It's the waiting that kills me.Y'know, when you're crammed into a tiny, dirty, white roomwith about a million other people, waiting for hours to hearyour name called? And the worst part is you're always stucknext to some guy who makes the situation even more miserable -in this case, a disgusting middle-aged man with his hairystomach hanging over his pants, his shirt wet and stained. Inone arm he has a screaming kid, in the other a reeking cigar.The cigar, of course, only cost him about five cents; thoseguys are always too cheap to buy anything of quality. Maybehis kid would stop screaming if he stopped blowing smoke inhis face. Some people have no common sense.

After I'veaged a couple of decades, the plump nurse busts down the doorand growls, "Hey, where's Mr. Zimmerson? Mr.Zimmerson!" My name is Zimmerman, but I get up anywayand follow her to the torture chamber. I'm not exactly in themood to walk behind her, mainly because her skin is discoloredand ugly.

Suddenly, she flails her arm carelessly,indicating a room with all kinds of machinery. Her raspy voicemutters, "Wait here. Doc'll see ya in a minute." SoI sit down and wait some more.

When I sit down on theexamination chair - the kind they have in dentists' offices - I feel a bunch of springs digging into my back. I'm already alittle nervous because I have some bad memories of my dentist,and the springs don't help. I figure they pulled the thing outof the local dump. I'm sure I'm not far off.

Then Ilook at the tools ol' Doc has kickin' around the place. Iswear I'm looking at a needle the size of my head sitting onthe medical tray. They didn't even make an attempt to hide it.Next to it is a hacksaw or something, and be-yond that I can'tsee. As far as I can tell, it's some kind of face harness tokeep the patients from screaming too loud. It's cold in theroom, and I shudder.

About three days later, thisenormous guy walks in. All he's got on is a beat-up pair ofleather pants and a white apron. Actually, the apron isn'treally white. It might have been at one point, but now it's sostained and bloodied it looks more like a Jackson Pollackpainting. His skin is just like the nurse's, all discolored.It looks like some stupid kid slapped graffiti all over hisbody while he was sleeping.

The doc grunts something atme in some prehistoric language I'm not fluent in, and pushesme back in the chair so I'm practically upside down. Then hegrunts something.

"Huh?" I askstupidly.

"I sez whare da yawannit?"

"Oh. Uh, on my arm," I reply.I'm pretty nervous by this time and my fingers shake as I rollup my sleeve. Doc mumbles something about holding still, but Ican't quit shaking. He looks pretty peeved, but he just grabsmy arm and holds it down.

Suddenly, he pulls this huge,taser-like gun out of nowhere. I jump up. No one said anythingabout a taser. Doc's really mad now. He waves the thing aroundlike it is some kind of live hand grenade, screaming at me toget back in the chair. I'm so excited by this point that Ijust shake my head rapidly. He screams again, this timelouder. I fumble for the doorknob and stutter some lameexcuse. I start feeling like someone's dropped a truckload oftapioca pudding on top of me. Finally, I get the dooropen.

Even though Doc doesn't look like he's in themood for a chase, I run like a jack rabbit down the decrepithallway, through the disgusting waiting room, past the hairymiddle-aged man with the reeking cigar and screaming kid. Ial-most stop and grab the thing out of his fat fingers, tosave the kid the trouble of doing it, but don't. I push openthe front door and run into the street. A car nearly flattensme, but I'm too scared to stop. Those drivers ought to watchwhere they're going.

Finally, after I've run throughabout four states, I stop to catch my breath. It's nearlydark, and I'm not far from my house. As I walk down my street,I roll up my sleeve and look at the spot Doc nearly mangled.I'm sure it would have hurt like heck if I had let him do it,too. And the more I think about it, the gladder I am that I'msuch a coward.

Besides, Mom would have had a stroke ifshe found out I got a tattoo.