Waiting room

I wrote this last summer and I don't feel like it's finished, but I'll put it here for variety. It's sort of a vulnerable thing to toss certain things I write into blogdom, but let's be done with insecurity and fear, shall we?

The asphalt radiates heat like my crusty toaster oven. It shimmers in waves, suspended over the crumbly surface and making my feet cringe. My flip flops won't melt. At least I hope not. They are black and they have seen the heat of many a Southern summer. Maybe I should start running in order to reach the door more quickly. After all, I run when it's pouring rain. Wet precipitation from the sky as opposed to nearly invisible heat rising upward in torrents and downward from the punishing sun. Either one will make you wet. Some people carry umbrellas for both. Maybe I'll start carrying a parasol like they did in olden times. Just big enough to shelter the delicate skin from unwanted rays, and just lacy enough to be a decorative indulgence.

The door is heavy, the handle slightly greasy and the metal worn in the spot where thousands of hands have grasped. Inside I am greeted by a wave of coolness. It is not an altogether refreshing coolness because it is a waiting room. The waiting greets me just as the cold does. One is merely a skin feeling, the other reaches another level inside me.

First, the ritual. Pen to paper. Who am I? What am I waiting for? Can the pen really answer for me? Do I really know the answer? I shift from one foot to another. That piece of my hair has come undone. I put it back in it's place. Maybe it belongs somewhere else. I feel the eyes of others who are already waiting. I am a new face, a diversion from the droning uselessness of the television in the corner. Maybe they wonder why I've come. Not for long. Their eyes are drawn upward to the ceiling tiles or downward to the worn carpet.

I pick the perfect chair. Not next to anyone, not near the door. Middle ground. Once you sit down the waiting grips you. It holds you captive, and you can only cross your legs and keep both eyes busy as the hand creeps around the clock. I am aware that the chair is plastic. It is not really comfortable, merely functional, lined up next to the others. The mauve hue matches one of the flecks in the carpet. I wonder who designs these rooms. The one who designed this one liked Monet. I would pretend I was in an art gallery if not for the waiting and the shabbiness of the frames.

I instantly take inventory of the people in the room as I shift in my seat. The shifting is important. Maybe I feel like I am progressing, going somewhere. The man across from me hasn't shifted lately I don't think. He has a small black earring in his left ear and a scraggly mustache that does not make much of a statement because it is so small. Or maybe his face is big. He is a big person and his eyes are fastened to the rerun in the corner. This could be his favorite show and he feels very fortunate that the television is set to this channel. His beady eyes move to the couple checking in. This big man is not here for himself. He is here for someone else. But he is waiting.

A white-haired man comes in the door. He is wearing white shorts, suspenders, a t-shirt and a white hat. He has tattoos on his arms and I think he is a Navy veteran. His nose is large, but his features are pleasant, though tired. He has seen many things, but now he too is waiting. He wants to talk to someone. He has stories to tell but maybe no one will care. His tattoos will be his only statement and they are green and faded. He sits stiffly in the mauve chair. Perhaps he'd rather be sitting in his lawn chair sipping a soda, but he is here in the waiting room just below the noisy tv.

The nurse calls out a name. If you see whose name has been called you can see a change in their face. First it is recognition. It is MY name being called. I am Taylor. I am Hempstead. I am Winter. Something clicks. The waiting is almost over. Legs come unstuck from the plastic chair with a sucking sound. They straighten their shorts, and head toward the hallway where the nurse is standing. No one looks back. At least not that I've seen. If they do it is to see if they've left their umbrella. You never know, it might rain today.