God's Waiting Room

      I could’ve killed Eileen. I straightened my tie and glanced in the mirror. There was an old man looking back at me; tired, surly and too bloody old to be going on, what? A date, she called it. These wee nurses and their patter. When Eileen suggested it, I told her that I was a happily widowed, eighty-four year old man, and as for dates, all I knew about them was Dr. Shaw told me to eat them more because they got my bowels moving. And now, I was going on one of them. Well, seen as my last experience with dates had seen my holed up in the cludgey for three feckin’ hours, you can imagine I considered my night with a Mrs. Celia McLeish with dread and a dodgy stomach.

      I was in my room, shuffling from the bed to the wardrobe and back. I hadn’t a bloody clue what I was doing. I bent over as far as Shaw’s plastic pelvis would allow to tie my old wingtips. Did they still dress like this? Last time I took a lassie out it was Maggie, God rest her, and that was over fifty years ago. I took her to the dancing, and I put a fag out on her dress by accident. She called me an eedjit, and I asked her to marry me two weeks later. I wiped away a smiling tear as I took up my stick. I was just leaving the room when I clocked the bottle of Old Spice that Kevin, our oldest, had bought me last Christmas. I lifted the bottle and gave my throat a good spray. Smelled like pish but at least it covered the smell of dust and sweat on my old suit. I looked in the mirror again, and pictured Maggie, spinning around the dance hall, with my cigarette hole in her best dress, and my ring on her finger.

      It was a twenty minute bus journey to the community centre, twenty minutes listening to the “hoodies” as the papers called them, necking tonic wine and listening to some garbage on they fancy ear phones or eye phones or something. I wished more than ever that it was fifty years ago, so I could give these wee thugs a good kick up the arse. I rode the number fifteen all the way to the town centre, and it was raining buckets when I got off. Thank Christ it was only a two minute walk to the centre. I went through to the café, and saw a sign that said “Seniors Hour”. Aw, for God’s sake, I thought to myself, sitting down at one of the wee silver tables. I looked around at all the old fogies, and chuckled. Really, this was like being back at the dancing; these old buggers had obviously never left. I sighed and looked up, when I caught some women’s eye. She was plump and smiling, perhaps about mid-fifties. Something in the blue eyes reminded me of our daughter, Lorraine. She walked straight towards me, nodding and smiling. I unconsciously slid my tongue to my denture, praying it wouldn’t fly out at her, as it was one to do. I didn’t even notice her blue council overall until she got to the table.

      “A wee cup of tea for ye, pet”, she said, patting my hand. “Meeting anybody nice?” I was bloody mortified. Stupid old bastard, the lassie’s half your age. She walked away, chatting with the others. I wiped my face with a hanky from my pocket, and took a few sips of my tea. Quick check of the time; it was twenty past six. Sure, I was early but I still felt a bit narked that she wasn’t here yet. I decided to get a better look at the competition, as it were. There was a good mix of men and women; I even recognised one or two faces from school. There was John O’Brian’s big brother, Jimmy. Wee John had passed six months previous. I was there, in the back pew, nodding and frowning with the rest, even though your man had been a cheating, tight fisted old chancer. And there, at the other end of the room was Evelyn Murphy, wittering and gossiping just like she did when we were weans. I blushed when she caught my eye, thinking of the night I winched her in the close on Halloween 1963. Maggie was pregnant with Kevin, and she was asleep up the stairs. I wasn’t guilty; after all I’d told Maggie the next week, and she gave me a good clout with the frying pan. Bloody sausages everywhere, too. I glanced back to Jimmy O’Brian; he put down a domino piece and took a good draw of his oxygen mask. Then back to Evelyn; her face scrunched up as she straightened out the tubes of her urine bag. Suffering Christ, I thought. Bloody God’s waiting room, this. A look at the watch; quarter to seven. Muttering a few choice words, I reached for my stick. Ah, she can chase herself if she thinks I’m waiting any longer, I thought, buttoning my coat. Just as I’d managed to get to my feet, the automatic doors swung open. I watched the new arrival make her way into the room, and stifled a laugh as I did. My mind travelled back to a weekend just after Maggie had died, and I’d been invited to Lorraine and what’s-his-face’s. The wean was watching the telly on the Saturday night. I could remember Dr. Who from when it first came out, but the new fangled robots and sets were all new to me.

      “What’s this, son?” I asked the wean.

      “Dr. Who, Granda.”

      “And who are they wee men?”

      “Daleks, Granda. They’re the baddies.”

      Well, my right hand to God, this wee woman heading straight towards me must have been some relation to the Daleks. She couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, but you wouldn’t know it because she was on one of those mobility scooters. She came zooming in, perched on the scooter like an old crow, never looking where she was going. I wondered if she could even see with those milk bottles she had hanging off the end of her beak. My concerns for her eyesight were confirmed as I took in her clothes. It was all very conservative, wee yellow twinset and pearls, the lot. Until I got to the shoes. They were orange, and I mean orange, and they were made of some kind of plastic or rubber. And there were holes the size of ten pence pieces all over them. I looked from the shoes, to the rainy street out the window, and to the feet again, Daft as a brush, I thought to myself.

