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The Last Waiting Room (464 hits)

Category: None

Rating: 1 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)

Submitted by garconfou <durantjunkmail at adelphia.net> (View user info) at 2005-02-16 12:49:49 EST

Man, I've been sitting in this chair so long my ass is flat. The damn muzak has looped twice, and if I hear the smooth stylings of Michael Bolton once more I'm going to tear down the speakers and set them on fire. What am I doing here anyways? This waiting room is full of old people, yellow skin and terrible coughs, and I'm only 26, in the prime of life.

I close my eyes and drift into a daydream, remembering the feel of my new motorcycle the last time I rode. The first time I really hit that throttle my stomach got left in the dust along with every care and worry in my mind. Oh, the delicious sensation of the rear wheel power sliding through a turn, kissing the pavement with my knee, and lifting the front wheel on the straight-aways. That beautiful machine was such a part of me until that delivery van cut us off. What can brown do for you? Try watching your mirrors, asshole.

The sound of my name coming from the speakers startles me, and for a moment I believe that Bolton has slipped me a personal message. But it's just the receptionist calling my turn, so I stand up and stagger stiff-legged to the front window.

"Go ahead in," she says without even glancing at me, "he's waiting for you."

I walk down the long hall, past blank, closed doors, and stand in front of the final oversized white door. Twist of the knob and I step inside, blinking in the sudden glare of the light streaming through the room. I look for a chair but can't see one, just the imposing wooden desk and the man sitting behind a massive ledger book. Behind the desk, two glass doors - one lit with the clear light of a September morning, the other with the light of a million sooty candles. Suddenly shaky knees carry me forward to stand in front of the desk, feeling like a little boy in the principal's office.

"Good news and bad news," he starts without preamble. "That incident with the cheerleader almost forced me to change my mind about you, and I definitely didn't want to hear what you said about me last time you stubbed your toe."

Cold sweat stains my shirt and my stomach twists. Did I blow it? Did I come this far, only to be denied?
I rally in my defense, "Well... Sir... I wasn't planning on being here so soon, you know? I thought I had some time to work with."

After a moment of study he makes a decisive mark with his pen and replies, "You're lucky I'm inclined to just forget the whole Vegas thing. You're in - what room would you like?"

I'm weak with relief, and stammer, "somewhere good, anywhere."

He rises from his seat and seems to float over to the well-lit door, coughs, and stands there awkwardly for a moment. Then he rolls his eyes, jerks the door open, and in a petulant voice tells the waiting angel my room number.

And that night, as I toss and turn in my bed, I try to ignore the whine of the elevator motor on one side of the room, and the crashing of pots & pans in the kitchen to the other side.

Then I realize why he was so awkward opening the door.

That bastard was waiting for a tip.

User Reviews

Submitted by engine13 (user info) at 2005-02-16 14:31:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 1

Not bad.

Submitted by garcon_fou (user info) at 2005-02-16 12:51:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 0

Tip 'o the hat to Banga3386 for the idea.

And I really hope the Big Guy doesn't read uber...