That Old Itch

It surfaces again.
A snippet, perhaps the start of something.
Cut me down to size.

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“Enrique Fuentes. Fuentes. Enrique Fuentes.”
The voice chanted over the hospital loudspeaker.

A frail old man made his way to the triage window and was directed down the hall by the silent, extended finger of the nurse. He walked slowly and with a slight hunch, his right hand trembling. A doctor waited at the end of the hall; holding open the thick, bulletproof glass door and tapping his feet. I watched the old man disappear through the glass door and looked over at the triage nurse. She filed her nails in a tiny room full of stethoscopes, thermometers and blood pressure devices. The man next to me coughed a loud, hacking cough and pressed a clenched fist to his chest. I scratched at the hard pink plastic of my chair. The television suspended in the corner played a "Taxi" rerun. A woman paced across the black and white tiled floor. She pushed a granny cart containing a tiny television set and a box of cereal. Her left arm hung loose at her side at a strange angle. She smacked her lips loudly and occasionally stood very still with her eyes rolling back in her head. The TV let out a roar of canned laughter.

“Alright amigo, time to go.”

A stocky, bow-legged cop strutted in and rousted a lanky Hispanic man from his seat. The cop did this every hour and a half or so, dutifully kicking the man out. When the cop was gone the man would come back to sit and eat and watch television until the cop returned and put him back on the street. They seemed to have some silent understanding about this routine, and went about it in the manner of co-workers – calmly, wearily, not making a show of it.

The cop flirted with the triage nurse. The limp-armed woman rattled her granny cart and muttered to herself. Someone stood up and changed the channel on the television. I glanced down the hall and saw Olivia coming through the glass door with a female doctor at her side gently gripping her arm.

She was wearing clothes that were not her own. I stood up and took an awkward step forward then stopped. She was delayed at the triage window, the doctor was talking to her quietly and a pair of cops came up from behind, waiting their turn. The doctor handed her some papers and pill bottles. Olivia leaned against the counter and put pen to the papers then handed them back to the doctor who turned away with a final squeeze of Olivia’s shoulder. The cops handed over another group of papers, which Olivia also signed, and spoke to her for a minute. I couldn’t hear what they said but I was struck by the difference in manner between these two figures of authority, doctor and policeman – the one deferential and pitying, the other affecting an air of stern reassurance. I just stood there, with the television chattering and the sick man hacking in the background, waiting for the cops to finish saying whatever it was they were saying.

Olivia came over.

“They kept my clothes for evidence.” She wore a pair of baggy sweats and an oversized v-neck sweater.

“Is there anything you need?” I asked. It was a stupid thing to say.

“Just home.”

I reached into my pocket for my phone and dialed a cab.