The Waiting Room

Craig Horsy touched the wet bandage taped to his forehead when he woke from a deep sleep. The tip of his finger was stained red. He was confused by the mysterious wound on his head. How did it get there? Who did it to him? He didn’t remember coming here. He was slumped upright on a brown leather couch draped in a layer of thick plastic. Confused by the situation, he attempted to stand up and walk. His skull was jolted by a shock of pain that delivered him right back down onto the couch.

He gathered up enough saliva in his mouth to speak. “Is anybody out there? P-please, somebody, I need help.”

Craig clutched the wall to pull himself up, and working slower this time, he inched up to a standing position. The dim light above him gave the room the dank yellow color of a chicken incubator. The room failed to jog a memory of how he came to be here until he noticed the red plastic hazard box for dirty needles propped on the wall. Today was his court-appointed visit with the psychiatrist named Dr. Richard Herbert. Now he regretted waking up. There was no way to prepare himself for the session of psychobabble and forced self-reflection, especially in his banged-up condition. Craig winced at the blinding-white headache flaring up behind his eyes. He was in the right place to cure the pain, he thought. Dr. Herbert could write a script, and off to the drugstore he’d go.

He braced his throat to speak again when a young face peered into the room. Her lipstick was a shade too pink, costing her a decade of her youth, even though she couldn’t be a day over thirty. The woman’s cheeks were sucked in, as was her midsection. Her auburn hair was styled in a bun, and her black skirt and blue button-up top were freshly ironed, creating a secretarial look, even though she was wearing black running shoes.

“Mr. Horsy,” she said in a sultry voice, “how do you feel?”

He clutched his head in demonstration. “My head’s killing me. Can you tell me what happened? I can’t remember anything before I woke up here.”

Without saying a word, she guided him out of the small room and into a carpeted hallway. Each door was closed, but the waiting room flagged his attention. It was a square with eight oak chairs and a coffee table. The front reception desk was a hole in the wall with a frosted glass window. An aquarium to the right displayed cichlids in a background of a fake deep sea. The blue-black fish swam among the remains of a submarine. There were no other patients waiting.

“Take a seat, Mr. Horsy, and I’ll explain everything momentarily.”

He smiled at the kind woman. “Call me Craig.”

She had a soothing, reassuring voice. Some people’s voices had that effect on him, especially those who practiced medicine or worked in the medical field.

“I’m Dr. Krone’s assistant, Rachael. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Dr. Krone? I thought I was seeing Dr. Herbert. Am I at the right place?” He laughed. “Did I get the wrong information in the mail?”

“It happens.” Her eyes fell on his bandage. “But I have your appointment in the books. They gave you the wrong doctor’s name, but thankfully, the right address.”

She touched his shoulder, and when she bent down, he couldn’t help but enjoy the cleavage she presented. “About your head, you took a mean spill outside. Dr. Krone saw it happen from his office window. You were walking up the steps, and you simply slipped on the ice. He said you landed hard. You smacked your head on the guard rail.” She turned her head down to him in sympathy. “Poor thing, you look so confused. Can I offer you a drink? How about a soda?”

“I’d love one.” He perked up. “And thanks for being so nice to me.”

“That’s how we do things around here.” She walked into the back of the office, turning her hips in a practiced strut.

She must really enjoy getting sodas for people.

He looked over the table and the magazines, each of them up-to-date: Time, People, Cosmopolitan, The New Yorker, Highlights, National Geographic, The Reader’s Digest, and Mad magazine.

“What, me worry?” he laughed under his breath, but then paid the price. He clamped his teeth, cursing and squeezing his eyes shut. A yellow flash of razor wire exploded in his cortex. “Christ, I might need X-rays. That was brutal.”

He rubbed his head as a cheap remedy. Maybe if you were being careful walking up the steps, you wouldn’t have fallen on your head.

Last night, three feet of snow had fallen, and it wasn’t melting, it being ten degrees outside. Winter in Franklin, Indiana, was bitter.

Rachael returned with a soda. “Dr. Krone’s ready to see you. You can drink it while you’re talking to him. This is a consultation. The first round is kept simple, so don’t be nervous.” She pointed at his bandage. “You’ve had a bad morning. This will be easy. Afterwards, we’ll send you down the street to St. Anthony’s to double-check you haven’t suffered any serious damage.”

She then kindly ushered him down the hall to meet Dr. Krone.