The Waiting Room

  Sam waited in a chair by the door. It wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable chair, but he couldn’t help shift his position continuously trying to find one that fit.
  Both ears were being pumped with electronic music. Again, it was not disturbing in any way, but still managed to make Sam nervous. The music rose and fell in a kind of build-up then drop-away style.
  There were no other people in the waiting room. In fact it contained only one chair. Sam wondered if this music was played for everyone who passed through this waiting room, or if it was selected just for him. Chasing this thought he turned to the picture on the wall that had caught his attention when he first arrived, could this too be specifically chosen for him? It was abstract; white, gray, silver, with gentle curves and angles, creating a very clinical impression. It made him think of the inside of a spaceship.
  He glanced at the door he had entered, it was closed now. The woman must have closed it after she showed him in. There was something striking about that woman. She was not beautiful, at least not to Sam, but she held a certain power over him that had rendered him near speechless upon meeting her. Their exchange was short and trivial, she simply confirmed he was Sam Turner, asked him to sign something then showed him into the waiting room. Had he wanted to say something more than the mumbled affirmation and thank you that he had managed, he severely doubted that he could have.
  Now more paranoia followed. Not panic inducing ‘get me out of here’ paranoia. Just a gentle feeling that something fishy was going on. The form he signed, what was it? He was given a pen and asked to print then sign his name on the dotted lines. Too stupefied in the woman’s presence he had not asked or even thought to ask what it was for. When his pen hovered over the date, she supplied it promptly before he could even manage a thoughtful look into space. Space. The picture reminded him of the inside of a spaceship.
  The music was again building up to something as it had done several times in the past few minutes, but each time it dropped away again to a murky drum and bass mixture. Sam felt unnerved that it would never reach its destination, just forever climbing and falling, climbing and falling.
  He now glanced at the door he would exit from. It also was closed. It looked not out of place next to the picture; soft white, no handles, and curved at the top corners. Stark contrast to the door he had entered, it was obviously made of wood, with knots and grains running through it, and a round brass handle. Just below the handle was an old fashioned keyhole.
  Was it locked? Did she lock it? Sam forced himself to sit still in the not uncomfortable chair. Did she lock it? Trying to dismiss this question before it grabbed hold in his already nervous mind, he followed with another. What does it matter? I’m not going back that way, I’m going through the second door, the one with no handles (it must open from the inside) it’s irrelevant if the wooden door is locked.
  He looked away from the door and concentrated again on the painting in front of him and between the two doors. It made him think of the inside of a spaceship.
  But what if he changed his mind? What if he wanted to go back outside, go home, and forget about all this? He would have to knock on the wooden door, and ask the woman to unlock it. Even if it wasn’t locked and he could walk straight out, he would have to face her. She would look at him, with that not attractive, not unattractive face, with a slightly puzzled look across it to see him standing there. “What’s wrong Mr Turner?” She would eventually say. How could he answer? He barely managed to identify himself to her on his arrival, how could he explain he changed his mind? “I just don’t want to do this anymore, I want to go home.”
  “Why Mr. Turner?” She would ask. Why? Why had he changed his mind? Had he changed his mind? Or was this waiting room just getting to him?
  Sam began to sweat. The room was at a comfortable temperature, but a thin layer of moisture had formed across his forehead. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down. He thought of the open blue sky above his house, and the horizon that stretched off across the sea, anything but the doors and the picture on the other side of his eyelids.
  The sweat began to dry. It formed an uncomfortable crust across his forehead. He kept his eyes closed. It was better that way. He could imagine the ocean and the sky, and not the inside of a spaceship.
  The music was building. This was the one thing he couldn’t shut out. The drums beat out a steady march, the bass climbed slowly, and synthetic piano notes scaled the inevitable buildup.
  He was here. He had made it this far. He had passed the initial exams, the clearances, the tests, the examinations. He’d made it off the ground and was on his way up the ladder of interviews. He had come a long way. He was here, and he was proud to be here.
  The music stopped.
  Sam’s eyes opened suddenly, cracking the dried sweat across his forehead. He turned to the white door, his heart leapt into his throat. It remained closed, with him staring at it intently.
  “Mr Turner,” a female voice said. Sam spun to the wooden door. It was half ajar, she was leaning in. “I’m sorry to inform you Mr Turner, you failed to pass the initial phase of the interview.” She glanced briefly around the room, indicating the initial phase of the interview.
  In the woman’s presence he could only manage a whispered, almost inaudible, “Oh.” She smiled in a sort of apologetic fashion then gently prompted him to leave by fully opening the door and standing to one side. He got up and let her show him the exit.