The Elevator Eye

‘Oh, sorry!’ I awkwardly mouth to the middle-aged lady doing her knitting. I had just slapped my book down on the chair next to me for what must have been the fifth time since coming here to A&E. As I glance around the room, I’m reminded of why I don’t love hospital waiting rooms. The depressing blank white walls that surround the large group of sniffly, doubled over in pain, elderly, crying toddler motley crew. The continuous beeping of who knows which machine is the curious choice of background music which creates a lovely ambiance of fear and annoyance among us all. Regarding my book, I usually find murders quite interesting. Reading between the lines on every page of the novel. Trying to decipher the mystery before the book does it for me. Thrilling. But in A&E? Not so much. The knowledge that everyone in the room is undoubtedly doing the elevator look on you; when you look someone top to bottom and then bottom to top, to try and decipher your so-called ailment.

‘Legs? No, they appear normal. Car crash? Nah ,too Holby City. Face messed up? Nope, two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Ear hanging off? Well, I can see one ear… oh maybe I’ve got it – nope they turned, there’s the other ear.’

To be fair, I must admit I am also guilty of the dreaded elevator look. This look is often intended to appear subtle but always comes across wrong. In fact, the only time such a look is required and acceptable is if you are the doctor or the student in a life-drawing class. Neither of which any of us are. Including me. However, when one is in an A&E waiting room, it is considered one’s duty, given the amount of time one must spend in proximity to strangers and fellow injured folk. One must, for sanity’s sake, play the ‘Elevator Game’.

I look over to a man slightly to the right of my direct gaze so that I can hopefully appear nonchalant. I give him the look. Hmmm. Probably mid-thirties, lives with some old uni friends. Likes a night out, but is a true mummy’s boy at heart. Now… regarding his reason for being in A&E…? I am going to guess that he is here because of a burst eardrum. Let’s be original. Too much loud music last night and he’s paying for it today.

Right. Who next? My eyes quickly sweep over the people arranged in very orderly lined chairs, almost like an audience watching the crazy show. I see mums with kids they’re trying to settle, shoving the nasty A&E toys into their hands in the hope of some quiet; cute old couples drifting to sleep while slowly lowering their heads to rest on each other; drunk young people slouched over their seats, looking precariously close to falling forward but impressively staying upright.

Ah. I find my next contestant. Grey-haired man, sitting alone with his head bobbing up and down, arms crossed. Despite assuring himself he would not sleep in such a place he is succumbing to boredom-induced fatigue. I’m going to guess that there was a DIY incident. I can’t see his hands so I’m going to risk it and say he was sawing some wood and caught his thumb with the electric saw. Sounds plausible, I think.

Alright, now I think I’ll test myself, the lady –

‘Oy Jack! I’m done! Let’s go!’

Oh! An update on my first contestant. Turns out the burst eardrum is here as driver or companion of DRUNKEN BROKEN ARM who has just burst through the double doors at the end of the corridor and wobbled forward to perfectly UNBURST EARDRUM MAN whom I can now call Jack, although UNBURST EARDRUM has a nice ring to it. No pun intended. Jack, or MR UNBURST EARDRUM, groggily and seemingly begrudgingly pushes himself out of his chair, grabs a couple of coats next to him, and mumbles to Caps? to come with him. Well, you can’t win ’em all.

Ok, back to the lady in the striped top with torn jeans, which, I am surmising from her overall vibe, is a fashion choice as opposed to an injury clue. Okay, so, texting on her phone, oblivious to all that is happening around her; I’m going to say she stubbed her toe hard on something like a sofa or dresser whilst texting and possibly has a broken toe.

‘Hey Girl, Whats up, Im bored at home, avoiding homework. Wbu?

Good. I look down at my watch now. Only been two hours since I arrived. Not too shabby. I overheard ANGRY KNITTER earlier tell KIND CROSSWORD LADY that she has been here since 12:30 (fifteen minutes before me) and that she has yet to be seen. So, I’m holding out hope that I’m right behind her.

‘Peter Clark’ is shouted through the speaker. The guy who presumably must be THE Peter Clark required, as he jumps at the name, is not on my list of past contestants so I am unable to cheer or commiserate at his possible injury reveal . Shame. The announcement of Monsieur Clark has greatly agitated and startled GREY HAIR. So much so that the hands have now emerged from the once crossed arms. Drat! Both hands are intact. So long, cool saw story. I rethink my strategy, review my evidence and resubmit my guess as a foot vs. wood injury. I’m going to go out there and say… left – no right foot. The right foot gets hit by a wooden plank that is being drilled and a section of wood falls off the table, bouncing off his foot and landing with a thud on the garage floor.

‘Patricia Jones’ rings out from the nurse halfway through the double doors leading to the hospital beds. UPDATE ALERT. Patricia Jones is ANGRY KNITTER! I may be next. WHOOP! Regarding angry knitter’s injury, there’s nothing too obvious so I’m going to guess GOPI. That is, general older person issues. I dare not ask.

‘Gordon Smith’. Ooo, we are speeding up at the minute. I’m not next. Anyway, this Mr. Gordon Smith turns out to be GREY-HAIRED MAN. And guess what! He limps! GREY HAIR is limp-hopping to the double doors while the nurse is awkwardly standing, holding a door open and trying to pretend that she is not in any way waiting for him. She’s doing that gaze around the room. The nod and smile at fellow nurses that you sort of know but not really. Anyway, regardless of the reasons, he limps! I’m taking that as a win. Thank you very much.

The clock says 1:45 pm. I drop my gaze to my beaten-up book on the chair next to me. Sixth times the charm. Now, what page was I on? I never use a bookmark. Not sure why. I think I always start a book thinking; I’ll have this read in no time. Who needs little bookmarks. Yeah, never happens that way. We are in month two of this one.

“Jeanette Robinson!” Me! So long, suckers of the waiting room! I jolt up from my slumped reading position and gather my coat and bag. As I’m doing this, I notice, out of the corner of my eye, a fellow waiting roomer eyeing me. Not with just any eye. With the elevator eye. I clock him, curl my hair behind my left, beaten up ear, which up until this point had been clothed in hair and invisible and proudly ask, ‘Did you guess right?’