The Waiting Room

Una

     It's funny. I'd never noticed the little details in this room before. I've been here thousands of times, and I only see the details now. The fraying carpet in the corner. The cracked ceiling panel just above one of the stained, worn, scratched, and magazine covered side tables. The faint scent of cleaning products mix with leather, plastic and stillness to create an aroma that leaves your mouth dry. I don't like it here. Then again, no one likes it hear.

     If you're here, something is wrong with you. Or it's your job. I could never work here. So many people, so little time, a greeting, some directions and then gone. Sometimes permanently. I used to want to work in one of these places, when I was little, younger, naive. In the before. Now, it's like I work here. I spend as much time here as I do at home. 

     The type of people who come here are all here for one reason, but different reasons. They all want one thing, but through different means, for they all have different needs. I've been here for different needs, and gotten what I've needed most every time.

     I don't know why people come to this specific place. There are thousands just like it. Several are just a stone throws away from each other. You can hardly drive, walk, or move through anywhere without seeing at least one of them. But maybe this one is special. Or people just come here because it's convenient. 

     There's a woman here who is trying to rein in her child, but the kid want's none of it. He keeps bouncing off the walls, running away, smearing his hand prints over the windows and chairs. People try and ignore them, blot out the mother and the annoying child, go back to the paper. But they pay attention even if they don't want to. Even if they tell themselves it's not their business. Humans are suckers for entertainment. Especially when it comes from someone else's pain or frustration. 

     The mother finally breaks, screams at her child to sit down. He obeys. Tears fall down his face, dropping onto his small bluejeans. He couldn't be more then five. His brown blond hair matches his mothers. But unlike his mother, he doesn't have dark circles under his eyes. He's missing the haunted look of something missing that is splashed across his mother's face. Stress, pain, anger all play on the young mother's facade, tears running down her face as she apologizes to her son.  

     With the room silent, the people return to their tasks. Their papers, books, phones, now that the show is over. That's the thing with humans. We are all a bit sadistic, even if we don't want to admit it. I think it comes from years of fighting each other. Countless wars, countless arguments and tournaments. Blood sports from the Roman Colosseum to the televised football games of today. Wars that get splashed across every news channel, promoted to our children, to us. That fighting spirit. 

     There's a small flat screen TV in the corner. Couldn't be more then 30 inches, tiny by today's standards. Bigger is better, right? A old animated movie from my childhood plays on the TV. I could go watch. I have nothing but time to kill, but it's far and there is no sound. Funny how as we get older, the things we once loved begin to fade away. 

     Humans are good a replacing things. I think that comes with time or fear of abandonment, maybe those things go hand in hand. We replace light bulbs, laptops, interests, friends, lovers, identities. Some we keep. Others, we let go of them as soon as we acquire them. Maybe we think these new acquisitions will make us better. Level us up so to say. But life doesn't work like that. Maybe it should.

     The mother and child are gone now, I didn't even see them leave. All that's left from their stay are grubby fingerprints on the window that looks over the city. That's one thing this place has that it's counterparts might not. A view. Granted, you can't get much of a view in the city. Concrete blocks the sky, the sun, acting as the canopy of this concrete jungle, leaving the alleys dark. Us humans have found great ways to deal with the dark. Fire, candles, first from whale fat then bee's wax, the incandescent light bulb, LED's etc. We've found a way to almost never be in the dark anymore. But lights are only so effective against tangible darkness. Humans still live in the dark even with our lives fully lit. 

     An old man in the corner catches my attention. He's been sitting in the corner for a long time. Shifting only slightly to turn the page of his novel. I can't see the title from here, but the cover has dark trees, an obscured moon and a house. He is probably in his eighties easily. His wispy white hair clings to his head like a reporters do to juicy headlines without basis in fact. His pale brown skin is tinged with dark brown black spots, sprinkled across his hands and face just as the stars are spread across the light polluted night sky. He seems tired. Many people that come here are. He's waiting, just like me. His wife left the room over an hour ago. Waiting for her to return, he turns the next page. The crinkle of paper the only sound in the otherwise still room. 

     Time passes, and he finishes the book. Soon a person arrives to talk to him. She's dressed in special clothes, the kind that is only ever worn in these places. She talks to him in hushed tones, I can't make out what she's saying. He looks worried, his hands are shaking. She helps him up, lending her arm to him as they shuffle out of the room. And I am once again alone. The clock on the walls ticks, a fly buzzes against the window, air circulates through the vents. I glance over at the wall. Another hour has passed. Still I wait.