by David Rogers
Dropping her purse on the floor between desk and wall, she half sat and half fell into her chair and paused to take another sip from her coffee. Without looking, she tapped the button on her desk phone to put it on speaker and batted at the mouse to wake the computer up from sleep mode. She sipped again as she punched into voicemail, savoring the warm, strong, sweet caffeine, then sat back and cradled the cup in her hands as she waited for the first message to play.
“Hello, this is David Jordan.” A male voice said, sounding hoarse and nasal. “I’m scheduled for today, uh Friday, but the instructions you sent said I shouldn’t come in if I’m feeling sick. I am sick, so we’ll need to reschedule the appointment, probably no earlier than Tuesday next week. Uh, thanks.”
Jessica frowned and rolled her eyes, then leaned forward and set her coffee aside. Her fingers tapped across the keyboard as she entered the screensaver password, then she clicked the scheduler application up. Clicking again, she shifted the primary view to Friday, then paused as her eyes flicked down the listing. There, ten thirty, David Jordan. Jessica right clicked on that entry and selected reschedule, then clicked ok. The appointment vanished off the schedule, and reappeared in the to-do section.
Lifting her coffee again, Jessica tapped on the phone to delete the message and sipped as she listened to the next. Two more cancellations, which she marked, and one patient calling for clarification on the pre-procedure instructions. Jessica made the appropriate notations in the day’s to-do list, then frowned as the receptionist’s voice came from the phone.
“Hi Jessica, it’s Mary. I’m not feeling very good today, not at all. I’m going to stay in bed and make my husband get some orange juice from the store before he goes into work. Sorry. Hopefully I’ll be feeling better Monday.”
Jessica closed her eyes briefly in frustration. Mary was a nice person, but Jessica harbored an innate suspicion of any absence that timed itself at the beginning or ending of the week. It came off as a desire for a three day weekend. Or worse, in this case, a four day weekend. Labor Day was Monday. That was her lack of caffeine talking, she decided, since Mary was generally reliable. She took a large gulp of coffee, then clicked to bring the big view of the to-do list up on her second screen.
In addition to the cancellations, there were nearly a dozen new schedule calls to make, all the lab results to get entered into the system, the weekly inventory so she could put reorders in, calls to all of Tuesday’s patients so they did their pre-procedure stuff, and at least two hours of entry and reconciliation for accounts. Normally Mary would handle the labs and most of the calls, now Jessica would have to do all of that in addition to handling all the front desk duties.
Scowling, she got up and turned the room’s lights on, then headed deeper into the office for the break room, flipping more lights on as she went. In the break room she started the coffee machines brewing, fixing one with a double strength batch. While they started popping and ticking, she opened the dishwasher and pulled out the waiting room carafes, then went into the cabinets next to the dishwasher for one of the extra carafes.
Leaving the coffee to brew, she headed to the lab room, where she found the fax machine was full of the results that had come in overnight. Collecting the papers up, she took them with her to the reception desk. The stack of paper went down on the desk next to the keyboard, and she bent beneath the desk to hit the button to start Mary’s computer warming up before she headed back into her own office.
Clicking through the programs she kept permanently open, she generated the report on the month’s accounts, including all the un-reconciled entries that needed to be checked and coded before the accountant closed the books for August. These papers she also dropped off in reception, then she went back to the break room.
The coffee was done brewing. She filled the two waiting room carafes, tightened down their lids, and walked them up to the table in the customer area where they lived. The supply closet behind the receptionist desk provided two tall stacks of styrofoam cups, and she set out plenty of extra sugar and creamer packets. She didn’t want to have to fool around with resupplying penny-ante crap like coffee creamer for the patients once the day got going in earnest.
The extra carafe she filled with the double strength coffee, added generous portions of sugar, and cream from the quart of special French vanilla cream in the refrigerator that was labeled “Jessica’s”, and carried it up to Mary’s desk, swirling it as she walked to mix properly. She scribbled “Do Not Touch – Jessica’s” on a sticky note, and slapped it across the top, then positioned it on the end of the desk.
