Waiting Room

There was a slight uneasiness about the room
after we had run out of things to talk about.
I had been watching him pluck at the elastic
of his shin-high dirty socks while talking to me
about prescription pills, and nerve damage.
I don't remember his name.
I am no good at names.
Anyway, after telling his life story to me,
I felt an obligation to ask him why he was here
in the doctors office with me.
I immediately regretted it.
"Fuckin' battery acid, man!"
His long gray hair was soaked in sweat.
His response startled me, and I thought he was trying to make a joke.
"I was in my garage, and I saw what I thought was some old trash in a plastic bag....I picked it up and realized that it was way too heavy to be trash. It was the god damed battery that my son and his friend were shootin' with BB guns. The fucker leaked all over me."
The urge to laugh out loud was nearly impossible to suppress.
I watched him look at the backs and palms of his hands, and wince in pain.
"Wow, thats pretty nuts, I've never....."
"Yea I know... It didnt hur't at first, but then I sat down to watch some TV and I felt hands and legs burning. My wife was convinced that I was having another panic attack...that fucking bitch... I had to drive my self here... with acid chewing at my flesh...she doesn't care about anythi...don't ever get married, man...they'll bury you awake"
he shook his head while closing his eyes. He rested his hands in his lap and went off in into thought, leaving me to do the same.
The click of the receptionist's clock went of steadily in one second intervals.
We sat and started at the walls, waiting for the doctor to beckon.
He wasn't thinking about the acid anymore.
Neither was I.