Dollar $pecial

The infusion room was bumpin' bumpin' today. I grabbed the first seat I saw in the middle cubicle section. I began to unpack my belongings--water bottle, thermos, celery sticks, Carrie Fisher's Shockoholic (amusing read, btw)--and realized I was about to regret my seating choice. I had unknowingly planted myself in the toothless and rowdy Bass Pro senior section of the cancer center. In between chomps of my celery stick I heard the man behind me proclaim that "all us sick bastards [were] gonna die," as the nurses nervously attempted to soothe him back into his recliner. "Well," I thought, "nothing like a truth bomb to get your Monday started." I listened for a few more minutes, but the fella's ramblings soon became wildly incoherent. The sweet lady in the chair next to him tried making small talk (I would guess in an effort to lower his volume and direct his conversation toward a single person, rather than the entire room), but she couldn't have surmised how enraged he'd become about the prospect of medicinal mushroom extract.

I shifted my attention to my own neighbor, let's call him...Duane. Duane had just withdrawn his Jitterbug from his pants pocket and was now chatting with a friend. Within the first 2 minutes of the conversation, I deduced that this friend was also Duane's local bartender, Gary (I didn't make that one up). Gary had apparently promised to run a dollar special on Coors Lite this week, but must've forgotten his word, because Duane was now tearing him a new one in the name of Miller Genuine Draft. "FUG YOUUU, YA SUCK ASSSSS." This exclamation slithered forcefully out of Duane's mouth about 20 more times before he hung up. I think he had probably had a few Coors on the drive over. It was a verbally violent conversation, to be sure, but remarkably, I think it ended on a friendly note. Duane said he was leaving now and he'd see Gary soon.