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I keep a note book on writing ideas… so one Saturday morning I awoke about 2 hours before anyone else in the house, so that I could have time un-interrupted. I turned off my phone, I wrote in a paper notebook, so that I wouldn’t be interrupted with spell check, and notifications, and etc. I then looked through my writing ideas, until I came across one that I wanted to write about that morning.

“I am in a waiting room, and there is a stranger there with me”

Laurence

I began to write, and obeyed Anne Lamott’s rules. I told the truth. I didn’t close my eyes, but I used my imagination to describe the room, and answer the questions others might have about this waiting room. Go ahead and read it through… I even got absolutely ridiculous… about 8 pages and 2 hours later, my wife had awakened and entered into the kitchen with me.

Below is a transcript typed out later by me, of the original hand written one.

I asked her if I could read what I’d written… and she agreed. A couple of surprising things happened. First of all, we’ve been married for over 20 years, and honesty has been encouraged (I’m smiling about this way of describing our communications) and to my pleasant surprise, she remained interested, the biggest clue is she never once asked me, “how long is this going to take?” The next surprise came, was that when I got to about page 6, I had tears flowing, sobbing from deep inside my heart and soul. When I’d written the words, no emotion other than laughing at my ridiculousness occurred. Self consciousness was ignored! But here I was, sobbing… and I realized that the stranger was me some 30 years previous. The younger me who went through a divorce. The alienation from everything I loved, from all my hopes and dreams, I was shattered! So myself and I needed to have a chat! This all came flooding in on an instant, and started from an emotion… didn’t know where it was coming from until I paused to ponder… and that my friends, is what is meant by the unconscious mind emerging from our writing.

Moment of Silence

There’s the trip itself that I made:

1.  Early that morning

2.  Just now after awakening from dream again

3.  On my way home from work

4.  I don’t remember how I got there

4> I don’t remember how I got there.

The thought crosses my mind that perhaps this is merely a dream, one from which I cannot escape.

Nevertheless, there we are this man & I. He sists quietly in one of the chairs 2nd from the corner. He’s reading, he has glasses on, his pants are old corduroy type, haven’t’ seen those too often lately. A comfy soft cotton plaid shirt, tossled brown hair, of medium length for a man, but would be considered short hair for a woman. He looks about 37 years old, weathered working hands, strong nose and chin, and the kind of physique of a runner or cyclist lean, with loose skin, and an adam’s apple so pronounced I wondered if I even had one myself. He makes no move to acknowledge me, though somehow, I don’t feel rejected nor unwelcome. He is just there, as I am in that room.

The walls are hospital yellow, semigloss, no windows, except one that the receptionist sits on the other side of, but she’s not there. The chairs are the armless type, with vinyl upholstery of a sort of greyish beige colour. Comfortable enough. The floor is a tight weave indoor outdoor one, charcoal grey, recently vacuumed. The air is fresh with just the right humidity. I look up to see the vent in one of the upper corners of the room, a piece of yarn tied to the grating blows whisperingly indication that there’s air, fresh and clean, blowing into the room. I’m calm and suddenly feel silly standing in the middle of the room staring around.

There’s a book on the receptionist’s window desk on this side of the glass and a pen tied to a little stand. I see that I am to sign in and have a seat. There are many other names on over a dozen pages in a fairly new book, dates and times with all but one crossed out. His name I presumed. I filled out my information and turned to have a seat.

Just at that very moment the receptionist entered from an adjacent room, a cat following her looking up at the dish in her hand, the cat gave out a barely audible meow that was ½ thank you ½ what took you so long. The nurse was in her 40’s, with a white dress uniform on buttoned to the neck, and an old fashioned nurses cap on her head, her blond hair was tied up, and neatly held above her ears and neck. She had no earings, if she was wearing make-up I couldn’t tell, and her disposition was calm and attending to the cat, she stroked it’s back saying sweet things barely audible. She rose to reveal she was about five foot four inches tall, and 140 pounds. Her form was slight, and female character traits were all of the delicate kind. There was nothing provocative about her, but she did have a calming kind of presence. She looked at me and smiled and placed her finger on her lips tipping her head toward the room, and the man waiting there.

My eyebrows raised slightly, feeling once again awkward and silly. I turned and found a chair opposite  the corduroy man, and sat down. The air from cushion squeezed out as it received my weight

I was wearing a T-shirt with a single breast pocket and over that my favourite old jean shirt, jeans, underwear for a change, oversized lumberjack socks and a woven cloth belt that tightened up through two metal rings. My shoes were loose fitting runners which I slipped off and placed to the one side, cautiously looking toward the other occupant, hoping my feet didn’t emit an offensive odour.

