George

George pulls on the Pop Tart package and a jagged line tears through the foil abruptly, threatening to spill the contents onto the counter. He cradles the bottom of the package with one hand and with the other he carefully pinches one frosted pastry between his thumb and forefinger. He drops it into the toaster, pressing the lever down before putting the remaining one into a Ziploc bag to save for tomorrow.  His coffee is already poured, doctored with sugar and artificial cream, and is waiting for him on the small linoleum-topped table by the window. He watches the steam rise from it while he waits for the scent of brown sugar and cinnamon to signal that his breakfast is ready. Then, the familiar “thwop” of the toaster ejecting its contents, and he sits to eat and drink, gazing out the window.

His view is nothing, maybe even less than nothing, as mostly he sees the apartment complex dumpsters and the parking lot.  The sunshine is nice when it’s there, but today it isn't. So breakfast is nothing special, but not so bad either, and after he has finished, he tosses the paper towel that served as his plate into the trash and rinses his coffee cup in the sink, replacing it in the cupboard for tomorrow. He walks to the door, contemplates taking a light jacket given the December temperature, but in Florida it is rarely really that cold and he knows it will warm up later, so he doesn’t take it. He steps out, breaths in the cool air and begins his walk. 

It only takes sixteen minutes to get there, which he notes is about a minute faster than usual. It is still early, and the ambulance bay is empty, but as he walks by the entrance to the ER parking garage, he notes only a few empty spaces. The bus stop has a single occupant and he recognizes her. He’s seen her here more than once, always with her purple roller suitcase in tow, although he is quite sure she is not headed to the airport to catch a flight. He calls her Liz in his head because she reminds him of an aging Elizabeth Taylor, back when she was still a little pretty in spite of looking older and fatter. If Elizabeth Taylor were homeless, that is.

The gang’s all here, he thinks, and walks through the sliding glass doors - the doors that whoosh open when he appears as if waiting for him to arrive, giving him the sense that this is where he is meant to be. As he steps in, he quickly surveys the situation and notes a half a dozen people that appear to be dozing in the chairs and another half a dozen that are agitated and tapping feet, shifting restlessly, or otherwise showing their annoyance. He sighs. 

It’s going to be a long morning, he thinks.

He approaches the desk.

The clerk is staring at her computer screen and does not seem to see him there. He doesn’t recognize her, but does not find this unusual, as no one seems to like working this position and the faces are always changing.

He clears his throat in an attempt to get her attention without being rude. It works, and she lifts her head. Her expression tells him that she doesn't recognize him, either. She doesn't speak, but looks at him expectantly.

“I’d like to check in,” George says.

“What do you need be seen for?” she asks.

“I’m having chest pain,” he answers.

“Fill this out and have a seat,” she says. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

“Shortly,” he knows, is shorthand for “Eventually,” but he doesn’t mind. He takes the clipboard he is handed and moves to a choice seat halfway between two of the dozers and with a good view of the TV. He thinks maybe he should have brought is jacket so he could leave it on his seat when he returns the clipboard to the clerk, and when he goes to get triaged, so as not to lose the seat. He isn’t always this lucky on a busy morning. Instead, he leaves a Kleenex from his pocket which should do the job just fine. No one wants to take a chair with a dirty Kleenex on it, especially during flu season. 

The triage nurse calls him by his first name, and George is pretty sure he was the same one that triaged him last time. When the nurse sighs before asking, “What’s bringing you back, George?” he is certain it was him. 

“My chest hurts,” George replies, placing his palm over his sternum. When asked for details, he just says, “it hurts,” and that he thinks it started today. The nurse takes his blood pressure and temperature, then takes him to a small room to hook him up to the heart machine which prints out a tracing on pink paper.

“I’ll take this to the doctor,” he says. “You can go back to the waiting room.”

George knows the way, but when he rounds the corner, he feels disoriented, because there is someone sitting in the chair he is certain that he saved with his Kleenex. And it’s not just someone, it is Liz, her purple suitcase placed squarely in front of her feet.

He stops dead in his tracks.

This is entirely unacceptable. He stands frozen, trying to determine his next move, when she looks up and locks eyes with him. He feels himself flush. Is she challenging him? She smiles, just a little. No, not a smile, a smirk. She is most definitely mocking him.

He unlocks his feet and strides forward, getting to her in half a dozen steps. He stops, looking down at her over the purple roller bag, and says, “You’re in my seat.”

She makes a great show of turning around, then leaning forward to peer under the seat and even standing up a little to look under her behind, where he spies his used Kleenex as it drops off of the seat of her pants. She then sits firmly back down and says, “I don’t see your name on it.”

“That was my Kleenex,” he says, gesturing at the junction of her butt and the chair. 

“Your Kleenex?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, “you’re sitting on it. It’s mine.”

“Oh,” she says, “sorry.” She raises up enough to reach underneath and retrieves the flattened white blob, and extends her hand out over the bag, offering it as if it were a business card. 

He stares at it, but doesn’t move. She pushes it toward him.

“Here.”

“I don’t want the Kleenex,” he snarls. “I want the seat.”

Liz stares at him, and he can’t tell yet what she is going to do. 

“Wallace!” The triage nurse’s voice booms through the waiting room. When no one moves right away, he repeats, “Wallace! Brenda Wallace.”

Liz stands slowly, eyes still locked with George’s, reaches for her roller bag handle blindly, then walks to follow the nurse into the triage booth.

Brenda? George thinks. She doesn’t look like a Brenda.

