” She walked over to the trio waving the sign. She hadn’t seen any of them since they were little, but she recognized them immediately.

“Peter. John. James.”

“Grandma!”

Florence introduced them to Bruce, who had no sign waiting. But the expression on his face when he saw the makeup and attitude of the crowd telegraphed that he was finally free. One sign read “Finklestein.” It was in front an egg-shaped thing that must have been a vehicle of some kind, and if red crosses meant the same thing here as they did on the Lower East Side, it was an ambulance. Before Lynn walked over to it, she went over to Bethany and Sammy. A knot emerged from the crowd and gave them both gifts and instructions on contacting their “new families.” Or perhaps one new family. The team leader was helped in. The “ovumobile,” as Lynn dubbed it, took off, oddly enough without a siren but with the Mr. Softee jingle.