Coma

The rain started again half-heartedly as Susan walked up Washington Street toward Government Center. As she reached the middle of the bricked mall in front of the ultra-geometric City Hall, the wind brought in another moisture-laden cloud over the city. As the rain came down in earnest Susan ran for cover.

The girl at the information booth told Susan that the building department was on the eighth floor. It was easy to find. Once there, though, things were different. Susan waited for twenty-five minutes at the main counter only to be told that she was at the wrong place. This happened twice before she was directed to the rear of the vast room.

There was another wait of a quarter of an hour despite the fact she was the only customer. Behind the counter were five desks, of which three were occupied. Two men and one woman. The two men looked surprisingly alike, with large red noses, plastic black-rimmed glasses, and tasteless ties. They were engaged in a heated argument about the Patriots. The woman had a ratted hairdo recalling the early sixties and shocking red lipstick that used the natural lip borders only as suggestions. She was engrossed with a pocket mirror, examining her face from every possible angle.

The smaller of the two men eventually eyed Susan and realized that she was not going to disappear despite the fact that she was being ignored.

He rambled over, uninterested. When he reached the counter he took his cigarette from his mouth. A few of the ashes from the tip dusted down the front of his tie. He crushed the butt repeatedly in a cheap and already overflowing metal ashtray.

“What can I do for you?” said the bureaucrat, looking at Susan for a moment. He turned before she could answer.

“Hey, Harry, that reminds me. What are you going to do about the GRI 5 request? Remember, it was filed as urgent and it’s been in your box for two months.” Looking back at Susan, “What is it, honey? Let me guess.

You want to file a complaint about your landlord. Well, this isn’t the right place.”

He looked back at his colleague. “Harry, if you’re going for coffee, pick me up a regular and a Danish. I’ll pay you later.” His red eyes turned to Susan. “Now then ...”

“I’d like to look at some plans; the floor plans for the Jefferson Institute. It’s a relatively new hospital in South Boston.”

“Plans. What do you want plans for? How old are you, fifteen?”

“I’m a medical student and I’m interested in hospital design and construction.”

“Kids today! With your looks you don’t have to be interested in anything.” He laughed obnoxiously.

Susan closed her eyes, resisting the retort the comment deserved.

The state employee started toward a stack of oversized books on the counter. “What ward is it in?” he asked with obvious ennui.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“All right then,” said the man, making an about-face. “First we’ll have to find out which ward it is in.”

A smaller book on the counter supplied the needed information.

“Ward 17.”

With calculated slowness, he returned to the large books on the counter. From his side pocket he withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He put one cigarette in his mouth, leaving it unlit. After picking several wrong volumes, he found the Ward 17 volume. The other books were pushed aside. Turning back the cover, he slobbered over his index finger. He flipped the pages forcefully, running his finger across his tobacco-stained tongue every four of five pages. Having found the reference, he copied the figures onto a piece of scrap paper. Motioning for Susan to follow, he started toward a large bank of filing cabinets.

“Harry!” called the bureaucrat, continuing his conversation with his colleague en route to the filing cabinets, the unlit cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth. “Before you go downstairs, call up Grosser and find out if Lester is coming in today. Somebody’s goin’ to have to file that stuff on his desk if he’s not; that’s been there longer than your GRI 5 request.”

It was a simple affair to find the correct drawer and extract a large packet of plans. “Here you are, Goldilocks; there’s a Xerox machine over in that room beyond the counter, if you want. It takes nickels.” He pointed with his unlit cigarette.

“Maybe you could show me which of these are floor plans.” Susan had withdrawn the contents from the jacket.

“You’re interested in hospital construction and you don’t know what floor plans look like? My God. Here, these are the floor plans ...

basement, first floor, and second floor.” He lit his cigarette with a pocket lighter.

“How do you decipher these abbreviations?”

“For Christ’s sake, right here in the lower corner. It says ‘OR’, means operating room. ‘W (main)’; that means main ward. And ‘Comp. R.’ stands for computer room and so forth.” The man showed signs of incipient irritation.

“And the Xerox machine?”

“Over there. There’s a change machine on the wall. When you finish with the plans, just put them in the metal bin on the counter.”