The Halls

Every other week, Stuart goes in for a shot of psychotropic medication. The clinic is in Gresham off the max line in a 1970's building, very retard chic. There's cushioned chairs that have seen their days of struggle and urine, freak-outs and hysteria. The woman behind the plexy glass are nice enough. I stand in front of the speaking hole while my client lurches over into my bubble. We wait for her to fill out the slip and he speaks to me soft and low, “Welcome to the halls of medicine, where you come in feeling anxious and leave feeling relaxed.”

103 degrees

These last couple of days the temperature has been well above average. Everyone is miserable. Judy knows I'm on my way and she has to go to the foot doctors for a nail removal. She's already crying. I enter her basement apt. and it's a refreshing 72 degrees. “I can't go," she screams. "My socks don't match...I haven't finished my shopping list...it's too hot!” I'm getting close to calling the appointment off. We' have 20 mins to get there when her paid neighbor comes down, toting his cat and says,” I got bad news, your not getting an air conditioner today.” The bad news pushes her over the edge. I excuse myself to make the call.