Truth and Beauty 1-7

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* * * Stephen squinted as he looked up at the tall main building of the eminently respectable Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health Center. He was a thin man, a little under middle height, with straight, dark hair, and at the moment his sunglasses were inadequate against the mid-morning sun. Using the hospital’s front windows as a mirror (the room in which he rented a bed contained none) he combed his hair and starightened his tie. His person as immaculate as he could make it, he checked his watch again, waited for the second hand to reach the 6, brushed some imaginary dust from his coat, and stepped through the lazily-revolving automatic door to the hospital atrium. “I am here to see Doctor White,” he told the receptionist as the clock on the wall began to strike the hour, “I have an appointment. My name is Russ.”

“Doctor Russ, yes,” said the receptionist, consulting her tablet. “Yes,” she said again, “I’m afraid that Doctor White is not available, but he did leave a message.” She handed Stephen a thin envelope.

The envelope was cheap and flimsy, and did not fully disguise that the note within consisted of a single, short paragraph. “Thank you,” said Stephen, his voice oddly hollow in his ear. He lifted his hat to the woman, who had already returned to her tablet, and stepped back out through the revolving door to the street. Now what?

His stomach rumbled unpleasantly. He had spent his last penny on the cab ride to the hospital, so as to arrive unrumpled for his interview, skipping breakfast to do so. Perhaps I should have apologized and not given a tip, he thought, then I could at least buy some coffee for my headache. He directed his feet to the subway. But could I do such a thing?

Back at the boarding house his shared room was blessedly empty. He closed the door and sat on his rented bed for a while, shaking, his head in his hands, stifling his tears. A noise from the hallway brought him back to the present. Mrs Parsons will be asking about the rent again, he thought. Quietly, he collected those of his possessions that he could carry, waited for the hall to fall silent, then crept out the back door. The park on the corner was unoccupied and he sat on a bench, staring woodenly ahead of himself as he tried to work out his next steps. Harrison’s and Robbins I can sell at the Strand, but can I get by without them? And then what? When a security officer came by he left before the woman could approach him.

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