Waiting Room

By Jaxton Johnson

The walls were painted like light sea foam; cracks and chips were rooted to the lower corners of the waiting space like tiny hands clasping at dangling treats. Dark shaded silhouettes on the walls suggested the furniture had been replaced or moved around. Spots where pictures once hung sat naked. The dark color was like a mirror, reflecting back whatever hope there was in the men who waited. The ceiling, disheveled in its own right, was peppered with kernels of plaster that fell without rhythm. A lone fan overlooked the small room; its lack of energy and refusal to spin mimicked the feeling within the man sitting center of the three.

He sat in pinstripes and suspenders, the mass of his build suggesting a history of consistent labor or violence. Or it might have been a simple genetic lottery. Without prodding, the three possibilities hung around him in equilibrium, like a chandelier balanced by only three candles. This man sat straight in his chair, the solid wood taking strain as he shifted about; and lacking a cushion, the chair was very uncomfortable. He was approaching middle age but lacked the aura that tended to emit from those he would call elder. His sandy hair was slicked back. The faintly scented cream he’d used had long lost its smell; not that anything other than the waiting room’s dank musk filled the men’s nostrils. He looked around the room, attempting to distract himself with personal thought, his eyes wandering over the floor, tracing cracks onto the ceiling, over empty chairs, and to the reception desk.

The woman’s crimson hair contrasted the greens of the room to such an extent that each man found it incredibly difficult to not look at her. It was not that her features were as alluring as one might expect. All but her eyes, which were exposed sockets housing literal flames, made her out to be a very average person. But despite her lack of eyes, what pulled in and frightened the men was more the overwhelming presence of authority that radiated from her. As if without a gesture she could have each of them removed from the room, guaranteeing that they would never be able to return, which each of the men thought was very likely to be true. The receptionist, however, sat lazily in her cushioned office chair, glancing through one of many magazines that were scattered around the desk, occasionally taking a call and jotting notes. While on one of these calls, she glanced around the room, looking past the big man to the one who sat on his right. Her eyes shot through his balding head as if he wasn’t there, though he was too oblivious to notice.

The balding man sat slightly hunched in his chair, static in position, as if he hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable the chairs were. He wore a singed and slightly tattered office worker’s uniform with a body in below average health, a hefty gut, unmanaged fingernails, and what hair he held around his ears fading and wilting. He wasn’t as large as the man who sat in the center, but it was clear that he was older. The skin around his cheeks reached for the ears, ears reached for the neck, the neck the chest, and so on. As he sat in the solid chair, it kept him in place while he moved his feet and knees with anticipation, bobbing a leg up and down from the toe. Right hand under the left arm, the left hand up and in the face, fingers playing with sparse facial hair, picking at eyes, and being chewed on by unkempt teeth. His dark eyes had locked onto the floor with his attempt to rationalize his nerves, mentally marking the seconds that passed, like a clock with one hand counting the hundreds of seconds without the guidance of another.

“Mr. Callins.” The receptionist’s smooth voice froze each man in place, the smallest sound wave cutting through the wall of dense silence that had been caked around the group. The balding man watched as she rose from her chair, moving through an open doorway connected to the back of the reception space and into a short hallway that led back toward the waiting room. Opening a door just right of the desk, the receptionist took two paces before stopping in front of another far more worn door.

“He’s ready for you in his office,” she said, gesturing to the door with a nod. The balding man stood, the chair groaning slightly from his weight. His palms and forehead beaded with sweat, the energy that kept him moving only a minute prior now gone. Hesitating for only a moment, the man moved as casually as he could towards the office door. As he approached, the secretary opened the door enough for the man to walk through but not so much that the other men, seated diagonally across from where she stood, could see in.

Seated quietly, the two remaining men watched as the first of them stoically entered the office space. The big man watched his body language, how he might have paused or flinched away from the room, but saw nothing. The smaller man seated to his left, close enough to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead if he leaned out of his chair, did not move and watched the balding man’s face. He saw the man calm himself as he reached the door, relaxing his eyes and jaw, putting on the air of false confidence that the smaller man had expected out of the balding office worker.

Both men watched as the secretary closed the door behind their silent compatriot, moving so quickly that it shut behind him as soon as he fully crossed into the room, and without second thought moved back toward her seat within the secretary cubicle. The remaining men looked at one another for a moment before retreating back to their absent pondering, attempting to gain comfort again as the silence settled back over them.

