Frosted Glass A
Poor Icebreaker
doubtless find that sometime, somewhere, they once worked behind a frosted-glass window.
Because there is no better way to turn a warm, compassionate human being into a cold-blooded, baby-killing, absolute despot than to put them behind the reception desk in any public waiting room and then provide them with the anonymity of a sliding, frosted-glass window.
Last week, I went to my doctor for an annual physical -- something I was not looking forward to, having reached the age where certain unpleasant and very personal examinations are part of the drill.
I was not in a good mood.
But I pasted on a semblance of a smile when I rang the little doorbell next to the receptionist's translucent window.
And rang it again. And again.
Oh, someone was there -- I could see shadowy movement through the milky glass barrier, hear someone laughing and trying to talk with their mouth full.
Ring.
(Oh, yes -- did I mention I had given up MY lunch hour to keep this appointment?)
Ring. Ring.
Finally, the door slid open so violently it almost shattered. ''You don't have to ring more than once, I heard you!'' the receptionist scolded, fishing for a shred of lettuce caught between her bicuspids. ''Name.'' (No, not ''Name?'' as in a polite query, just ''Name.'' as in I-really-don't-give-a-tinker's-damn-but-I-gotta-ask.
''Rizley,'' I said. ''Max Rizley, Jr.''
She handed me a clipboard. ''Here. Fill out this insurance information.''
''Oh, I'm sure you already have that back there somewhere. I've been Dr. Tuttle's patient since 1973,'' I said.
''Uh-huh.'' She didn't take the clipboard back.
''I mean, I know I've already filled one of those out.''
''Uh-huh.'' She slid the window closed with a glassy ''shoop'' and left me holding the clipboard.
After filling out the form, I rang the bell again -- once -- and waited. And waited. I timidly tapped on the glass (''no, your Honor, my client technically did NOT ring the bell more than once!'') and was just feeling for a fingernail-hold to pry it open when it shooped wide open. The receptionist eyed me suspiciously. I handed her the clipboard.
''Okay, doctor'll be with you in a minute.'' Shoop.
A minute passed. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. I rang the bell.
Shoop! ''Yes?''
''How long until the doctor can see me? I've been waiting almost half an hour now.''
''You need to fill in this insurance information.'' She proffered the clipboard.
''I already did that,'' I said, in an admirably even tone of voice, all things considered.
''Then have a seat. The doctor will see you in a minute.''
''That's what you said 20 minutes ago.''
''Uh-huh.''
''You know, I ... I mean, there's no REAL hurry, that is, no rush, but my appointment WAS half an hour ago ... '' I babbled.
''Uh-huh.''
''But I do have to get to work sometime today.''
''Uh-huh.'' Shoop.
Might as well argue with a fencepost, I thought.
Forty-five minutes came and went. An hour. Ninety minutes.
Well, I had a life, too. I rang the bell.
Shoop! ''The doctor will see you in just a min ... ''
''No, no, no -- I have to go, I'll need to re-schedule.''
''Fine. I have an opening on Aug. 20 at 3 p.m. Shall I put you down?''
''AUGUST?!'' I finally exploded. ''Look, I'm already six months overdue for an examination I really DON'T want in the first place. I already HAVE an appointment for almost TWO HOURS AGO. But I CAN'T. STAY. ANY. LONGER!''
''Uh-huh.''
''And I need to re-schedule sometime before the Rapture!''
''Uh-huh.''
''Look,'' I said, dropping my voice to a dramatic whisper. ''Dr. Tuttle said I wouldn't live through April if I didn't get in here pronto. One of those cystic teratomas, y'know. Got teeth, hair, an eye -- blue, they tell me --, and it could chew its way right out of my belly any day now. I'm a dying man. One foot in the grave. Headed for the Last Roundup. The big dirt nap. I HAVE to see Dr. Tuttle. Dr. Tuttle wants to see me. And I assure you he wants to see me NOW, before I pass that bourne from which no mortal soul returneth!
''Uh-huh.'' She licked her pencil point.
''So do you want that Aug. 20 slot or not?''
