Saturday, May 21, 2011

Something I Wrote and Felt Like Expanding

The place seems more like a bank than a hospital. The impassive glass wall protecting the receptionists from the ill looms with an uncomfortable geometric precision, and the doctors stride purposefully though card-swiped doors to various vaults without a second glance into the waiting room. The green tinged carpet and the numerous signs detailing methods of co-payment tell us what we really are; not sick people to be helped, merely dollar signs of varying heights and weights.

You can see it in each treatment, the way the doctors' eyes brighten at vague symptoms. The less specific the better, for the process is more drawn out. The concerned timbre in their voices, too carefully constructed to be genuine shows you that they know exactly what ails you. But that's not important, not now. It's the process, the number of maladies they can "consider," the number of co-pays they can elicit, making bank twenty dollars at a time, the number of prescriptions they can write before the options decrease or the severity increases to the point where they finally have to deal with the problem and send you on your way.

I sit and watch, not a shrouded skeleton in a black robe, just a man in a relatively uninteresting pair of jeans and faded navy t-shirt with a rather special touch, and an even better kiss. One God...I guess people take comfort in their assumption that the force for good is omniscient, forgetting that by envisioning a solitary reaper they do the same for evil. Whether it's comforting or distressing, neither thought is true. I'm not the only one of my kind, and I know that God is more of a concept than a being. We're all just gears, sometimes spinning opposite ways, but all helping the machine tick. And the second hand is about to move again.

I love it when doctors fail, love it when they misjudge the distance in their game of chicken, when they collide head on with me and others like myself. That dawning moment, when their hands suddenly grow too weak to hold the pen they use for their useless prescriptions, when they realize that the seed they could have crushed in its infancy has become an unstoppable monster because they're trying to milk the patient and his insurance for all they're worth, that moment is an eternity of bliss.

They've done it again. The dumbass leading a coughing TV repairman up to the front desk so that he can pay and leave...and then get his prescription and pay again. They've been treating him for chronic bronchitis for a while. Not a terrible mistake, the Roger Ebert lookalike has had it before, but it is a rookie mistake, and it isn't a rookie doctor. He knows he should have dug deeper, should have ordered a chest x-ray, but prescribing antibiotics is like picking from a money tree. It's cancer asshole, and it's too late now. Your money tree is dying, and that makes me smile.

The dark shroud and scythe are fitting, I can see why you picture them. They're more appropriate to my perversion. But I'm just a guy in jeans and a t-shirt, someone you'd find down at your local bar. And it's time to take another soul to get a few drinks.

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