The small man dug his hands into his dark and dusty hoodie, and with his head covered, he leaned back against the chair. His clothes were ill-fitting, stained in various colors- including a suspicious red and he had the faintest hint of rancidity wafting off him. Resting his head against the wall, he stared into the cracks of the ceiling as if he expected something to come crawling out of them. His stature made him look younger than the big man, but his face was ambiguous enough to consider otherwise. His green eyes were bright with an awareness that seemed to dig into the things around him, keeping watchful claws on all the doors, looking at the chairs as if they might explode, while his chair never seemed to squeak. Anytime the big man shifted and made his stress evident, the young man jumped and swept his gaze around the room, watching for something. In this regard, the young man was like an old tea kettle, tarnished and worn with years of rigorous use, the rising pressure inside of him closing in on boiling over at any minute. This paranoia had been noted by his companions, who took minor precautions in not disturbing him too much. The secretary, however, took silent pleasure in seeing this, watching him squirm every few minutes whenever any manner of thing caught him off guard.

The three of them sat in silence, with the young man breathing somewhat heavily as he had been for the entirety of his waiting. The secretary sat behind her magazines, ignoring the bits of ceiling debris that fell to the floor around her. The large man looked contemplative. His eyes had stopped shifting about as he stared into the distance in the middle of the room, and he looked as if he was attempting to achieve a state of calm. The young man kept his resting head trained on the ceiling, his eyes out of focus as they tried to take in as much of the disheveled space as possible. As this happened, the door to the office was opened from the inside as Mr. Callins stepped out and made his way to the secretary’s desk, head down.

While the two men broke from their distracted mindspaces, they watched as Mr. Callins, with his back to them, talked to the secretary.

“And how was your meeting, Mr. Callins?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you.” His voice was harsh and taut, like years of smoking had just caught up with him.

“Hmm.” Her voice purred out like a leopard. “No good news then?”

The waiting men saw Mr. Callins look up at the secretary and, unable to see his face, looked at the secretary instead. She had a toothy smile that stretched wide across her face, her teeth practically glowed a healthy off-white, despite the poor lighting. Her eye sockets were still a void of black, but the flames inside had grown larger. The waiting men looked away.

Mr. Callins hadn’t the time to retort before the office owner poked his head through the open door. His skin was the color of matte gray dust, like a washed out black and white television. He was dressed in fine business casual attire, paired with a mint green tie that matched the waiting room. His hair was dark and cut short, which would have looked professional if not for the spiked frosted tip style it had been shaped into. A sharp nose, chin stubble, and bright ice blue eyes finished his look.

“Ms. Karter.” His voice was smooth and solid. “Be sure to provide Mr. Callins with his full C39 paperwork, and set a reminder for my scheduled call to middle management please.”

“O-of course, sir,” his secretary said, her voice losing its confidence.

The man fully stepped out of the doorway, pointing a finger gun at the younger man.

“Mr. Sabroski, I assume. Please follow me,” he said with more enthusiastic energy.

The large man silently watched as Mr. Sabroksi rose from his chair without disturbing the wood. With a suppressed look of terror, he followed the man into his office. After the door was shut, the large man looked back to Mr. Callins at the desk, just to see him quickly step out the waiting room door, a manila envelope under his arm and his face turned away.

“Don’t worry, doll,” said Ms. Karter. “His meeting shouldn’t take long.”

The large man held his gaze on the secretary. They looked at each other before she returned to the magazines and the large man to his thoughts. He went back to silently staring at the room, taking note of more falling debris, the cracks along the walls, the overall unkempt feeling of the room. He did this until he sat in his chair relaxed, resting his eyes of the piercing pastel color until the secretary was suddenly next to him.

“Mr. Faughnan,” she said harshly.

He woke up with a start.

Unaffected by his sudden movement, the secretary said, “He is ready for you.”

As he stood, he cleared his head as best he could, attaining little focus with the effort, and cleared his throat as he stepped towards the door. Upon entering, he said in his baritone voice, “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

“Oh, not a problem at all, it’s what I do! Please have a seat!”

Mr. Faughnan took in the room–random knick-knacks from around the world covered the desk, a few pictures hung on the walls, filing cabinets, etc. As he sat, he noticed one picture of the man on his desk, accompanied by another similarly-desked man with brown hair that went down to his elbows.

“So, Mr. Faughnan!” the man said, steepling his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. “What makes you wanna make a deal with the Devil?”