An office waiting room is the perfect place for social reconnaissance. If you want to secure information about someone—anyone—go to a doctor’s/dentist’s/orthodontist’s office, plop down, open a book and read as if you’re taking a college entrance exam. Wait and see what happens. Soon, somebody will sit next to you and read the invisible sign on your head that says, “Talk to me.”
Location in the room doesn’t matter. Sitting crouched in the corner like you’re Howard Hughes won’t stop them. They will find you. The Talkers know where you are. Acting like you’re on your cell phone isn’t a detractor either. They’re patient. Give it some time and, soon, you belong to them. I don’t think they have scheduled appointments. They just roam from office to office to find new people to talk to. Usually, they set their sights on innocent sitters who look occupied, a gesture that really means, “Please, please sit by me!” in Talker code.
Their topic of conversation is usually one dimensional—it’s about them. Or the way the office fouled up their insurance claim. Or how long they’ve been waiting. Or, worse, their delicate digestive system. Once, while waiting in my general physician’s office, I sat next to a man who told me in great detail of his difficulty in digesting carrots. I haven’t eaten a carrot since.
I come from a long line of nosy people. I am Southern, after all. You’d think I’d be more social in these situations. Yet, I’m at a point in my life where grabbing a little solitude in a waiting room is a rare opportunity for alone time. I know it’s weird, but I actually look forward to sitting in an office to catch up on the book I can’t seem to finish because I’m either tucking kids into bed or doing late-night laundry or writing to make a deadline.
Sometimes, I’ll even bring a notepad and write. This is my time. I’m not interested in the complexities of filing an insurance claim or the digestive dance a carrot must make.
Then I went to have a mammogram. After checking in at the front desk, I found a place in the far corner and settled into a seat with my favorite book of the moment.
That’s when a woman I knew from high school sat next to me.
I glared more deeply into my book, covering my head with my hand so not to make eye contact. She started talking. I gave cursory nods and oblique answers to her questions.
How are you doing? Great.
Are you married? Yep.
Any kids? Yep.
Then silence.
I knew what came next. I would have to reciprocate and ask about her. So much for some Amy time.
And you? Married? Kids? Yes, I have a little girl who’s three…
The woman’s voice trailed off.
I closed the book and looked up. That’s when I noticed her wig. She had breast cancer. She had been through chemo. We talked for a little while longer before the nurse called her. We hugged and then she was gone. I’ve wanted to stay in touch with her, but didn’t get her married name.
I wasn’t listening.
I think of her often, especially when sitting in a waiting room. I see others thumbing through magazines, some just staring ahead. I wonder what stories they have to tell, they need to tell? So, I find a seat front and center in case someone wants to talk.
I’m listening.