Then he takes his seat, smiling smugly to himself, stretching his legs and crossing his arms. The TV is tuned to CNN. The sound is off, but the subtitles are on, so he’ll be fine.

Five minutes later, when Liz (as he has decided to keep calling her) returns, she places herself directly across from him in a chair immediately below the TV.

You’ve got to be shitting me, he thinks, and keeps his eyes trained on the screen.  But Liz squirms her butt into the chair as if she is ready to lay some eggs, then  crosses her arms over her bosom and looks at him, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t not see her. He tries to keep focused on the TV above her, but when she wiggles her fingers at him in some sort of a fluttery wave, he has to look down.

“What?” he asks, hoping his annoyance is as loud as he means it to be, but realizing immediately that he has failed, because she stands abruptly and takes the few steps across and sits in the chair to his left, leaning in to his shoulder in a conspiratorial way.

“Do you want some socks?” she whispers.

He turns to her.

“What?” he asks.

“Socks,” she says, still under her breath, and pulls a plastic bag part way out from her jacket pocket, just enough for him to see the tan knit outline with white treads.

“Hospital socks,” she says. “I got a bunch of them. You want a pair?”

He shakes his head, but she drops them in his lap anyway. 

“You can have them,” she says hurriedly. “I don’t want any money or anything. You can just have them.”

He doesn’t move, but lets his eyes drop to the sock bag in his lap.

“Put them away,” Liz urges. “If other people see them, everyone will want them!”

“You said you have a bunch,” George says.

“Yes,” Liz answers, “but only for people I like. Put them away.” She gestures with her hand, deliberately looking away from him until he does as she asks.

He didn’t bring his jacket, or a bag, so he lifts his shirt and tucks the socks into his waistband. 

Liz turns back to him, a smile beaming on her face.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

George draws back.

“You can’t ask me that,” he answers.

“Why not?” says Liz. “Free country.”

“It’s personal,” George says. “That’s why.”

“Oh,” Liz says, her smile turning up on one corner. “You got an STD?”

George flushes.

“No! No.” he says shaking his head, then mutters “not unless by immaculate contraction.”

Liz bursts out laughing, and he turns to look at her, his brow knitted. What is wrong with this woman?

“That was funny,” she says. “Catholic joke in a Catholic hospital.”

She is still smiling when she adds, “I see you here all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” he responds.

“Yes, I do.”

He looks away from her now, head forward. “I am not here all of the time.”

“Suit yourself,” she says and shrugs. “Are you having chest pains?”

He turns to look at her square on.

“How do you know that?”

“Because it’s my ‘go to,’” she answers. “I used it yesterday at Baptist. Today I have a headache.”

“You don’t act like you have a headache,” he says.

“And you don’t act like you have chest pains,” she retorts.

He turns his attention back to the TV. Anderson Cooper’s face is full screen with a subtitle “I just try to argue on the facts, which is something we should all be able to agree on…”

George snorts.

He looks to Liz, who is now tugging the pull of her jacket zipper up and down repeatedly.

“I see you here all the time, too,” he says.

She nods. 

“Are you sick?” he asks.

“No sicker than you,” she says, continuing her zipper rhythm. Then she adds, stopping to tap her temple, “Well, maybe a little.” 

More than a little, he thinks, but nonetheless decides he doesn’t mind her sitting there after all.

The next couple of hours go by uneventfully. Liz opens the top of a roller bag and extracts a tattered blanket, which she rolls up into a surprisingly neat log-roll on her lap. He can see the imprint on the outer corner, which reads, "Marion Memorial Hospital.” Isn’t that in Georgia, he thinks? She is quite the traveler.

The log-roll goes behind her neck, and  Liz leans her head onto it and very quickly begins to snore. It's a soft snore, so the others in the waiting room aren't terribly annoyed, and surprisingly, he is not either.  CNN continues on the television, and Anderson Cooper morphs into CNN Newsroom followed by Inside Politics. Liz barely moves, and he is impressed with her skills. Not many people can sleep upright in a chair with such finesse.

Finally, his name is called.

“King?”

He stays seated.

“George King?” The nurse barks his name out. He will not wait long before deciding he has "Left Without Being Seen.” The nurse tries once more, looks around the room and sees him. George glances at him and can tell that he thinks he recognizes him, but George stays still and says nothing until the nurse turns and walks back through the double door to pick up the next chart.

He nudges Liz. It takes her a moment, but she pulls her head forward off of her neck roll and wipes the drool off her mouth with her sleeve.

“Did they call me?” she asks.

“No,” he answers. 

She cocks her head, clearly waiting for him to tell her why he woke her.

He hesitates briefly, but when he sees the nurse coming back through the door with a chart in his hand, he decides he has to act.

“Brenda Wallace!” the nurse bellows.

“You want to get a cup of coffee?” George blurts.

Liz looks between the two of them, the nurse and George, then settles on George.

“Now?” she asks.

He nods his head.

“Okay,” she says, returning his nod with one of her own.

Liz unzips the top of her roller bag and stuffs her blanket back in, then grabs the handle as they both stand. She grins, wide, and he cannot help but return it. They head to the exit, the glass doors whooshing open as they approach, welcoming them into the warming outdoors.

“Brenda?” the nurse tries one more time, watching them rush out the door. He shrugs and returns with the chart to the disposition pile, making the notation “LWBS” on the top sheet, then draws a smiley face next to it before placing it on top of George’s chart and grabbing the next one in line.