Arthur arrived at the clinic ten minutes early and was handed ticket number 48. The illuminated board said 46. For the first time in his medical history, he believed he understood the system.
Then the receptionist called, “Mrs. Green?”
Three women stood up.
One was Mrs. Green. One was wearing green. The third said she thought the receptionist had called “screen,” and she had been waiting to ask about the television.
The real Mrs. Green disappeared through a door. The board still said 46.
Arthur checked his ticket. An elderly man beside him held number 19 and looked perfectly calm.
“You’ve been waiting since nineteen?” Arthur asked.
“No, I found this in my coat.”
“Are you using it?”
“I haven’t decided. It might be lucky.”
A nurse came out and called number 52. Arthur raised his hand.
“Excuse me, what happened to 47 through 51?”
The nurse looked at the board. “That’s the pharmacy queue.”
Arthur pointed at his ticket. “And this?”
“That’s reception.”
“Where is the reception board?”
The receptionist pointed to a small paper sign that said PLEASE WAIT TO BE CALLED.
Arthur sat down again. A young man entered, took a ticket, stared at 49, and smiled. Arthur did not have the heart to explain.
Five minutes later, a doctor opened another door and called “Mr. Harris.” Arthur and the man with ticket 19 both stood.
“I’m Arthur Harris,” said Arthur.
“I’m Harold Harris,” said the other man.
The doctor asked which one had the knee problem.
Both men pointed to a knee.
The doctor asked which one had rung that morning.
Both had.
The receptionist checked the computer and announced that Arthur was there for a blood-pressure review while Harold was there because his wife said he could not hear properly.
“I can hear perfectly,” Harold said.
The receptionist asked him to sit down.
“What?”
Arthur offered Harold his chair. Harold thanked him for the ticket.
“It’s not my ticket.”
“Even better. Mine wasn’t helping.”
The room now contained three queues: people watching the pharmacy board, people waiting to hear a name, and people who had stopped trusting either system. A woman began organizing them by appointment time. She had no authority, but she had a pen and a handbag full of paper clips, so everyone cooperated.
Arthur was placed behind a man whose appointment had been yesterday. The man said he had returned because yesterday’s waiting room had been too busy.
At last the nurse called, “Arthur Harris, blood pressure.”
Arthur stood. Harold stood too, explaining that his blood pressure had probably risen from being ignored.
Inside the consulting room, the nurse wrapped the cuff around Arthur’s arm. The machine showed a higher reading than usual.
“Have you been feeling stressed?” she asked.
Arthur described the tickets, the boards, the two Harrises, and the unofficial queue manager.
The nurse nodded. “We sometimes ask patients to sit quietly for five minutes first.”
“I sat quietly for forty-five.”
“Yes, but you spent all forty-five minutes solving the waiting room.”
She took the reading again. It was lower.
When Arthur returned to reception, Harold was finally being called for his hearing test. The receptionist spoke loudly and clearly.
Harold remained seated.
Arthur leaned toward him. “They called your name.”
“I know,” Harold whispered. “I’m waiting to see whether they’ll use the board.”
The board changed to 47.
Harold smiled. “Progress.”
Arthur looked at his ticket number 48 and put it carefully in Harold’s hand.
“For next time,” he said.
Harold tucked it into his coat. “Excellent. Now I have an appointment.”