That settled, she retrieved her travel mug from her desk, drank half of what remained, then started looking over the faxed lab results, comparing them to the morning’s schedule of appointments. Any belonging to patients who were coming in early needed to be entered in first. After identifying two that were due in before ten am, Jessica pulled up the relevant patient records and started typing.
She was interrupted a few minutes later by the office door opening. Leaning forward, she cracked the customer window open and saw Doctor Morris entering. He saw her looking out at him, and smiled ruefully with a sad shake of his head. “Mary called in sick?” he asked her.
“Sadly.” Jessica replied, managing a smile that combined resignation with determined cheerfulness. “We’ll manage though.”
“You always do, Jessica.” Dennis Morris said.
“Coffee’s on in the back.” Jessica said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the back of the office. “And Mrs. Nittney canceled this afternoon’s appointment, so you’ll probably be able to get out of here early.”
Dennis’ eyes brightened, he liked to get out ahead of the traffic when possible, especially on the weekends. By six pm on Fridays, his preferred place was the back deck of his Johns Creek home, sipping a cocktail and flipping steaks on his grill. “Weekend’s looking up.” He said with a chuckle. Then his eyes lit up and he gave her a hopeful glance. “Hey, if Mary’s out, that means you made your special coffee, doesn’t it?”
Jessica gave him a wounded look, and lifted a porcelain mug onto the counter. “I know you crave what I’ve got, so I poured you a cup.”
“Bless you Jessica.” Dennis said as he stepped over, reaching for it.
Jessica moved the mug behind the glass window and gave him a look of mock fierceness. “But you have to promise not to get grumpy if I have to call Darshan and tell him the books might not be ready for him until Tuesday.”
“Promise.” Dennis said, his eyes tracking the mug as it disappeared behind the frosted glass.
“Doctor.” Jessica said sternly.
“Honest Jessica, I promise.” He said, moving his eyes to her face.
“Okay then, here you go.” Jessica said, handing him the mug.
He sipped greedily, then closed his eyes happily. “Heaven in a cup.”
“If you’d learn how to make coffee, you could have it whenever you want.” Jessica noted with a grin as she printed out a copy of the day’s schedule.
“What would I have to look forward to then?” Dennis said in a dreamy voice. “Besides.” he opened his eyes and gave her a wink. “The other doctors would make fun of me if they knew I was making my own coffee.”
“Go.” Jessica said firmly, making a shooing motion. “I’ve got more than enough to do, and I know you’ve got patient notes to finish dictating.”
“Spoilsport.” Dennis said, but he went.
Jessica shook her head fondly as he vanished through the waiting room door. Dennis Morris was a pretty good boss, especially for a doctor. She could do far worse, especially considering some of the horror stories a few of her friends in the building had about their doctor bosses. She found her place on the screen, matched it up to where she’d left off from the lab result, and resumed typing.
* * * * *
Peter
The garage door rumbled up as Peter lifted it, protesting a little as he again reminded himself to get some oil
on the rollers. Blinking at the morning sunlight, he glanced around at the small back lot of his garage and nodded in satisfaction. The landscaping company was keeping up their end of the bargain; keeping the grassy area neatly trimmed.
The previous owner had let it run nearly wild, which was one of the reasons, Peter suspected, he’d gone out of business. Peter liked things neat, and he’d found a company that was willing to maintain it for free in exchange for his handling the routine maintenance on their trucks. It was a good deal for both parties; Peter got to stay busy and didn’t have to fool around with the shop grounds.
“Not that I’m really in business myself.” Peter muttered with a grin, turning to look at the ’95 Ford Taurus waiting for him. Nancy Killian was a very nice lady who had taken early retirement when the economy went south in 2008, and now lived very frugally on her 401K savings and teacher’s pension while she waited to be eligible for her non-reduced Social Security benefits to kick in.
