The Angriest Angel

Chapter 1

 "Chase Madison," he said to the receptionist.  "I have a ten thirty."

Not waiting for a response, he took out his phone and sent a quick email to his boss that he would be in late today, explaining that he had a doctor's appointment.  He imagined that being gone wouldn’t go over too well at the office, but he didn't care—there were far more important things in play.

The receptionist couldn't have done her job any slower.  She clicked her mouse and typed something into the computer, pausing briefly, though her gaze did not leave the screen.  She began typing again, something mysteriously substantive.  It took a long time—so long that Chase fought the urge to simply take a seat in the waiting room and not wait for her inevitable response to do so.

"Which doctor are you seeing today?" she asked

"Dr. Chandrian."

She nodded and continued to interact with her computer, "Are you still under the same insurance?"

"Yes," Chase responded, a hint of annoyance in his voice.  He wondered how this could possibly take more than 5 seconds.  And why didn't they know his doctor?  When he scheduled the appointment it was with Dr. C., and they knew that.

What exactly is she doing on that computer?  How can it take this long to sign in for an appointment?  Enter my name into the queue and ask me to sit down!

But she didn't.  She stared at her screen, engaged with what he assumed was the most complex screen imaginable.  Was the patient information scattered randomly in a maze of labels and boxes, made deliberately to confuse her?

He leaned his head back and groaned, as the tortuous wait finally superseded social etiquette.

Her tone became defensive, "We'll get you in as fast as we can.  Please have a seat."

He found a chair in the too-small waiting room and fell into it.

Good job.  Once again, way to get somebody annoyed at you.

He looked around the room.  There were only women here—some of them had children in tow.  He imagined how he must look to them, like a biker or some sort of troublemaker.  Scarred, unshaven, outspoken, what a perfect recipe for disdain.

They probably think I'm here for something serious.  Normal men don't see a psychiatrist.  We're too selfish with our time—if we're here then it has to be bad.

Chase wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he sensed cringing in their body language, as if he were some sort of freak.  Someone who didn't belong.

Story of my life.

He noticed that he was absently bouncing his leg, so he tried to stop and think of something else. 

He clicked on his phone and checked the time, which read 10:28.

He growled impatiently.

That's my reward for being prompt.  I get to wait longer.

He sighed and flipped through recent emails to pass time, and as 10:30 came and went, he began to worry that his appointment would be so late that he would miss his meeting at the college.  He was already missing work this morning; if he didn’t make it to the university by noon there would be even more hell to pay.

As if on cue, a text message flashed across his phone.  It was from Sarah, his ex-wife, and simply contained three question marks. 

He quickly keyed in 'this afternoon' and clicked send.

Suddenly, a woman with a clipboard emerged from nowhere and looked around the waiting room, "Chase?"

He hopped out of his seat and followed her into the hallway.