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Post by Charles Landen on Apr 6, 2007 9:41:14 GMT 7
"I'm dying."
If there was one person at Mount Sinai hospital who was not dying, it was Charles Landen. Charles Landen had, in not so many words, gotten the shit kicked out of him. It was one of those things that everyone knew was bound to happen one day. How couldn't it? People can only take so much of his contrived, generic-cereal-centric diatribes before wanting nothing other than to deliver a bitch slap. Who the hell did Charles Landen think he was putting down generic cereal? Who the hell did he think he was propagating the false idea that Starbucks coffee was like liquid gold? Who defended Starbucks anyway? Not even Starbucks loyalists openly defended it. Charles Landen, in short, had it coming. He had a punch to the nose coming. It would have been a bonafide miracle if Charles Landen escaped the afternoon without a scratch.
"Fill these out." "I don't think you understand, I'm dying." "Fill these out, please."
The receptionist handed him a tissue. As much as his injury (one notable injury aside from the bruises decorating his face like acne on a pubescent boy) may have hurt there was an over-all minimal amount of sympathy for the white boy with the bloody nose. There was absolutely no compassion for the kid who in the midst of casual eavesdropping had breached a few boarders and made an offensive commentary. Namely, waltzing onto the subway and deciding it was the time and place to give a shifty looking African American fellow a little discourse on how whatever he was talking about was completely and utterly ridiculous. What could Charles say? He was the Michael Moore of the streets. He was Al Gore and anything anyone had to say was global warming.
The song "Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne summed up it well. Obnoxious, in your face, and littered with misplaced obscenities. Or maybe the Michael Moore analogy worked a little better. Regardless, he was still obnoxious and 'in your face'.
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Post by Alexia DeMarco on Apr 6, 2007 11:09:12 GMT 7
She was beginning to realize that being stuck in a hospital waiting room, waiting an hour to be seen, was really starting to grate on her nerves. Especially having to listen to the guy at the front desk, arguing with the receptionist. What was his problem? And why did she have to pick this hospital? There were others in the city, but someone had said that this was the best one.
Running an errand in the city, Lexi had taken the subway, and everything had been fine. Until she got off onto a crowded platform, and the people pushing and shoving their way toward the exit. She was trying to get her way through the crowd, and someone had tripped her. Putting her hand out, she had landed on her wrist badly, and it hurt. It was only a sprain, she kept telling herself, but she feared it might be worse. A quick trip to the hospital would solve that problem. And now, that seemed like it had been a really bad idea.
So she looks at the guy at the desk, with dark brown eyes full of disgust, and she starts to think about pulling out her cell, and calling someone to come get her. Sighing, she turns, looking at the TV, trying to get interested in the medical infomercials scrolling across the screen. At least she wasn't having to listen to the guy at the front desk anymore.
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Post by Charles Landen on Apr 6, 2007 11:26:17 GMT 7
After too much adieu, at least for the sake of the receptionist, he was sent to his seat. Fearful that his needs wouldn't be met, he was compliant. It was a surprise that he hadn't been in the first place, considering the fiasco on the subway. After an encounter like that, you would think he'd be the least bit docile. Then again, he had death getting in the way. It was a matter of life and death, no doubt. A broken nose? It was fatal. He was going to become another casuality of the fast life of New York City. He was going to die without having had written up a will. His Swedish furniture would be left to rot or sold or repo'd. His shoes were going to be given away to homeless people. The bank would auction off his Beemer. This was a real serious situation. What would become of his Armani suits? His Gucci sunglasses? His plasma tv? His playstation? They were all going to fade away, and no one would know that the playstation 3 in the third to last apartment on the second floor of his building was Charles Landen's.
He glanced down at the medical forms, blood dripping from his nose.
"Name...Charles Landen...Date of birth...July thirteenth...nineteen eighty three...Age twenty-four, sex...male...name of parent or guardian...N.A....allergies..."
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Post by Alexia DeMarco on Apr 6, 2007 11:45:09 GMT 7
She was perfectly fine, she had a dreadfully boring TV to watch, and all she had to do was wait a little longer. And then, there is that male voice, suddenly droning on, and she turns, her hair swishing over her eyes, to glare at him. Why did this have to happen to her? And if she didn't say something, he was going to read the whole form, and she was going to kill him. With her one good hand.
Finally deciding to say something, she pushes her hair out of her eyes with her good hand, and she takes a deep breath. "Hey! Could you please not do that? It's really annoying." Still looking at him, her dark eyes flick down to his bloody nose, and she makes a face. It wasn't easy to look at, but she didn't faint at the sight of blood. She had seen enough of it with her two older brothers growing up.
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Post by Charles Landen on Apr 6, 2007 12:12:55 GMT 7
"I'm dying."
He held the tissue up to his nose, the blood seeping through his fingers and ultimately finding its way on both the forms and his shirt. He bowed his head, looking back down at the sheets. Social security code. Address. Occupation. General information. Do you suffer from one or more of the above? Convulsions. Seizures. Anxiety attacks. Insomnia. Kidney disease. Heart disease. Is there a history of one or more of the following your family? Diabetes. Heart disease. Kidney disease. Multiple Sclerosis. Dementia. Anxiety attacks. AIDS/HIV. Leukemia. Sickle Cell Disorder. Anemia. Lung or Stomach Cancer. Prostate or respitory disease. Prostate or respitory disease? How the hell can you throw that into the same group? Have you or a family member ever suffered from gastronal intestinal disease? Yes or no. No.
