The Waiting Room

Waiting was the worst part. The chairs had crooked legs. You wouldn't know it but someone checked them every night. Made sure they were sufficiently uneven, unthreading one a few turns. That was a whole job. So was Doorknob Greaser. The staff all wore gloves for a reason.

The waiting room was as inhospitable as the Sahara. The waiting room was a masterpiece. An hour in the waiting room felt like five. Five crooked hours with nothing to do but watch the clock that hadn't worked in years. Truthfully, it hadn't ever worked. Before they installed it, they deactivated it. Then there was the plant. Clients—as they were patronizingly called, officially-speaking—could content themselves with watching the leaves cling to life. Crisp, withered casualties speckled the floor around the pot. It leaked water. A pale brown stain spread out from the pot and left a loathsome flim, a scum the color of dried blood. The stronger-willed in the waiting room could use the stain as a springboard: How long had it been there, Who would clean it up, Didn't that look a little like Florida? But even the strong-willed didn't last long. A few hours, maybe.

Legend has it that one tenacious old crone stayed all day once, then went home and died in her sleep. No one was surprised to hear that. They didn't care one way or the other. The waiting room ground on, flattening everything in its path. Just the way the waiting room was. You couldn't fault it for that. No one faults the shark for its appetites. No one worth taking seriously.

Last year, someone introduced a buzzing hum into the waiting room. The staff thought it was working out well. It kept clients uneasy. They looked around, shifted on their sticky chairs. They tried to zero in on the sound. But it moved. That was the brilliant part. A computer turned micro-speakers off and on randomly.