Alcor Waiting Room
Aside from being excessively white, the room does not look like the kind of place where people wait to die. Even its whiteness is offset by the bean-bag chairs and trimming all in primary colors, which remind her of a Google office reception area. For that matter so do the geeky entertainment choices: a Nintendo 4th Dimension, a coffin-sized chest of legos, some miniature remote-control helicopters WWII vintage, robo-chess, a set of items that look like a cross between evil rabbits and dart guns and then, oddly, a pair of knitting needles and two balls of pastel yarn, whose appearance brings to Dagmar’s mind the scenario that likely resulted in their placement here, namely, whichever lab intern was assigned the task of stocking the waiting room had remembered the female clients, and proudly chose an item for their benefit, like a teenager buying lingerie for his first girlfriend.
She picks up one of the balls of yarn and tosses it through a nearby miniature basketball hoop with a swish, prompting her to launch both fists up in there air and make a “ehhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaay!” sound under her breath that onomatopoeiticizes the sound of the stadium full of people that she has decided are cheering for her athletic feat. She grabs the other ball of yarn and notices underneath it small plush teddy bear that will make a more satisfying projectile, but then also notices that the teddy bear is stuffed into a plastic car that has eyes for headlights and hands for rear-view mirrors. She holds the car up in the flat of her hand to meet its headlight eyes, contemplating that not everyone who comes here comes alone; some people bring their husbands, siblings and children which is both happier and sadder in a way. Then she realizes that not everyone who comes here is grown. They would have child clients too, of course, which is not happier, just sadder.
At that moment, a man who brings to mind the word “technician” enters the room, remembers to smile and says, “right this way, whenever you’re ready.” The embroidery above his lab-coat pocket reads Bobchad. Dagmar tosses the bear through the hoop, gingerly hops to her feet (her knees are less forgiving than they used to be) and victory rallies to the door, high-fiving the lab-coat clad fellow on the hand that’s not holding a digi-pad.