      Here we go, I thought. I forced my face into a smile as she pulled up to the table. With what looked like some effort, she raised her head and peered at me through the mad specs. She opened her shrivelled gub to show a mouth full of uneven, black teeth. It looked like a graveyard. Oh aye, she’ll fit right in here, I thought with a smirk.

      “McAndrew? Joseph McAndrew?” She didn’t talk, she screamed. I picked up the familiar sound of a whistling hearing aid; by Christ, it was like background music in here. Deaf as a post and daft as a brush. Eileen would get an earful for this.

      “Call me Joe, Celia”, I said, offering my hand.

      “Ahem, I prefer Mrs. O’Reilly if you don’t mind. Give a lady a wee hand then”. She grabbed my hand with a leathery claw, and started to propel herself off of her Grannymobile. She lifted one leg off the scooter, grabbing a cane as she went. She shoogled about, waving her orange-clad, plasticky foot around, trying to get her bearings. Her canary skirt rode up her leg, flashing a pair of very attractive hold-ups. I rolled my eyes and set her on her feet.

      “Much obliged, Joseph”, she wheezed, her skirt still round her gusset. She swung her cane about like a witch’s broom.

      “Easy, hen”, I said, trying to lower the cane, but too late. She knocked the luke-warm tea around my crotch. Ah Jesus, Mary and Joseph, for Christ sake. I let her hand go and looked at the spreading stain on my good brown suit.

      “Oh dear, have we had a wee accident pet?” I closed my eyes and turned. The woman who had brought my tea was there with a damp cloth in her hand, tutting and appraising my crotch with a sympathetic and disgusted look on her face. She started dabbing my trousers, shaking her head.

      “Happens all the time pet, it’s just the age. Nothing to be ashamed of, happens to us all, just can’t control it when we grow older. Now, if you need to go again, the toilets are just outside to the left of the doors. Give me a wee shout if you need a wee hand”. I shook my head frantically, trying to explain, but she was already away again. I glared at Mrs. O’Reilly, who pursed her lips and didn’t look at me, clearly horrified.

      “Really, Joseph, control yourself”, she muttered. I bit my lip and cleared my throat. Wasn’t even going to bother telling the blind old bat that it was her fault. Another wee council lassie brought us more tea. She glanced at my crotch and sniggered.

      “Alright, Weary Willy?” she cackled, laughing at her own joke as she went. I put my head in my hands and sighed. To think, I’d gave up a night of Morecambe and Wise on BBC and a fresh twenty pack of Berkeley for this. I shook my head and tried to smile again.

      “So, Cel-eh, Mrs. O’Reilly, tell me a bit about yourself”, I managed. Did I regret that. Off she went, at a rate of noughts, telling me about her dear Leonard, rest in peace, her nine grand children, her osteoporosis, her irritable bowel syndrome; the whole shebang. I tried, many times, to chip in, or agree, or change the subject, but I might as well have just left. God knows, she could barely see or hear me, what with the X-ray specs and the bloody gramophone attached to her ear. Finally, she stopped; it was a wonder she didn’t need a shot of O’Brian’s oxygen mask after that rant. She necked her tea, dripping onto her jacket, and onto those shoes. I couldn’t help myself.

      “What kinda shoes are they, then?” I asked, watching the tea sink through the holey shoes, straight to her feet. She paused, then haughtily told me:

      “They’re called Crocs. Good for the corns, you know, let’s the air at them”. Oh, bloody lovely, I thought. A right lady, this one. She picked up her cane again, struggling to her feet. No again, battle stations, I thought, lifting the tea out of her firing line. I raised my hand to brace her back if she should fall. She straightened her knees, and as she did, she broke wind. A great big fart, right in my face. And I would have my mouth wide open. I cleared my throat loudly. She spun around, nearly toppling over.

      “Oh, pardon me, Mr. McAndrew, I do apologise. Very unlike me you know. It’s these dates I’m on”. I burst out laughing then. I tried to smother it; the poor woman went bright red and startled to hobble away from me. I just couldn’t stop. I laughed until the tears ran, and my ribs hurt, and my teeth slipped out onto the floor. I laughed until a sharp pain shot through my arm, and I couldn’t catch my break. I laughed until everything went black.

      I opened my eyes and I was in a smoky, dimly lit room. Celia O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen, but Jimmy O’Brian was there. I blinked my eyes rapidly. The oxygen mask was gone, his bright red hair was thick and curly. And there, to his right, was Wee John, alive and well, chatting up the lassies and laughing away. Evelyn Murphy winked at me from the mirrors, touching up her red lippy. I reached for my walking stick, but I couldn’t see it. My outstretched fingers were no longer wrinkly; the skin was tight and not quite as yellowed with the fags. I felt strength in my legs that I’d long forgotten, and I jumped to my feet with ease. And then, finally, I saw her. She was twirling around in the middle of the floor, smiling and laughing. Her curly blonde hair fell over hair shoulders, and she stretched out her hand and called my name. I pushed past the couples, and took her hand. She kissed my fingers, and my palm, and then my lips, still smiling.

      “You’ve been smoking, Joe”, she said, placing my hand on her waist, and taking my other hand in her left. She kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear: “Well, try not ruin my dress this time, boyo.”