I’m at the waiting room at the doctor’s office. It’s a big space, the entryway to a health center, maybe 50 feet long with lots of couches. I’m sitting at the far end, one of around ten people waiting for their appointments.
A nurse comes out from a door on the other end of the waiting room and calls the next patient. “David?”
All ten people look at her. I stand up. So does the man across from me, and another man closer to her, by the front desk. We all smile.
“David who?” we ask, more or less in unison.
The nurse is a little surprised, but she checks her chart. “David H.,” she replies.
I sit down.
The man across from me says, “I’m David H.”
The man in front of her says, “I’m David H.”
The nurse blinks. The two men look at each other. One of the David H.es asks if she can be more specific. She’s obviously struggling with how to manage her patients’ privacy, but after a second, she gives up.
“David Hayes.”
The man across from me says, “I’m David Hayes.”
The man in front of her says, “I’m David Hayes!”
My local David Hayes bursts into laughter. He starts walking across the room to sort things out. The David Hayes closer to the nurse stops him. “I gotta shake your hand.”
As they’re approaching the desk, a second nurse comes out of a different door and says, “David?”