I flinched as he, just then, turned a page in his book without looking up and reached over to his coffee cup for a sip and placed it down again, leaned back, crossed his leg to make a sort of desk, removed a kerchief from his pants pocket, and wiped the corners of his mouth before returning it to it’s place – I’d gotten away with the shoe removal it seemed – I looked down at his, and he that ‘s when I noticed that he’d not been wearing his either. Leather slip-ons over grey cotton socks. He wiggled his toes and massaged the ones of the crossed over leg, and lifted his fingers his nose and I just barely averted my gaze as he shot a nervous glance in my direction in a sort of realization that wasn’t alone. He sighed a kind of chuckling, self-deprecating laugh and adjusted his glasses, as though to indicate he’d raised his hand for that purpose.

Beside me was a plant, that had moss over the soil, and a healthy leafy plant the name of which I wasn’t aware of, but typical to doctor’s offices. The little side table had the usual offerings of magazines, and a watercooler stookd over by the door that led out.

SURE IS QUIET IN HERE!

I shouted at the top of my lungs leaning toward the stranger.

A SWAT TEAM burst into the room as the lights went out and streams of light flowed from their rifles that were pointed at me.

GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR NOW!!!

Six of them surrounded me nervously…

…of course I did not shout and I did but wonder at how my comfy room companion would handle such a disturbance.

“I’d probable hit the carpet myself I suppose” he quietly replied as though I’d spoken outloud…

But then catching himself he looked up at me, raising the book from his lap to show the dust cover,

“Guns of Chesapeeke Scree”

“…sorry, about the sudden out burst” he said with a  grin, “but I do get quite wrapped up in these mysteries”

I smiled back, and nodded, wondering if I should divulge the coincidence of what he’d said…

I pulled out my own  book from my messenger tote bag and held it for him to see,

“Guns of Navarone”

A smile fully breached his face as he obviously recognized the title. “Alister MacLean’s best some say, where on earth did you find a copy of it?” he blustered.

“My wife found it at Value Village.” I replied, then offering, “it’s long been one of my favourite movies.”

“Carey Grant is so good as the lead part, I love it where he says to Marty Feldman, “TAKE IT!”

“You mean Gregory Peck and Anthony Quin, surely…” he interrupted looking at me closely from over his glasses.

“My gosh” I exclaimed, catching my breath with a giggle, “good show indeed”

“I guess you’ve seen the movie too!” I laughed, he grimaced a bit to reveal his confusion and that he some what disapproved of my familiarity, inserting a book mark into his current page he closed the hard cover novel and laid I on the chair beside him…

“You’d have had me if you’d only gotten one of those names wrong” he chuckled.

“My name is Morris Feldgrave” he said stretching the hand that recently rubbed his toes toward me in a greeting gesture, I grabbed a hold of it, and received a firm hand shake. It felt like a skeleton of stone beneath a leather glove.

I made a mental note not to touch my eyes, ears, nose or mouth before I could give my hand a dose of hand sanitizer, and smiled back at him in reply.

“Bob Kettle here, pleased to meet you. I said rather officially, somewhat distracted by the fact that the name he’d just offered wasn’t the one in the register on the receptionist’s ledge.

Tipping my head toward Nurse Gretchin, “been waiting here long?”

He lifted himself slightly on his chair craning his neck to get a glimpse of her at the desk, “I have indeed” he said in a whisper…

I casually pulled out my appointment and made note of the time on the clock that stood above the water cooler, then my own watch raising my eye brows… all the while trying not to give away that I’d read the of the doctor had made the appointment with earlier that week, “Dr. M. Feldgrove, PHD, PPRM” it said

“Where did you get the coffee?” I said in a “by the way” voice, to further distract him. At which he lept up, and approached the window,

“Nurse Gretchin, could I get a cup of coffee for my fellow inmate here, he’ll take it with…”

…turning toward me, mouth agape and eyes widening…

“oh, I’ll have it black” I sputtered in surprise.

“It’s Alice, actually” she quipped and then as she stood to head for the other room glancing in my direction, “I’ll be right with you there, Laurence, and don’t mind Randy here, he thinks he’s amusing.”

I suddenly felt nervous and sweaty about being in the presence of a man so clearly my equal in verbal sparring and gests.

Randy Marchinko was the name in the register that had not been crossed out. He was squinting down through his glasses at my name scrawled there Laurence Brand, “You have unique spelling of your name there, BOB!” he said playfully. Paul is his son’s name…