It was only possible because she owned her own house, from the death of her husband five years ago and the subsequent life insurance payout, and the kindness of her neighbors and family. Like Peter, who was more than happy to work on her car when it needed attention, so long as she was willing to help Amy out in the back garden and keep his wife company.
Which Nancy was, since she missed the interaction she was used to having at school, and lacked the funds to ‘go wild’ as Nancy termed it. He suspected she rather regretted having to retire, and wondered again why she didn’t act on Amy’s suggestion; which had been to advertise as an assistant and lesson preparer for home schooling parents in Gwinnett.
Well, it wasn’t no problem of his. If she wanted to watch daytime television and bitch about being bored sometimes, that was her lookout. Humming tunelessly, Peter rolled his primary tool cabinet over to the Taurus, then walked to the lift controls and thumbed the proper button. The hydraulic lift thrummed to life as it began rising, taking the sedan from ground level up where he could comfortably walk beneath it and get a good luck at the front end.
Nancy said it was ‘making a noise’ when she turned, which Peter suspected meant there was probably some grease needed and maybe a few loose things tightened. If she were unlucky, it could be something in the hydraulics that handled the steering, but he hoped not for her sake.
When the Taurus was far enough off the ground, he released the lift controls and picked up his shop light. Still humming, he clicked the light on and started checking the steering. He’d barely gotten the first of the day’s grease on his hands when his phone vibrated.
“Damnit.” Peter muttered, tearing his gaze away from the left side of the steering and pulling the phone out of his pocket. The display said ‘Home’. He flipped it open with a grunted “Hey sweetie.”
“Peter, I forgot, we need milk and cold cuts.” Amy’s voice said, as the chattering hens that passed for morning talk show hosts murmured in the audio background behind her.
“Now?” Peter asked, wedging the phone against his shoulder as he studied the left side of the Taurus’ steering rack. A couple of the bolts looked suspiciously loose, and he reached to start checking them.
“No, when you come home for lunch.”
“Alright, milk and cold cuts. Ham okay?”
“Peter.” Amy’s voice replied with a stern undertone.
Peter rolled his eyes. “A little ham never killed anyone.” he said mildly as he tested bolts with his fingers.
“Well the occasional wife has when her husband won’t follow the doctor’s orders to cut back on salt.”
“Honey–” Peter began, only to have Amy cut him off abruptly.
“Shush. Low sodium turkey or chicken, and make sure you get it from the deli counter too. You can stand in line for a minute or two if necessary to get something better than that garbage they package up and hang next to the baloney.”
“Yes dear.” Peter said in resignation. He missed ham, along with bacon, potato chips, and a whole other host of foods Amy had banished from the house in recent years. He missed them a lot. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with the health benefits of a better diet. It was just that he wasn’t sure if longer life was worth living with all the fun stuff ripped out of it.
“Thank you.”
“Okay, bye.” Peter said, leaving her to hang up as he checked a last few bolts before he finally closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. One of the nuts was a little bit loose, but not nearly enough to be a problem. He pursed his lips as he considered what might be wrong with the Taurus.
Before he barely got his hands back into the steering the phone rang again.
“Sonofabitch.” Peter muttered, pulling it back out. This time the display showed “LRS Range.” He flipped the phone back open. “I don’t want to hear it, you still owe me three beers.”
“Those last three shots were bullshit, I done already told you.” a man snapped back in a tone of considerably amusement. “The bet was you make three out of five in the black. You Peter, you.”
“I did make ‘em.” Peter grinned.
“The hell you did.”
“I pulled the trigger on each one.”
“Yeah, and Frank gave you corrections on two through five.”
Peter’s grin broadened. “Yeah, and thanks to his expertise I put shots two, four and five right in the money zone.”
“That’s cheating, so they don’t count.”
“Bullshit, my gun, my scope, my finger on the trigger, my beers.”
“Why you gotta go and be like that?”
