SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES

         Around here Sam hides his gray boxes. The one on Route 37 is off the highway, up a hill and behind the Golden Arches of Mickey D’s. Thirty-some miles to the west in Marlton, a stand of conifers keeps the union pickets from spotting the name. The Boys from Benton should know better; everyone knows they’re there. The line of cars in front of us turning right is the tip-off. We follow, and like the others, we are not heading for the drive through to pick up large fries. Where else can a late middle-age couple spend an hour to kill before the Orthopaedist appointment?

         To our amazement it took only minutes to pick up the X-rays from the hospital, and now the fear of being lumped with other senior citizens who arrive early drives us to shop for a carpet remnant to cover our ugly bathroom floor. Others must have the same idea; the parking lot is "jompocketa," as my old Micro-Economics professor used to say. He was Dutch; his accent came with the territory. He did not reckon with the three buses that have transported the residents of Centrum Silver City to Sam’s for an outing.

         Silver is the prevailing hair color inside the store too. Henna runs a strong second. My dark brown is in the minority. We avoid the health area, where the Metamucil is flying off the shelves, and head for the back aisles where Sam usually sticks a bin of rolled area rugs. After a pit stop for sandals, we find what we want, a five by eight piece of Berber which I heave into the cart. Pam is the pilot. Holding onto the handle helps support her arthritic knee, which is the cause of our coming doctor visit.

         Even with our dalliance at the General Store, we anticipate being early for our date until we make a right turn and spot the cashiers and the gaggle of humanity lined there. The buses must be leaving; the lines are filled with the Medicare Brigade. We detour into an aisle, nearly buying half the glassware in the store as the rug precedes us into the turn. By the time we have checked out the DVD department and other essentials, the lines have abated and we join the queue. I become aware that we are now the oldest people in the store. I’m not sure whether I enjoy being an ‘old Fart’ or not, but before I can grow too despondent we are back at the car.

         When we first met, Pam insisted she do all the driving. Now it is often I who drive her car when we go out. I ponder this progress as Pam’s champagne color Hyundai bobs and weaves its way back onto the highway to the next traffic light, where it turns right and into the parking lot of a strip medical center. Some fancy trim on the roof, and plate glass windows dress the place up, but little can be done to make the place reek of money.

         My mind can think such thoughts; it is not my knee that hurts and the ideas keep me from wandering into other medical buildings where I would take Morgan in her last year of life. From those experiences I predict to Pam that the first thing she will be handed is a clipboard. “No, I did all that on the phone when I made the appointment,” she assures me. We enter and approach the check in.

         “I’m Pam Noto and I have an appointment with Dr. K at 12:20.”

         The flak catcher behind the counter takes Pam’s insurance card, her twenty dollar co-pay and copies the former, giving it back, along with a blue clip board with twenty or so sheets on it.

         “Fill in these papers and bring them back. The Doctor will see you shortly.”

         I pretend not to mumble ‘I told you so” and, as much as possible, help her fill in the information. I draw a blank when it comes to remembering the name of her grandfather’s family doctor, but I am helpful in other areas. Within minutes after handing the information back to the gatekeeper, and before we can thoroughly examine the reading material offered, we are summoned by a crisply dressed nurse to the inner sanctum, where she listens to a recitation of the pain that drove Pam to the Emergency Room ten days prior. She leaves us with those comforting words, ‘The Doctor will be right with you.”

         Something must be wrong with our healthcare system, for within a minute there is a knock and the doctor enters. He parses the X-rays, and speaking in tongues, describes what might be the problem, but falls back on the proverbial qualifier of today, “we might have to wait to see what a MRI shows.” He leaves, returns in a few minutes with a model of the leg and knee, and gives a demonstration that thankfully we were not required to memorize. A shot of cortisone, a prescription for pills and we are on our way, to return in a week if nothing improves.

         I was on my best behavior in the examining room. I refrained from asking the doctor about the crack in the linoleum floor, perhaps for fear he would notice and raise the fee. The doctor was kind too; he did not ask Pam where she found such a dolt for a boyfriend.

         On the way home we see a small boat for sale, and double back to take down the phone number on the sign attached to it. Then we stop at the pharmacy to get the pills. While we wait Pam selects birthday cards and I pick up a newspaper. At home, our big adventure ended, we sit and have some lunch. Pam chuckles at her cards. I read my paper. The shot has not eased her pain, but the food must taste good for she waits until she is finished to comment.

         “My knee still hurts like hell.”

         “Poor baby, give it a little time.”

         “Watcha reading?”

         “The ads, the circulars.”

         “Looking for something?”

         “Yea, get back in the car, Walmart is having a sale on knees.”


Ocean Gate, NJ
April 19, 2005