Gallery of the Damned

Enter darkness...

In the waiting room for the retina specialist. The black woman is 96 years old and her daughter brings her in for I do not know what. The old woman sits in the seat provided by her walker because all the other chairs are taken in the back waiting room. She doesn't mind. That is what the seat is meant for, her daughter laughs.

My eyes have been dilated and a photograph of my retina has been taken so I am in the back waiting room without my contact lenses and am nearly completely blind listening to the daughter of the black woman of 96 years old when seemingly - to me at least - her cousin (unless "cuz" is a non-familial term of endearment) shows up and they begin an extended conversation of family members and their various fates.

I am listening, blindly, to the roll call of family members who have gone to various fates. The daughter has worked at the prison, no doubt a steady employer, as among other things a parole officer. This relative is dead. The other one has had too many kids, according to them. Dogs get loose from the neighbors and shit all over their lawn. There seems nothing to do about it.

I listen intently even as I cannot see a thing. Each of the threads fascinates me. The preacher's son is dead??? You lived in Jones Creek? Your great grand nephew is doing what? Your son ruined your car and refused to pay for it??

The daughter sneezes and under my breath I pray “Bless you.” Quietly, because I am embarrassed to be part of their conversation but I do wish her to be blessed by Our Lord. Someone else from our dark galley says it louder yet entirely too ebulliently and I feel like a coward. In my silence I do wish the Lord to bless her. But I have no claim to address her.

An elderly black gentleman with Adidas slippers and a cane shuffles in to our little dark Beckett set, waiting on the retina specialist. He is dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt, but he greets us like a gentleman. "Good morning everyone," he says with a smile. And I detect a hint of cologne. There is an interesting formality in a certain part of black culture that white people do not understand. There is a stereotype of black culture that is not at all accurate. At least in Texas.

No playwright could ever capture the hard reality in the back waiting room of the retina specialist.

"Are you ready?" asks the nurse to someone.

"Ready as I'll ever be," is the response. Fear cloaked in gallows humor. Knowing what awaits.

The back waiting room of the retina specialist is a gallery of the damned. A parade of quiet disasters, unfolding in slow motion. Still hoping while anticipating that final darkness that represents that very last chance. There is nothing more we can do. I am sorry

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