“Because you ran your mouth about how I was getting too old.”
“You are old Pete.”
“So are you Mike.” Peter chuckled. “And I, unlike you, can still shoot.”
“What’re you gonna do if Frank ain’t around?”
“Reload more often.”
Mike laughed. “Asshole.”
“Better than being a Ranger.”
“Oooooh, ouch. Now play nice, jarhead.”
“What time are you going to be at the bar tonight?” Peter asked, glancing up at the car above him. Jawboning with Mike was fun, but he had just enough of a start on the steering that he really wanted to figure out what the problem was.
“Oh probably around eight, maybe eight thirty.”
“I see. Hoping I’ll have a few and forget you owe me three?”
“April 24th, 1989.” Mike said smugly.
“Now who’s fighting dirty?” Peter grinned. “Listen, I got grease on my hands and a car on the rack so we’re gonna have to table this until tonight, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Just remember, you cheated.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Yeah, but I play fair.”
Peter closed the phone without shooting another comeback at Mike, knowing from long prior experience this sort of back and forth could go on for quite a while. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket, waited several seconds as if daring it to ring again, then reached up to the Taurus’ front end once more.
* * * * *
Darryl
Darryl opened his eyes, then closed them again almost immediately in a hard wince. His head was pounding, and the small amount of light filtering into the bedroom around the heavy black blanket draped over the curtain rod to block the window was more than enough to hurt his eyes.
He rolled over and reached blindly around on the floor until his fingers contacted what felt like yesterday’s jeans. Removing the sunglasses from the case fastened to the belt, he fumbled them into place over his eyes, then squinted around the room cautiously. Better.
A slight movement on the bed behind him reminded him of last night, and he glanced over to see Bethany – sorry Elizabeth – snuggling up against the pillows as she slept. The blankets had fallen off her chest in the night, and Darryl paused to admire the view before his head throbbed again. She had really nice breasts.
Rolling out of the bed, he stumbled naked for the bedroom door, down the hallw
ay beyond, and into the kitchen. The fridge door opened at his heavy tug, and he grabbed a can of Natural Light out of the cardboard case sitting on the top shelf where most people kept milk or pitchers of tea or juice.
The can fizz-hissed as he popped the tab, and he tipped his head back as he began downing the beer as rapidly as possible. When the last bit gurgled out of the can, he threw it in the sink and belched gratefully. Grabbing another can, he wandered back down the hall and into the bedroom with it.
Bethany was still sprawled on the bed, though she had rolled over into the space he had vacated. She was even more on display than before, and he paused again to admire the view. That reminded him of the pressure building in his bladder, and he stepped into the bathroom to relieve it.
As he pissed, he could feel the alcohol in the first beer starting to enter his bloodstream, abating the hangover induced headache. Shaking himself off, he hit the lever to flush, then grabbed the second beer off the bathroom counter and went back into the bedroom with it. When he popped the top, Bethany jerked upright, and turned her head to him.
“Hey girlie.” Darryl said, making sure to flex his upper body as he lifted the can for a drink. “How you feeling?” He had the easy unconcern with his nudity of any confident man who worked out and knew he looked good. Bethany had really liked hanging onto his biceps while they’d fucked last night. With any luck she’d be in the mood for a morning romp, which would suit him just fine.
Bethany didn’t respond, but just stared at him. Darryl lowered the can after a moment, looking at her curiously. “You alright?” he asked again.
The stripper started trying to get out of the bed, moving clumsily. She seemed to be having trouble getting her legs untangled from the blanket. Darryl watched for a moment, then sighed. Just his luck, the new girl was a meth head or something. Completely unable to function without her fix.
He wished, again, Aaron would start drug testing the new strippers before he hired them. But Darryl knew what the club’s manager would say; it was a waste of money, and it didn’t matter how coked up they were so long as they got naked and separated the men from their money. The club thrived on the girls to bring the guys in, and enjoyed a healthy rake off of the girls’ tips and fees to boot.