Pit

The Coffee Room is deserted, except for John and Walter. Walter stands with his back against the doorjamb. John is hunched over the countertop, by the coffeepots, pulling at his head.

“What’s the matter, John? You have a headache?”

“It started when I looked sideways. Like this, see? That was, I think, last week Tuesday. I thought it was uh bug. But it wasn’t. It was uh black spot … in my left eye. Uh spot … bouncing ‘round on the left corner of … well, of whatever thuh hell I was lookin’ at that wasn’t dark. Uh spot. I thought there was somethin’ in my goddamn eye. I’m not uh hypochondriac, so stop lookin’ at me like that. It was there. Crap! It is there. I checked my eye out in thuh men’s john. Couldn’t see anything in it, but hell if that spot ain’t still there.”

“Well, have you, uh, seen someone about that?”

“I don’t wanna go to the doctor.”

“I’m just saying, I mean, if your really worried about it you could …”

“That stupid spot’s like one of those white or red or whatever colored spots we use tuh have on thuh sing-a-longs. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

“It’d bounce from word tuh word?”

“Right, right.”

“But … it’s uh black hole, but solid. It bounces ‘round my kids while they try tuh ask all those … ya know … Why, Daddy? questions. I can’t even focus with this goddamn spot!”

“Maybe it’s allergies.”

“It strokes my wife’s breasts. It’s even pettin’ my dog. Shit!”

“I don’t know, John. What can I do to …”

“I’ve been tryin’ to look at everything from thuh right eye … thuh right side, see. I can’t! My left eye, thuh one with thuh shitty-ass spot keeps cuttin’ in. Even, get this, when I close my eye, or cover it up with my hand, like this, it’s still there. IT’S STILL THERE. I think it’s getting bigger, growing. It use tuh, kinda disappear if I put my head uh certain way. Like this. But now, it’s there ALL…”

“Hey man, everybody’s looking in here. The whole office can hear you.”

“I don’t care if they hear me. What this spot does, see, is it keeps addin’ periods in thuh middle of what I’m reading. It won’t even let me fuckin’ read. Matter uh fact, that’s when It’s REALLY THERE. Ya know why? Cause paper is white, and computer screens are blue, and newspapers are gray, and none of ’em are dark enough tuh hide it. Fuck! It won’t even lemmy fucking speak! It keeps interrupting. It’s putting a shitty black period in thuh middle of yur face, RIGHT NOW.”

“Hey now. Take it easy. Do you need to go home? I can probably drive you. You’re getting kind of hysterical, buddy.”

“I’m not gonna lie to ya. Yeah, I’m fucking scared shitfaced. I mean, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I don’t wanna go to thuh doctor. He’s gonna tell me it’s all in my head. Or, that I need drugs or shots or surgery. Or, that I have, what's it called? Glaucoma. Or, uh detached eyeball part, or my view is wrong an needs to be fixed by takin’ my sick eyeball out an puttin’ in somebody else’s.”

“John…”

“Or, that I have cancer of the eye. Or, caught cancer of the brain where I’m gonna die in six months or six weeks or six days of a brain tumor. Die!”

“John!”

“IDONTKNOWWHATTHEFUCKIMGONNADO.”

“Take it easy! Take it easy, John. I really, REALLY think you ought to see the doctor. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“Huh. Maybe I should just let it take over thuh whole godddamn thing? Everything. What are you shaking your head for? I’ll be okay. I’m just gonna get my coffee here and go back tuh thuh Henderson deal.”

“Look here, I’ll go over to H.R. for you and have them contact you about what you have for sick days, vacation, all that stuff. You need some time to figure out what this is, what you’re up against. Forget about the Henderson deal for now. I’ll talk to Roger about getting on the finances for that. The team can spare you for a couple of days while you find out what’s going on.”

“I know what’s going on. I’m gonna die.”

“John.”

“No, really, Walt. This spot’s tryin’ to kill me. I oughta call it Sancho. Ya know who Sancho is, Walt? Sancho is the guy that screws yur wife and plays with yur kids, gettin’ ‘em to call him Daddy and walks yur dog, so all the neighbors can see. He does all this shit while yur in prison. Except this time, Sancho’s not even waitin’.”

“Why don’t you sit down a minute? ... William, please come in here a second, would you?”

“Yeah?”

“You keep a schedule of John’s appointments, don’t you?”

“Yeah?”

“Where is his regular doctor?”

“Huh?”

“Where’s his office?”

“Oh, on Fortney, in that yellow-brick med building.”

“John, can I take you to the doctor now? Would you like me to go with you? Look at me, John! Do you want me to go with you?”

“I dunno … maybe … yeah … okay.”

“Good! Okay, let me wrap up a couple of things and we’ll go.”

“But, Sancho’s not goin'.”

“WHAT?”

“I said, SANCHO’S ... NOT ... GOING.”

“John, for godsake, you’re not making any sense!”

“He’s not coming.”

“William! Come back here, NOW, please.”

“Yeah?”

“Call an ambulance.”

“I don’t need any goddamn ambulance!”

“You’re sick, John.”

“I know. I KNOW. I told you I’m gonna die.”

The Coffee Room is deserted, except for John and Walter. Walter stands with his back against the doorjamb, holding John in and keeping the rest of the office out. John is hunched in the chair, pulling at his head, covering and uncovering his left eye with his hand. The office is humming with the anticipation of the action that is to come. It has broken the monotony of the business day. It has disrupted John’s life. It has made Walter scared for his friend’s sanity. It has kept William busy. It has roused the EMTs from their afternoon nap.