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Life, actually…
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RECEPTIONIST UNDER GLASS
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In the early afternoon chill of a winter day, I find myself wandering about the innards of a medical facility parking deck, attempting to locate safe passage to doctors’ offices.
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The dreaded adventure always begins with trying to figure out the vague and inexplicable signage that smugly tells me how to navigate the various numbered and sub-lettered levels of the deck. Smug because only the letterer, the sign creator, understands this coded language. Ordinary mortals learn to ignore the signs and just amble about till something resembling a destination pathway reveals itself.
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It is always advisable to allow an extra half-hour of ambling in order to make an appointment on time. On Time is important because if I’m tardy I may miss fruit cup. The schedule may have to be altered, thus inconveniencing me.
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I take a deep breath to waylay the impending irritation that is close to rearing its mocking head.
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OK. Be calm. Be of good cheer. Continue drifting about till somebody can offer directions in human language.
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Enough about wending. Let’s cut to the Waiting Room experience, assuming I finally made it to the desired destination.
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Within the gray walls of a large insulated-ceiling room, there sits a receptionist under glass. She is there as an exhibit symbolizing the dream of efficiency someone once had when this room was designed.
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“Good morning,” I enounce through four layers of dark facial mask. She returns my greeting with designer-mask-muffled smile…well, her eyes crinkle a bit at the outer edges, making me assume she is smiling. I guess she could be cringing.
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She clickety-clacks her keyboard and confirms my appointment, asks for a cashless co-pay, then directs me to sign in at a terminal resting atop a waist-high kiosk nearby.
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“I’ve no idea how to use that,” I mutter. The receptionist under glass no doubt expects this utterance from a patient of a certain age, and is eager to assist. This gives me the opportunity to see that she has an entire self outside of her gilded cage.
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She shows me how to insert my driver’s license into a slot right-side-up. It disappears and I have the strange notion that this is a shredding device. But the card pops back up, unscathed.
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Later, as I observe another patient operating the kiosk, I realize my shredder fantasy may not be fantasy after all. His credit card disappears and won’t return. The receptionist again exits her display case and works to retrieve the card. She fiddles with the machine and later admits that she should receive extra pay as an IT specialist. We share chuckles.
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Waiting is what one does in Waiting Rooms. While I await my fate, I wonder whether I should order a Big Mac at the kiosk screen.
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Don’t give up on me. A brain has to do something to fill time while waiting for the attentions of a doctor. Lusting after a Big Mac is as good as anything else an imagination could imagine. Don’t you think?
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Other elderly patients wrestle with the kiosks and either laugh or curse at the pretend logic of the system. “I hate these damn things,” one man gruffs.
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No time to hate this afternoon, I decide. Just observe the comedy and appreciate the honest reactions of the participants.
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Eventually, an emotionless employee shoves open the magic doctor door and loudly announces my name. I’m supposed to understand that her closed captions might read, “Good afternoon. Are you Mister Reed? Hi, my name is Sandra. I’m here to escort you to the doctor’s exam room. Just follow me.” Of course, none of that gets said. She just yells my name and prisses down the hall expecting me to tag along.
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It’s all comic. It’s all very human. It’s all just another few moments in the lives of those present who must obey the procedural system of just another medical facility resting near just another parking labyrinth
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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.
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