The Old Man

The old man, gray and weathered, limped along the dim corridor of the medical building. One of his shoes made a sad rasping sounds as he dragged it over the concrete floor. The hospital smells, cleaning alcohol and bleach, scented the air. Under one arm he held a brown paper package about the size of a loaf of bread.  In the other hand he clutched a slip of paper that he kept squinting at in order to read the number as he passed each doorway.  

“Here it is,” he said with a groan. “Room 313.”

Above the door in bold letters, the color of blood, were the words, WORLD HEALTH AND MEDICAL SERVICES, and under this, the words, “For Better Health And For A Better Planet”. The old man sighed, shook his head and went inside.  

He found himself in a large waiting room with an awful orange carpet and dark wood paneling.  Old folks, like himself, hunkered in a row of metal chairs along one wall. Some looked up with sad dog eyes and nodded, most just stared in a defeated manner at the floor. In one corner, behind and open window, sat a fat rosy cheek woman wearing a white nurse hat. She beckoned for him.

Straightening up, he walked over doing his best not to show any sign of a limp, but her eyes were locked on the computer screen.

“Yeah?” she said not looking at him.  “You here for an evaluation?”

“This came in the mail,” he said and placed the card on the counter. He tried to sound cheerful and strong. “The name’s Riordan, Joseph Riordan. I just go by Joe.”

The rosy cheek woman snatched the card up, glared at it, and then look Joe up and down with one eyebrow arched. “Yes, evaluation definitely in order,” she said.  

Before he could react, she grabbed his wrist, picked up a large stamp and pulled him to the window. He tried to pull away.  

“Wait!”he protested. I want to talk to someone about this. I feel fine... I’m not one of the sick...”  

She was solid as a bail of hay and easily pulled him to the counter and stamped the top of his hand. The wet black numbers, 927, glistened on his pale skin like writing on a tombstone after a rain.  

“Take a seat 927. The doctor will see you soon.” The window slammed closed with a thud.

A flash of anger shot through Joe like a lighting bolt. A few years earlier he would have pounded on that window and gave the rude woman a few choice words, but he was old and shot. The brief struggle at the window had left him wheezing and coughing. Gripping the package, he turned back to the grim line of chairs and slumped down with the rest.

To his right sat a ancient lady with peaceful green eyes. She was saying the rosary and her flat, soft voice sounded like the murmur of rain on a metal roof.   On the other side sat a huge man with his tiny wife. The man, long gone to seed, must have been an athlete in his youth, with shirt open to the navel, a forest of thick gray hair over his chest, and murky, gray-green tattoos wound around big flabby arms. 

Suddenly the door at one end of the room open an two orderlies entered. “Number 865?” one of them called. “...865?”

Nobody answered, so they started down the row checking each wrist. They got to a bald man wearing thick glasses. The lenses made his eyes look big as tea saucers.

“Here he is,” one of the orderlies growled. “Don’t you know your number? Come on get up.”

But the man only gripped the arms of the chair. Eyes wide, his lip trembled as he sputtered a few words.

“No...I don’t need much. I’m hardly ever sick, and never go to the hospital. I don’t...I don’t... use much...”

“Come on, 865!” one of the orderlies said and pulled him up from the chair.  “Every things ready. Don’t make a fuss now.”

They grabbed his arms and pulled him across the floor. A moment later the door closed. Then the only sound in the room was the faint whisper of the lady saying the rosary.   

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for Us Sinners, Now and At The Hour Of Our Death, Amen...”

The others around the room looked frozen. They stared straight ahead, unblinking, unmoving. Joe shifted in his seat and gripped the package tightly under his arm. He could feel the cold steel of the canister under the cover, and the dangerous rattle of the ball bearings inside. He checked the switch on the side. The movement made the paper crackle.

“Is that your lunch?” asked the beefy man next to him. “They’re going pretty fast today. You won’t need it.”

“Oh, I’ll need this,” Joe grinned and gave the package a pat. “If I’m going out, I’m not going out with a whimper; but a bang.”

Just then the orderlies came back into the room. They were laughing as if just telling a joke or seeing something very funny. One turned to the people in the room.  

“Ok, 927, your turn. The doctor will see you now.”

“Right here,” Joe said, and stood up, gripped the brown package, and stalked toward the men. He placed his finger on the switch, ready to throw it at any moment. 

“And I’m ready to see him, too. Boy, am I ready to see him.”

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