Vital Signs

Part 16

It's 9:42 when I get into my Uber.

My driver, a young woman with thick curly black hair spilling down her forehead asks, "Your destination isn't a hospital, is it? I don't recognize the address."

"No. It's the Trollamex Building." I buckle my seatbelt. "Why did you say hospital?" 

"You look a little pale."

I lean toward the center console to get a look at myself in her rearview mirror.

As she steers away from the curb she says, "I had a lady last week who was having a heart attack. She wanted me to rush her to the hospital. I told her I couldn't do it. I felt bad but what if she would've died in my car?"

"Why didn't she call an ambulance?"

"Said she couldn't afford it."

"She didn't have health insurance?"

"Most health plans don't cover ambulances. Ain't that some shit?"

"So when you're having a heart attack or stroke you gotta decide if you can afford an ambulance or not? That's crazy."

"Don't get me started, dude. This country is messed up. You hear about what's going down in Utah?"

I shake my head.

                                                                                  #######

10:06. I exit my Uber in front of the Trollamex Building, a steel and tinted glass tower that reflects the surrounding urban environment while preventing anyone from seeing who or what's inside. 

A middle-aged woman lets out an audible sigh as she walks to the entrance. I watch the transformation. Her expression falls, her shoulders drop, and the bounce in her step vanishes. The man following her into the building adopts an involuntarily rigid posture like a kindergarten student separated from his mom surrendering to his fate.

On my way toward the front door, I'm met by a weather-beaten man. He wears a wrinkled dress shirt with a frayed tie loosened around his collar. With sad eyes, he says, "Can you help me out, friend?"

He holds a sign that reads: PLEASE HELP. OUT OF WORK FOR 28 MONTHS. The hand-lettering is neat and legible and there are no misspellings. I get the sense that this is not a crazy person, an alcoholic, or drug addict. He seems like a despondent, desperate, once-proud man who's nearly at the end of his rope.

I reach for my wallet. The poor guy barely has the energy to speak.

"There's just nothing out there for anyone our age." He shakes his head in despair.

Our age? I thought he was way older than me.

"No jobs. Anywhere. There's nothing."

I give him a twenty-dollar bill. "Here you go. Good luck."

"Thank you." He tucks away the money. "You work in there?" He gestures toward the building.

"I used to work for those people but I don't anymore. I quit."

"You got a better job?"

"Nope. Just couldn't take it anymore."

"You shouldn't have done that," he says, his lower lip quivering. "It's tough out here on the streets. You'll see."

"I hope not." 

That wasn't a great confidence-builder.

I approach the front door with purpose, clutching my briefcase tightly. Everything about this property is designed to intimidate. It's not by accident that the structure calls to mind a missile perched on a concrete pad ready to launch. I force a self-assured smile and enter the building.