The Waiting Room

The Waiting Room

Two TVs blaring; side by side, with noise from each of their channels competing for sound space… People talking disturbed all of the above. It was a cacophony of shit sound and in it I was drowning. Looking around, I saw two wooden benches, pews, taken from a church and transposed to a waiting room. The benches were arranged in two columns; eight benches long, with each bench possessing the capacity to seat five men. The mid-size square room was nearly full. Flies flew around. The fly traps fixed to the four ceiling fans shirked their responsibilities. Open windows along the one wall overlooked a boring parking lot. People talked incessantly. People talked loudly over the TV and it bothered me. In the waiting room, some people had PhDs in Druguseology; however, many of the same people also spoke jargon related to recovery. “God as we understood him,” gave them free reign… Higher powers became coffee pots and light bulbs. “Turing over power,” I guess, did the job of alleviating stress. On one TV a commerical told me to “Reach for the Rockies;” on another, a commercial tried to sell me a luxury SUV. This was the room where clients, prisoners, patients; all one in the same, spent most of their days at the drug recovery facility waiting to talk to those who lived on them: counselors, case workers, physicians, medical technicians, etc… I’ll never forget that waiting room; but, I’ll always try to forget the past.


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