He looked back up at the girl sitting next to him.
"My life is ending. One minute at a time."
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Post by Alexia DeMarco on Apr 6, 2007 19:18:45 GMT 7
As she watched him, because it was slightly more interesting than watching the TV, Lexi started feeling a little sympathy for him. She didn't know why, maybe he, in a small way, reminded her of someone she knew. Or maybe she was going crazy, because of the throbbing pain in her wrist. Not sure she wanted to say anything to him, she sighs, glancing at the messy forms, and back into his eyes. "Sorry about that, I've been here for what seems like forever."
Lowering her eyes to his nose, she wonders if she is making a mistake in talking to the guy. This could pass the time, or this could be really bad. "It doesn't look that bad, I've seen worse. And, um, your getting blood on your forms." She points to the clipboard in his lap, with a slim finger, and shifts in her seat. But then she yelps in pain, bumping her injured wrist against the arm rest. Hissing in pain, and pulling her wrist close to her stomach, she cradles it with her free hand. "Dammit, that hurts!" Turning to look in the direction of the examination rooms, looking to see if she can see anyone, she sighs. "I wish they would hurry up." She was really ready to get this over with.
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Post by Charles Landen on Apr 6, 2007 23:59:13 GMT 7
"I know."
He was the exact brand of person who could rain on any parade. The type of person who made you wonder, no matter where you were when you encountered them, "Why did I come here?" The kind of person whose nasally voice, regardless of what he said or did, had a way of grinding your metaphorical gears like nothing other. The sort of person, who, inevitably was going to make someone snap and that person was going to punch them out. Which was exactly what had happened, and exactly why he was sitting in the lobby of the E.R. at Mount Sinai. His eyes wandered to her wrist.
"Why are you here?"
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Post by Alexia DeMarco on Apr 7, 2007 8:16:58 GMT 7
Looking back at the guy, he seemed a little better. Or was Lexi just imagining that? And so he knew about the blood on his paperwork. Not sure what to say, she turns her chocolate colored gaze on him, and she catches his eyes on her wrist. Still baring her teeth with pain, she sighs. "I fell in the subway, and hurt my wrist. And it's taking forever for someone to see me."
At least he was being polite now, and not so annoying. Deciding to be polite herself, she smiles slightly, still feeling guilty about having yelled at him. "What happen to you? I mean, it looks like someone punched you. But I could be wrong about that." It was better to talk to him, while she waited, then to watch the stupid TV. And as long as she didn't move or bump her wrist, she wasn't in too much pain. She just hoped the x-ray was going to turn out okay.
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Post by Charles Landen on Apr 7, 2007 9:34:30 GMT 7
"That's unfortunate."
He momentarily reminisced about what had happened on the subway. Looking back on it, he may have deserved it. In fact, thinking about it, he definitely deserved it. Seldom do people not deserve being punched in the nose. His mind entertained the notion of exaggerating what had happened... Him, the valiant stranger...Nah, what about...Him, the boxer...After a few seconds of that, he thought better of it.
"I got punched in the face on the subway."
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Post by Alexia DeMarco on Apr 7, 2007 9:51:35 GMT 7
Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Lexi sighs, and glances away. "Someone tripped me, I think, I was too busy trying not to get trampled. And the pain was really intense." Maybe she should call someone to come and get her, and she could try another hospital. But she was in the city, and who could she call?
As the guy confirms what Lexi had suspected, she turns, looking a little concerned. "Really? What happened? Did someone just go off on you?" Her dark eyes search his face, looking for clues to what actually had happened. Maybe he would tell her, but he seemed like he didn't say much, and she though he might not tell her. She hoped that he wasn't violent, or anything like that.
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Post by Charles Landen on Apr 7, 2007 10:02:49 GMT 7
He hesitated. He was faced with that decision again. Whether he was going to embellish or not. It was a tough choice, admittedly. It's nice to be told the truth to...Of course it is. Who likes being lied to? No one. ...but how good are people at detecting lies? This was a pretty low-stakes interaction, how bad could a little embellishment be?
What if she knew the person who'd punched him. Maybe not. Maybe it'd be better if he stuck with the truth. What were the chances that she knew a six foot four black man with a tattoo of a gal named Shirley on his forearm? What were the chances she didn't know him? This was a random girl in a hospital. She'd take it all at face value. Or not.
"Nah, I think I really pissed him off."
Way to be a badass, Charles Landen. Getting into fights on subways, punk rock.
"I mean, I don't think he should have punched me."
Or not.
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Post by Alexia DeMarco on Apr 7, 2007 11:06:32 GMT 7
Sensing his hesitation, Lexi keeps her eyes on the guy, and she doubts that he is going to tell her. It wasn't like they were friends, just two strangers passing time in the waiting room of a hospital emergency room. He didn't seem much older than her, but he was very different in his personality. And she started to wonder what he did for a living.
As he speaks, complaining about being punched, Lexi sighs. She was going to have to ask questions, to find out more, and it was going to be the best way to pass time in this bright, cold room. "What did you say to him, to piss him off? You must have done something to get him to punch you." Maybe she shouldn't know, but curiousity was starting to eat at her a little. Trying to get him to open up a little more, she says, "Hey, what's your name?" Maybe she could start with that, and work on getting more information, a little at a time.
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