What an
arduous chore.
Sitting
on a chair by the door, shoes on, jacket in hand, an old man waits for his
ride. He stands up, checks his wallet, his keys, sits back down. Taking his
glasses off, he wipes them with the special cloth from his pocket, looks at his
watch.
An hour passes.
He sits
in the waiting room. Freezing cold air hits his head. He looks up. An air duct
right above him blows straight into his face. He moves to another chair, close
to the glass door warmed by bright sun light. The flat screen TV mounted in
a corner is running a cooking show. Grilled Salmon. He checks his watch, 8:30
a.m., too early for Salmon. His eyes roam over to the receptionist; lower half
of her body hidden behind a desk.
She
smiles.
He raises
his eyebrows.
Soon, she
mouths, points at the giant clock on the wall and lifts up her hand. She
spreads manicured fingers apart. Five finger nails sparkle with stars and
stripes. Really long nails.
He
wonders how she can do anything with those nails, brush her teeth, hold a pen,
eat a sandwich, go to the bathroom.
Tap,
click. Tap, click. Tap, click. Her nails dance on the keyboard.
He
scratches his head. At least she can do that.
Thirty-five
minutes pass. The cooking show is followed by another cooking show, different
host backing different pies.
On top of
the examination table, his feet dangle. He pulls his dark socks as far up as
they go. The flimsy gown barely covering his body scratches his back. The gown has
been washed to death, original colors either blue or green. Are those flower
prints? He takes off his glasses to have a better look. Hearts. Gray hearts. Do
they think they're funny? He becomes angry. Why can't they have new gowns with
red healthy hearts?
Forty
minutes pass.
The
doctor walks in. She briefly makes eye contact, flips open a folder and
discusses her findings.
The old
man listens patiently, tracing with one finger gray hearts, counting them. He imagines
the one lazily beating in his chest as colorless as the ones under his finger.
Warnings and instructions are repeated; prescriptions are handed over, more pills
for his collection. No cure. The damage remains done.
He goes
home, nothing new learned, nothing solved. What a waste of time this waiting game he has
to play. Will Godot ever come?
Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.
Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.
I enjoyed reading this piece. Captivating.
ReplyDeleteGlad you enjoyed it. Thank you.
DeleteI wholeheartedly second Aladin's opinion, "captivating" to describe my feelings about the piece. Not exactly "enjoyed" though, powerful, thought provoking and well written, hallmarks of a good writer..n'est-ce pas?!! Style suited to content.
ReplyDeleteYet again, very near the quick; strong deja vu feelings, words transporting me there, both as the waiter and the waiter for. As Samuel Beckett once commented about His Godot," my play is about small men in a big space" applies here as well. Now, I have to go and look for Sesame Street's Waiting for Elmo, to watch, or the film, Waiting for Woody Allen!! :)
Well done.
Ali Dabbagh
Ali, Beckett's Godot is still out there, waiting to be summoned.
DeleteLove your train of thoughts. So nicely told. Sana
ReplyDelete