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 Stories from the small town of Whisper Gap where one life, one tale invariably reaches out to touch the next. by Jo Janoski.
(Generations)
The door squeaked, then opened with a soft bump. But in the church-like silence it seemed as though a gun went off. A young man entered and found a seat in the middle of the straight line of vinyl chairs lined up along the wall. He chose a navy chair. The old man's was brown, and the judgmental lady sat on black vinyl. The office manager had gaudy taste in decorating, or perhaps the chairs were hand-me-downs from somewhere. The young man reached for a magazine and turned the pages with interest. The older man looked away. The young, always so flippant and fancy free. What did that guy need to see a doctor about anyway? Weren't the young always healthy? The woman glared at him as though she read his thoughts. "Nice day today, isn't it?" The younger fella dropped the magazine and looked to the elder man with interest. The older man was, in fact, not interested and grunted in return. The woman commented through puckered lips, "A lovely day, yes." She said it as though it were an effort, and it was. "I was so glad for the good weather because I had to take a bus." The young fellow waited for a response and got none. He tried again. "My car is in the shop. A beautiful day for a bus ride, and I didn't want to miss this appointment." "Is that so?" the woman said, the obligation to be polite apparently overwhelming her. "Yes, biopsy results today." "Oh!" The exclamation came from the old man. But he swallowed the utterance more than said it. He was at the office today for the same reason, a biopsy from a skin lesion, a nasty black mole. He didn't give a damn, really. Since his wife died, life didn't matter. He studied the younger man, surveying sleek, black hair and fresh young skin tones. So young, no way he had anything wrong with him. The kid was just taking up waiting room space. "My wife wanted to come, but she's down with a really bad case of the flu. I made her stay home." The older man didn't respond. "The poor dear!" This from the lady, which displeased the older fella. How could she fawn over the young buck and yet have no compassion for an old fart like himself? Not surprising. Everybody, including him, figured his time was up anyway. Too old to bother with. "Mr. James." It was the nurse. The young fella threw down the magazine and jumped up. As he headed through the door, he turned and gave the other two a thumbs up. "Yeah, like that helps," the old guy murmured. The woman scowled his way again. Picking up Sports Illustrated, he buried his face in the magazine to avoid her gaze. It wasn't long before the young guy appeared again, nodding to the nurse and rushing to where the other two sat. "It's cancer." Gazing at the old man and the woman, tears rolled down his cheeks. The lady rushed to hug him. But the old man stayed back. "Too bad," was all the elder gentleman could muster. He lifted the magazine to read again. "I've got to go home and tell my wife," the younger man said. "I'm so sorry," the woman murmured while patting him on the back. "So am I," he replied. With another sob, he left, stumbling through the door. His solemn air lingered in the waiting room like an anxious, sputtering cloud. "Very sad," she commented. "Hmmph," the old man replied. The nurse appeared, startling them both. "Mr. Powell, the doctor will see you now." She turned to lead the way and the old man followed to exam room number one. Dr. Johns breezed in as though in a hurry, chart in hand. "Well, Mr. Powell, you're a lucky guy. It wasn't malignant, just a precancerous mole. We removed it all, so you will be fine." The old man took the news without answering,
simply getting off the exam table, nodding to the other two,
and leaving. Walking home, he remembered the young man with cancer.
Why was that guy sick while an old man like him was spared? Simple.
Life was random and tough, so one had to be tougher. Nothing
to cry about at all. You just gotta be tough. Jo Janoski is a poet, author, and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA. Send Jo a message either directly.
For more from Jo visit the Word Catalyst archives
or her online home. HTML Comment Box is loading comments...
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