Waiting for the Doc

by Sean Brading

The smudgy glass screen door slid open as I approached it, through it was a moderately sized white washed and sterile room lined with chairs and doors branched off in all directions. The plastic chairs had people sitting in them; some slumped over, barley registering the intrusion, others briefly turning their eyes to me. Once the excitement died down they turned back to their various magazines and newspapers. 

Two old women sitting in a corner were talking very loudly and very audibly. They seemed to be reminiscing about the good old days and trading stories about their children and dead husbands. They were so excited about the company; probably the most excitement they’ve had since the fucking Bay of Pigs! 

I edge myself around the chairs and notice a thin, lanky old man glaring at me. He stunk faintly of dog shit witch I noticed was plastered on a shoe that was blocking my way; his spindly legs sprawled inelegantly in front of him. I stepped over the asshole like he didn’t exist and made my way to the circular reception desk. 

The receptionist was a middle aged woman staring intently at a computer screen. Being the polite guy I am, I waited a full twenty seconds for her to notice me rather than interrupting her important work, obviously more important than receiving people. When it was obvious she was totally absorbed, I made a big decision. “My name is William Reed and I have an appointment”. I hear a rasping cough in the background. She looks up at me and smiles. She has yellow teeth and a fuzzy moustache. “You have an appointment, do you dear, what’s your name?” I stare at her before answering. “I’m William Reed” She looks down at a roster, “Dr McCarthy?” I nodded silently. She stunk of cheap perfume. “Take a seat please” 

I turn my back to her and survey my options. I sit two chairs down from the chattering old women, who had gotten so enthusiastic I swear they were almost wetting themselves. What the fuck is that smell? It’s like dust and vomit, and a poor attempt to mask it with industrial grade cleanser. To take my mind off it I take an anciently outdated National Geographic from the stand; apparently there was some kind of war talk of an invasion of Iraq, and sit down. 

Now that I noticed the smell I cannot get it out of my head. It’s like I’m suffocating. The door slides open and a gust of chilly air gives me a moment of relief. A middle aged mother and her obscenely fat kid waddle in and sit opposite me. I cannot help but notice the woman has a gigantic ass. Her dirty blond hair had flecks of grey throughout it and her face was haggard. Her fat kid sits down next to her and crossed his arms, his lips pouting and his cheeks red. I can only assume he is here about his weight; the doc is going to tell him to put down the fucking fork. For a mother to allow her kid to get this fat is child abuse. She must feed him nothing but sugar and fried crap for him to be this big. 

She pats him on his knee and he stands up and waddles to another chair, petulantly refusing her sympathy. The woman does not show the slightest flicker of expression, except maybe relief and she leans back into the hard plastic, fishing a magazine from her cheap purse. It baffles me that someone would choose to have kids. Eighteen years at least down the drain, lose all your youth and passion and wind up hypnotised by TV and working a crappy job to send your kids to school, in the knowledge that a full life would demand the exact same behaviour from your offspring. Chew with your mouth closed, contribute to the economy and obey the law. Pop out fat spoilt kids to buy and work and keep the system going. Drink and watch sport and forget about your problems. Am I so different though? What the fuck makes a guy like me superior to a women like her. I am rambling; stop it man! 

I see the kid is staring at me. I look him straight in the eye and I can feel my face scowling. The fat prick looks back at his feet. I almost laugh; what a big man I am, intimidating a fucking 12 year old. I detect a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. “William Reed?” the doctor calls out in a husky, high pitched voice. I nod and stand up, he beckons me “come into my office”. I feel the eyes on my back. 

I walk into his small office and take the grimy chair he pointed to; sitting on the other side of his surprisingly fine oak desk. I take an immediate dislike to this man. He has his grey hair slicked up back over his balding scalp. He is slightly chubby and his face sags and is devoid of expression except possibly suspicion. “So Mr Reed… what can I do for you?” He stares at me blankly through half closed eyes and leans back in his leather chair, arms crossed in front of him. 

I politely smile and put my hands on my lap, I have always been good at lying to strangers, but I had to at least try to hide my dislike for this man. “So I have been having problems sleeping, and I was hoping you could do something about it for me”. He squints at me suspiciously “You want me to prescribe you tranquilisers?” I was somewhat taken aback by the directness of this comment, it just can’t be that easy. Do I look that much like a god-damn junky? I knew I should have fucking shaved this morning! He’s trying to test me. “I don’t know, if it will help, I have not had this problem before”. 

He looks at his computer screen passively, “So how are your sleeping habits?” he says in a monotone voice. “I lie down at about 10.00 but I just cannot get to sleep. I find it impossible to just switch off”, Ain’t that the truth, But I sense this prick is drifting off himself, his head bobbed and his eyes on his hands. After inspecting his fingernails he rouses himself and goes to type something down on his computer, probably checking my history. “Do you drink or smoke in the afternoon?” I notice a photo of his family, “No, I don’t”. His wife is as ugly as he is, and his kid inexplicably attractive, at least compared to his parents. Guess he got lucky. The doc looks up, bored eyes regarding me as an annoying triviality. “I’m going to check your pulse” I pull up the sleeve of my black jacket and expose my thin, pale wrist. He probes for a pulse, his soft, slightly moist hands making my back tense up and my fist clench. Without a word he stops and writes something down. I roll my sleeve back up. “Well…your pulse seems stable” he drawls “If your problem is sleeping then I suppose I can prescribe you Temazepam” I winced… No valium? I guess I better take what I can get, for the first visit at least. 

“If you think that is what I should use, what are the side effects?” an old trick; because a junky is not going to give a fuck about the side effects. He leans back in his chain and sniffs through his pug nose. “They are relatively harmless, as long as you don’t mix them with drugs or alcohol” He turns to his computer. “That being said only take them as a last resort, or you could form a habit, and keep it one at a time” He hands me a script and I shake his clammy hand, feeling slightly dirty from his soft, moist grip. 

I walked out and through the door. Only one of the old women was left, she was staring at her handbag. The mother was sitting alone; her fat kid gone and the old man was complaining to the receptionist. I walked out of this depressing scene into the chilly air. Why the fuck did I bother hustling such a piss poor excuse for a drug? It’s a good skill to have, I almost laugh again. I still feel slightly dirty from the handshake. 

 

3 Responses to “Waiting for the Doc”

~ This piece was posted on Thursday, August 7th, 2008 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~