At The Clinic

The waiting room at the clinic was the usual old people zombie hell. A Mexican/Indian woman was on her fecking cell phone for 45 minutes. She never shut up. “And he had animals mounted on the walls of every room. I hope he didn’t kill and eat all these creatures. He made a lot of holes in the wall to mount them. I don’t just patch the wall. I repaint the whole wall, which is a lot of work for me.” And on and on ad nauseam. Drove me nuts.
Another old lady talking to herself, “Where’s James! He’s supposed to be here with me. James, where are you?” James did finally show up. He was a washed-up hippie wearing jeans and an old black T-shirt with the faded logo of an old band on it. 
Then, Stanley showed up. He looked like a homeless guy. He wore an old raincoat, sweatpants, and a floppy wool hat like they wear in Newfoundland. His beat-up sandals were all wrong. He was standing (6′ 2″ tall) on the outsides of his feet. I don’t know how he walked like that. Turned out from listening to him talk to the receptionist that Stanley was a smart guy. No idea what his background is. 
The line at the pharmacy was even more old age sick people crazy. The guy in front of me had been crippled since birth. He was using a wheeled walker-chair combo. I don’t know how he stood up. He told the woman in line behind me that he was the caregiver for his 80-year-old mother-in-law. Jayzus! The guy can barely take care of himself. I had to bite my tongue not to interject, “If it were my mother-in-law, I would have used the pillow on her long ago.”
Life in a small town.

TJM