|A Piece of the Action
||[Jun. 28th, 2005|09:38 pm]
The Writening is Upon You!
The acrid smell of sweat and plastic filled his nostrils. The waiting room was scattered with men and women, all looking as nervous as he felt. The crumpled piece of metallic orange paper remained secure in his fist. A woman with a voice like glass and gravel came over the static filled intercom.
"Number 641. Number 641. Please proceed down the main hallway to Room 7. Number 641."
His feet seemed to glide effortlessly down the shock white corridor. Every door had frosted glass and a number above it in stunning chrome. Something was burning. He couldn't tell what, but his nose seemed bombarded by the aroma of electric charring. The door to Room 7 opened with a creak and quietly closed behind him.
The other man was sitting at a desk, his hunched shoulders tense in strained contemplation. When he heard the door latch, he quickly turned around in his chair to look at Number 641. His glasses magnified his eyes to make them look like dark saucers in flight.
"Number 641, I presume. Welcome. I imagine you saw our flier?"
Number 641 nodded quickly, darting his eyes to every corner of the room.
"Well, why don't you have a seat. I'll get you a drink and we can talk about why you're here."
Number 641 sat down nervously. He accepted the glass of water graciously from the man with the saucer eyes and gulped it down feverishly. As he set the cup down on the floor next to him, Number 641 noticed the small tray of tools in the far corner of the office. As the man began to speak, Number 641's eyes began to un-focus.
"I understand you've been through a rough time lately. Your file says you lost your wife, how terrible. I can only imagine how devastated you must feel and how badly you would want to forget everything. And that's why you're here, so we can help you forget."
By the time he finished talking, Number 641 had passed out. The man stood up and carted the tray of instruments to his side. With one quick movement, he turned out the overhead fluorescent light and switched on a dim table lamp.
Number 641 stares out the crystalline window over a lake filled with lily pads. His glazed over eyes are motionless as the birds fly above the water. A man in a white uniform approaches his chair and quickly wipes away a string of saliva gurgling out of Number 641's mouth.
"How are we feeling today? I see we're taking in the view. Isn't it lovely?"
As the man in the white uniform turns to leave, he notices a crumpled piece of orange paper on the ground. Number 641 remains still as the man picks it up and smoothes it out on the table top. Next to Number 641's dissected frontal lobe soaking in a glass of formaldehyde, the orange flier laid face up:
HAVING TROUBLED TIMES? COME GET A PIECE OF THE ACTION, AND WIPE AWAY THOSE BLUES!