A DREADFUL VISIT

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
It is a necessary fate. Every American must succumb to it. Both the good and the bad. But mostly the ugly.

Submitted: October 12, 2015

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Submitted: October 12, 2015

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A DREADFUL VISIT

 

  DING!  "Now serving..."

  You know the voice.  It's familiar.  You recognize it even before you have surpassed the entry way.  Artificial, electronic, eternally cheerful and superbly polite.  She sounds rather attractive.  You name her Lola as you step directly into line.

  You wait to find out how long you will actually have to wait.  As you wait, you allow your lungs a chance to adjust to that hollow air, almost like the enclosed oxygen of a hospital, only without the sinus tingle of ammonia.  Also as you wait, you try to ignore the bared split of the rear end on the man in front of you.

  Fortunately, this line cycles through quickly, which is a very good thing because it's the first full day you've had off in several weeks and the water is smooth and local rumor has it that the fishing is good.  The beer is far too cold and the day much too perfect to be spent hanging around here.  You get your number and pick the nearest unoccupied seat.

  DING!  "Now serving..."

  Didn't she already call that number?

  Only you would be lucky enough to grab the seat with the crack in the plastic that pinches the back of your thigh.  There are no courtesy end tables displaying temporary entertainment or false amusements.  No TIME, no SPORTS ILLUSTRATED, no GOOD HOUSEKEEPING.  Luckily, you have dark shades to lower from atop your head.  Perfect for people watching.

  You see a hushed ruckus at the back corner where a young couple engage in heated argument over whatever paper it is that they have to fill out or how much it will cost them or what they will be having for dinner later.  The girl lowers her head in embarrassment, ashamed at being the target of her boyfriend's public tantrum, complete with foot stomps and finger pointing, while everyone else in the building offers up a magnificent performance of pretending not to notice the affair.  Quite a boring affair.

  Across from you there sits a short haired and short legged lady who is in obvious need of a beautician or a visit to the spa, or a double cheeseburger at the very least.  She alternates between picking intently at some invisible scab on her arm and clawing at her crotch.  Suddenly she pauses and looks directly at you.  She gives you an excited grin and winks seductively and you quickly avert your eyes, hoping that Lola will call her very soon.

  DING!  "Now serving..."

  All politeness has vacated her voice and she is now merely handing out orders. 

  There is a child a couple isles down from you, a boy of about five or maybe as much as eight years, who has taken to bawling profusely, wailing at the top of his lungs about his hunger pains while massive tear drops roll down his pudgy, chocolate stained cheeks.  His cries draw no sympathy as his guardian beside him focuses intently on a book of crossword puzzles and several people around them abandon there seats in search of more peaceful quarters.

The large woman next to you erupts into a tremendous sneezing bout, splattering fluid onto the tile floor.  The mist grazing your cheek is but a mild annoyance when compared to the fact that while she sneezes she also breaks wind.  You heard it, she knows you heard it, and everyone around the two of you can damn sure smell it, yet it goes unmentioned and without any request to be excused.

  DING!  "Now serving..." 

  Is Lola mocking you?

  Now your attention is drawn to an elderly gentleman seated at the end of the next row of chairs.  He is a very comfortable looking man with a calm smile, bifocal glasses and gray hair, a distinguished gent wearing a wool sweater and bushy eyebrows.  You observe as this grandfather utilizes the tip of a pinky finger as a tool to reach deeply up into an oversized nostril, a searching probe that eventually extracts a substance which appears to be a huge glob of key lime pie.  The man then touches his discovery to the tip of his tongue for an instant before apparently deciding that he prefers Dutch apple, and so he discards the stuff with a smear beneath his seat.

  You remove the sunglasses and lean back into the hard back of this chair that gives the skin of your butt another pinch and you extend your legs out in front of you, crossing them at the ankles.  Clearly the time for a new method of waiting is well over due.  You decide to revert to simply staring at the clock.  Has it really been almost two hours?

  DING!  "Now serving..."

  Your heart leaps and you instantly sit at attention.  Is that the one?  You recheck your number no less than three or four times before you are entirely convinced that the voice has rang true.  It's definitely you who she is paging.  Finally!  You approach the designated booth in a hurry, hoping like hell that they do not change their minds about who's next before you can get there.

  Behind the counter is perched a straight backed female who is surely a colorless sister to the peacock.  She wears her pure lack of amusement upon her sleeve as she taps your personal information onto the keyboard before her and then rudely requests that you stand on the green x and allow her to capture your photo.  An unnecessary picture indeed, as your appearance has not been changed or altered in any fashion what so ever since your last visit.  Thirty dollars later and you're on your way.

  DING!  "Now serving..."

  It's the very last thing you hear as you make your well deserved exit and now there remains no doubt in your mind, Lola is an inconsiderate and ugly hag.  You will not be heading to the river on this day after all.  You are emotionally drained and far less intelligent than you were yesterday.  You desire only seclusion and a long nap.  It's completely understandable.  I know exactly how you feel.  I too despise those mandatory appearances at my local office of the U.S. Department of Motor Vehicles.

 

Copyrighted 2015 Jason Crager

All Rights Reserved

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Jason Crager. All rights reserved.

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