Today I found myself sitting in the lobby of the Tom Waddell Free Clinic down on Lechwalesa Street near the Civic Center. Lobby spurs visions of comfy couches, a small table strewn with People magazines, and a small, but colorful fish tank. In real life, that is what most lobbies look like, so maybe I should have used the words “waiting room”, but even that gives off an inaccurate impression of my surroundings. Even a waiting room is generally more inviting than the cell I stewed in for 2 hours.
Yep, 2 hours.
I was there for an obligatory TB test, required by the Boys' Home I start volunteering at next week. I called ahead yesterday, and the nurse was so very pleasant and told me to drop in between the hours of 1:00 and 3:00 for the quick procedure. I showed up with a book in hand, my I.D., a smile, and very little expectations.
First and foremost, do not expect eye contact when entering such an establishment. Scratch that, do not expect eye contact from any of the overworked nurses fluttering about; avoid it at all costs with the characters lurking in the waiting room. Characters. When your Mommy tells you to watch out for “stranger dangers”, these are the people to whom she is referring. You know how you ride MUNI to work every morning and every few days a crazy person boards and tries to get confrontational with the driver or with the passengers? Ok, maybe this occurs more often for some, depending on the time of day or your route, but you know what I mean. The tiny, dingy, stark 9 chair room was teeming with such people. All in one room and all trying to catch your eye or your ear or both, somehow being louder or more worth watching than their neighbor.
I pulled my number (literally there is a number dispenser like what you would find at a butcher or deli) and sat down with my novel. I intentionally picked a chair in the corner with only one adjacent seat; it also afforded me an excellent view of all of the other patients impatiently waiting. It should be noted that this particular clinic offers multiple drug treatment options and services. First guy to distract me from my reading was a threadbare old man with a grizzly beard and droopy eyes pushed even droopier by a scraggly black beanie. Clearly homeless, he wore fingerless, black gloves and in one hand he held a black Coco Chanel compact, dainty and feminine in his hold, but not in his face or get-up. He used his other hand to dig boogers out of his enlarged nostrils with a giant, brown paper towel. Apparently the compact mirror helped him achieve results more quickly or fastidiously.
Next to “Chanel guy” was the only normal looking man waiting; I didn't mind making eye contact with him. His clothes, demeanor and smile were friendly and well, normal. Twenty minutes after arrival, a large bear of a man squeezed his way in and addressed “Normal guy” and proceeded to talk about things way beyond me. Words like “addiction” and “center” and “two years” floated around the small square and then I noticed the grinding teeth and the twitching mouth. He didn't want to look at me anymore.
After an hour streamed by my reading was interrupted by a ruckus at the front entrance. Sid and Nancy, the older years, crashed into our room, hanging on each other and dragging a black suitcase on wheels behind them. What was in the suitcase? Do you know how much I wish I knew the answer to that question? Badly dyed hair, wrinkles and age spots way beyond their respective years, and a smell. A smokey, alcohol laden, heavy, heated smell that fed on the little oxygen in the room. Immediately a grey and withering woman stood up and harumphed, which only encouraged Nancy to stop and antagonize. She dropped her luggage and in a loud and demanding voice, she said, “What bit you? Did something bite you? Honey, I think that woman got bit by something. Yeesh. What's her problem. . .I mean, does anyone here know her problem? Sh#t.” She searched for camaraderie and found it only in her gentlemen friend with the dirty, long hair. They sat down and proceeded to rub their faces together, not sexually, but more like a cat would do to an ankle.
“Did you say something?” I think she was talking to me, but I kept my nose in my book and feigned ignorance. She got up and paced and slammed her hands on her waist and bent over into peoples' spaces and peered into their faces and hoped for a reaction. She begged for a reaction. She would not triumph, though, because she was facing formidable foes of nonchalance, apathy, and common sense. Plus every other person could one-up her on craziness if there was an actual contest. She ended up leaving in a huff after being ignored, and her partner followed.
Unfortunately, I left soon after in a boil of frustration having waited and waited only to be told to return the next morning. Irritating, but it did allow me a portal into the other world of SF that I sometimes forget about. Next time I return I am bringing a sketch pad and a pencil.