He sometimes has to visit the hospital.

It’s summer so the waiting room is hell’s kitchen. A host of elderly piggy-backers sit on the grossly uncomfortable benches.

They, the elders, know best, so the doors stay shut, the AC stays off. These are hasbeens from all walks of life. Some wear perfume, some aftershave, others were never too keen on washing.

It reeks of ass, piss and 405.
No air gets in, no stench gets out, but I digress.

He plays music on his iPhone, the youngest thing in the whole hospital wing. The smooth sounds of his carefully hand-picked music library drown down all the mumbling, the chit-chat, the gossip, the political stands, the motherly advice. They are all reduced to mild inane babble, barely distinguishable through Wilson’s loud melody.

He’s asked to put his better eyes to use, to fill out a prescription for an old lady. She is nice to him, overly polite as he puts on his gallant hat. With a perfectly honest smile and a chill in his eye, he draws the pretty letters in their boxes, and is asked to forge the signature.

He indulges. I digress again.

All you will see here is exactly what will put you off on a hot summer afternoon. The soothing embrace of a cold shower is the faith that keeps you going really.
But for them, the unrespected, unappreciated, unloved, unremembered hasbeens, there is no such faith.

They rely not on the cold shower, but on the very hell he has to stand in right now. This is what becomes of them, a sorry lot of people so lonely, who feel so useless they see going to the hospital as a social event.

We are truly wretched creatures!