Doing It Alone - Kent Wright

Roger walked slowly up the slight hill from the parking garage towards the office building. Near the entrance two women in blue scrubs stood under an awning hunched against the wind smoking. Roger puffed against the incline. Inside, the lobby had a feeling of efficiency that made Roger wince and was decorated in art he despised. Art meant to sooth, but art that deadened the spirit instead. He wished this time, however, it distracted him from thoughts that had refused to rest since he had given in and called this doctor. He’d tried to avoid that call by reminding himself that a symptom or two didn’t mean anything. It hadn’t worked. He didn’t know why he got so winded every time he went up stairs now or why the cough that used to greet him each morning now stayed with him all day. The symptoms had scared him enough finally to make the appointment in the office four floors above.

The soft ding of the elevator sounded. Roger let a man in a wheelchair pushed by what must be his daughter get on first. There was a pregnant woman holding hands with a man too. What had nagged at the edges of Roger’s thoughts now stepped into full view. He was doing this alone. There was no one to call. No one to tell he was coming here or who might have offered to drive him. He still had names and telephone numbers, but not the courage to use them. The bridges had all been burned. Not by huge conflagrations that could have been seen for miles and drawn hordes of the curious to the spectacle. Roger had burned them with the flame of countless matches struck on the abrasive wall of his sarcasm. He had always managed to convince himself that everyone knew it was harmless wit. Wit no more hurtful than being struck by a Wiffle ball. He was wrong. Those endless bits of razor wire spat from his mouth eventually bloodied and dispersed his friends, his only sister and even her son. Roger had called Pete two days before the appointment. Pete was cold and didn’t say why he couldn’t help. Why hadn’t he even asked why he was going to the doctor Roger had wondered when he hung up. He’d always ribbed Pete, but Hell, Pete was his favorite. He had continued called him Perfect Pete long after everyone else had stopped. Roger had forgotten the last time he had seen his nephew. It was three years ago; the first time Pete had brought his partner to Thanksgiving. He’d forgotten slapping his nephew on the shoulder as they sat down at the table and saying, “Guess I’ll have to call you Perfect Pete the Perfect Homo from now on."

The elevator emptied. Roger stood unsure for a moment as the doors closed behind him figuring out which way to go to find office 420. As he headed towards the doctor’s office he suddenly remembered the expression on Pete’s face. He must have known I was joking for Christ’s sake Roger thought as he pushed on the door marked 420.