Cellphone Effenheimer

The story of the lady and the boots

You ever walk into a room and know that things are not going well? That was what happened to me when my husband and I arrived at our doctor’s waiting room for our annual physicals. We walked in and the tension was palpable. That something was most definitely wrong hung in the air like a wet fart and could be read on the faces of several of the waiting patients. I figured it was the usual problem – our doctor tends to be pretty invested in his patients and would therefor run up to an hour late or even more, which typically turns people cranky. The waiting room of this office is boring as hell – the same posters have hung on the wall for over a decade. There is nothing to do but sit there and baste in your own boredom and cringe over some person hacking up a lung while you wait your turn.

When we entered there were two seats left, side-by-side, which was odd, because there were a few people standing. My husband and I were seated. That’s when it became abundantly evident that the tension in the room had nothing to do with wait times.

In an instant it was clear that the lady seated next to me was fucked up out of her mind. Having spent nearly half a year working with people involved in the sex trade at the HIV clinic I worked at at the time, I recognized her uniform – the skimpy, garish clothes, the make-up that says “sex for sale” without actually being sexy in anyway. There she was. She sat sprawled in the seat next to me, leg in cast, with crutches. The entire room full of other patients was collectively leaning away from her and attempting to ignore her blatant presence. God knows what she had done to isolate herself prior to our arrival. She was sort of weaving in her seat, obviously drugged. In the same moment as I recognized her for being her kind, she saw me for being my kind. The sort of person you could talk to, who would listen without judgement. I think she called me “sweetie” as she offered me a slurred greeting.

In that moment, I recognized that I had two choices: I could ignore her and join the ranks of the uncomfortable people trying to avoid the mess that was this lady, or I could engage her in conversation. I figured, why not make her more comfortable and probably give everyone else something interesting to eavesdrop in on? So I greeted her back, pleasantly, engagingly. I was instantly this lady’s favorite person, and as with all people in her state, I just let her guide the conversation, which quickly turned to her love of “Coast to Cast” with Art Bell and her belief in alien life, the stars, the universe and cosmic forces. As she expunged these beliefs, she sort of talked in this performative way to the whole room, while occasionally, leaning in to me to whisper some “just between you and me” type comments. My husband sat on the other side of me, his typical quit, bemused self. As the conversation progressed, the “just between you and me” asides shifted to her informing me repeatedly of how the newest doctor to join the practice readily gave out Oxy, Zanex, uppers, downers, etc. “All you have to do is ask, honey.” The conversation was a somewhat delightful mish-mash of crazy loopiness, and I sort of glanced around the room and it seemed that most people, including my rather shy husband, were clearly enjoying my knack for keeping this lady talking so delightfully. Everyone had relaxed.

Then she saw my boots.

(Let me take a step away from the story at hand and tell you about my boots. I had wanted these boots for over a year, and I had taken a two hour round trip on the subway in a city I did not live in just to purchase them. They were an absolute splurge, and I will admit freely that I spent more money on them than on any other pair of shoes or article of clothing in my life. I bought them as a gift to myself upon the end of the seven-year odyssey of writing my big play. They are a pair of deep red patent leather boots, sort of Victorian meets modern. They are fabulous. I’ve been told so by a transgender person who was waiting in a food bank line-up, so I know it’s true.)

So this lady sees my boots and exclaims, “oh, look at your boots! Where did you get these boots?” I explain that I got them in Toronto. “Of course, you can’t get boots like that here! (to the lady sitting on the other side of her, who is doing her best to be in the room, but not of the room )“don’t you love those boots? Look at the colour! How much did you pay for these boots?” I reply that I paid “enough” for them. “Well it was worth it. I would pay fifty dollars for these boots! Did you pay fifty dollars for these boots?” No I had paid more than fifty dollars for the boots. “Of course you did, they’re worth more than fifty dollars! Look at these, oh they’re so nice. I would pay a hundred dollars for these boots. Look at them. What colour are they? Is that wine, would you say they’re wine coloured?” I tell her I suppose the are. “They’re the most beautiful boots I’ve ever seen. I would pay two-hundred dollars for those boots. Did you pay two-hundred dollars for the boots?” At this point she is now stroking my boot slightly with her hand. She somehow, awkwardly, slips partially out of her seat, crouching closer to them to get a better look or feel. I am becoming alarmed that things are escalating in some inarticulatable way. No, I had paid more than two-hundred dollars for the boots. “More than two-hundred dollars for the boots! Well look at them, you just can’t find boots like that everyday.” I mumble something about how “sometimes you have to splurge.” The tables have turned and I know that I am now the entertainment for the room and not the other way around. I think of my husband, and the fact I have not even told him how much I paid for the boots. I take a side long glance and he is clearly enjoying this. I realize I just have to end this. “Did you pay four-hundred dollars for these boots?”

“Yes.” So quiet. But every person in that room heard me. There is an astonished pause as everyone digests this inconceivable fact. In that moment, even I can’t believe I spent four-hundred dollars on a pair of boots in that endless moment that hung in the air.

“Four hundred dollars? Four hundred dollars for those boots? I would pay four-hundred dollars for those boots. I don’t have that kind of money, but if I did, I would pay four-hundred dollars for those boots. Those are the nicest boots I’ve ever seen.” She goes on to realize the man beside me must be my husband, and with my pair of four-hundred dollar boots she wants to know what he does for a living, but he explains that I paid for the boots myself. Mercifully, now that the cost of my boots is cleared up, my husband and then myself are each called one after the other into the examination rooms. As I leave, the lady continues to talk to everyone about the boots. The words “four-hundred dollars for boots” is the last thing I hear as I step into the examination room to wait.

The physical goes as usual – my doctor is his normal professional self. I ask him to write out a prescription of my usual medication, but my mind is really out in the waiting room, still rolling over the scene that just played out.

After my exam, with some relief I see that my husband is done and ready to go, and that the lady is no longer there. We make a swift exit, and as soon as we’re out of there I ask my husband if he could hear what the lady was whispering in my ear about the new doctor handing out prescriptions for Oxy and such, but he did not, so we had an extra little chuckle about that. Then we get to the truck, and I realize I forgot to take my own prescription. I hurry back inside and my doctor is standing there with his front desk receptionist talking in the hall just off the waiting room. They both look up at me as I hurry toward them. I explain that I forgot my prescription. My doctor responds “nice boots. I would pay four-hundred dollars for those boots.”

***
Post script: shortly after this situation the new doctor left the clinic and there is an article in the local paper about how several doctors in the city have had their licenses suspended for handing out prescriptions for abused substances inappropriately.

Fairly recently (about a year later) I visited the office and there were signs up everywhere about how the doctors will not issue Oxycodone prescriptions at the walk in clinic, so clearly this former doctor’s patients have been a bit of a issue for them. As the receptionist walked me to the examination room, I looked down and noticed she was wearing some nice boots. I said “well this time it looks like you’re the one wearing nice boots.” She laughed so hard I could still hear her as she closed the door and headed back down the hall.