White Rooms

            He felt like he had entered the oncologist's version of heaven. White washed walls surrounded him on all sides like a psych prison holding him while he awaited his execution. White fluorescent lights illuminated his tranquil face as a source of warmth for a man on death row. His white bedspread reminded him that he couldn't escape no matter how much he wanted to live, because to escape you need control of your body. His body was trapped in the white expanse laid out around him. A dream. His death is not by sword nor hang; nor is it by the thundering of a thousand hooves on a bloody battleground- his death is as mild as his countenance as he laid upon the executioner's platform, a composed, collected, gratifying cessation. A justified escape, a reasonable step away from pain. A pull of the plug.

            The man knew not his name, but he knew his social security number. He knew that Ethan was starting his first day of high school, and he knew that Leslie was starting NYU in a week. He knew Vivian was potty trained. He knew he had a dog named Odin.

"Dr. Armstrong, Dr. Hill. Please."

            The nervous interns stepped hastily away from the espresso machine with anxious looks on their faces. It was without doubt that Dr. Tate had the credibility as one of the most revered diagnostic doctors in the state, but it was also without doubt that he could be easily acquired with money. For a man worth five hundred dollars an hour babysitting a few interns and nurses, it's only surprising that his pockets are as shallow as his worldview.

            "We have a patient in 104."

            "He's out, sir."

            Dr. Tate sighed and Dr. Armstrong immediately regretted opening his mouth. He pointed to the espresso machine and raised his eyebrows.

            "You two are certainly horrible interns. And I have a patient worth a million of those espresso machines in 104. So why don't both of you go and learn what you came here to learn?" Dr. Tate slapped a clipboard into Dr. Hill's hands. "Don't forget to bring me a report afterwards."

            The poor interns searched the floor map desperately for room 104. It was in the VIP wing.

            "Bring me a coffee with the report!" Dr. Tate hollered after them.

            The west wing of the first floor was designed solely for kissing butt. Medical insurance companies were capitalist, and the hospitals that support them were the same. Occasionally a wounded delegate for a Republican seat in Congress or a sick movie star falls on the front porch, and the first law of medical gravitation states that the more paper you have the better people will take care of you. Dr. Armstrong had never set foot in a VIP patient room.

            "Why is it so white?"

            The nurse tucked the clean linens under the unconscious man and threw the dirty ones into the basket.

            "White is the color of privilege." She flung a heavy set of white blankets into Dr. Hill's arms. "Hold that for me, please."

            "Who is this mysterious patient of privilege?"

            The nurse glanced at the clipboard crushed under the blankets. A look of pity sprinted across her face, for a second.

            "Have you heard of Casablanca records?"

            "No shit."

            "Shit. He's the guy behind sexy sixteen year-olds singing copyrighted versions of Britney Spears." The nurse raised an eyebrow. "Tell Dr. Tate that I want a promotion."