In Wait

In Wait

He had never heard of such a thing before, much less ever knew that it was something that people needed or wanted. All he knew was what he was told, and so, he showed up. He sits, and he waits for his name to be called in a lobby where a whole host of other men also sit in wait. A man next to him leans over and whispers, “What are we waiting here for?” He looks at the inquirer and shrugs, “Not sure. A procedure or something that will turn us into real men?”

 


 

[à la David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest]

All of the things in the room that are blue include: the small, dozen or so 100 ml water bottles arranged neatly on top of a navy blue set of dresser drawers, the carpet, oddly enough, the window and door frames, painted, the lampshades on two of the five lamps, the cushions of the large armchair behind the desk, an over-sized fountain pen that’s being held in a pronged display, and the glass globe that sits in the far, corner window sill.

 


 

The sign says to wait to be called by name, but I never signed in anywhere, and so, the whole situation of how I can ever be called by name confuses me. Nevertheless, I sit down in one of the available chairs, since the reception area looks empty of the receptionist. A clock ticks loudly from the large grandfather clock on the far wall of the space. It looks odd in its antiquity against the overwhelmingly modern feel of the waiting area. A buzz buzzes overhead through some sort of intercom system. “Tasher Phillips to the front desk, please. Tasher Phillips.” Initially, I jump at the sound of my name, but then soon understand the message. I walk toward the reception desk and wait for someone to appear.

 


 

“The cookies are really good here,” a small toddler-sized child looks up at me and informs. “Is that so?” I challenge. Snacking on said cookie, the kid nods vigorously, “Share?” “No. Thanks. I’ll go grab my own,” I insist as I prepare to stand and make my way to the table full of brochures and pamphlets and houses a swath of cookies in a variety of flavors. “No!” the kid shouts; “I’ll get one for you!” The kid jumps up off the floor, runs to the cookie tray, grabs one from the middle and offers it to me, “Here!” Begrudgingly, I take the cookie but absolutely cannot eat it.

 


 

She walks around the room looking for the pot of hot, fresh coffee that the lady —who greeted her upon her entrance into this godforsaken hell-hole of a crack den— promised her. Decorated in the trimmings of luxury and affluence, the room nauseates. The overall distaste for such, how does her mother put it?, “gauche ceremony for the wannabe privileged” drives her mad. Nobody likes to pretend that they have something they truly do not have, right?

 


 

[same prompt X 5 @ 2 MIN]