Insert 2

April 10

The Neurologist’s office sitting room is quiet and I am reading my book quietly. The pages turn, minute by minute, second by second as the countdown traps the President between the lines pitched in Times Roman. The silence is great. My mind conjures visions of the chase in the corridors of the Church and the gas jets spew the deadly torches as the women's struggle and scream against their bounds.

I pull out my cell phone… I use the stylus to set it to vibrate… and make sure the ringer is off… The green sign facing the front door announces “In consideration of others, please turn off your cell phone. Thank you.”

And the door to the waiting room opens… It’s 9:32 am…. A crisp Monday morning. The elderly couple shuffle in. The Hero and the Angel move to the front wall and find two seats and sit slowly. The Hero's arm and hand shake and jerks spasmodically. Michael J. Fox is now playing Alex Keaton. And the Hero sits with eyes closed, arm jerking. The Angel strokes the Hero’s shoulder… soothingly.

And the door opens. Tired eyes open, and the Hero turns to the left toward the door at 9:35 am…. and they walk in. The dolled-up Latina, Shirley Temple Black curls to shoulders, struts from the door to the chairs opposite the elderly couple. The tightest denim stretches the beach pants… and five and dime wedges squeak. Cell phones stuck to the Latina’s left ear. The Latina sits. And the Shadow sits.

“Allo, Papi… Allo, Papi… Hoppie burdday to Chou… Hoppie burdday to Chou… Hoppie burdday to Chou Papiiiieee… Hoppie Burdday to Chou… Chou hokay?” Off key, monotone, disgusting wail. And the Latina continues on the phone. The Shadow looks bored, and holds Latina’s hand. And the Shadow pats the role of fat, at the Latina’s mid-drift. The Hero and the Angel smile, across from the Latina and the Shadow.

And the door opens again. It's 9:42 a.m... And another couple walks in… cell phones stuck to each one's ear. A Hispanic cacophony resounds against the tile floor. The noise begins to crescendo. The cell phones symphony... Carlos Santana, no way, no soft beguine... totally off key. Two more lines added to the Hero’s and the Angel’s faces. The new couple sits beside me… Their voices rise. They try to hear themselves against the Latinas invigorated Burdday chant.

The Hero and the Angels squint. And I cannot read anymore, the President is lost in the tunnel beneath the stage and a chopper is whop, whop, whopping. All is lost to the Hispanic cell phone duel. At 9:45, the Latina is called. The Neurologist is ready to see her. At 9:47, the Hero and the Angel get up. The Latina doesn’t move… The cell phone rings… The door closes behind the Hero and the Angel… and her Shadow doesn’t move… The Receptionist calls again… And I close my book…