There is only one “John” (not the bathroom) in a waiting room of eleven of us men, women and one child at the health clinic’s inner waiting room. This has already taken longer than it should have (four hours) for me to get a mere refill for my monthly bronchial inhaler, “Geez, glad I brought this book to read.” I hate that my long-time physician back east suddenly stopped calling in the refills to my pharmacy, requiring me to bask in the anonymity of a public health clinic for the first time since I came out from under my parent’s care.
One of the nurses or assistants ( she didn’t have a nurse uniform on) comes to the door and asks, “John…John…” looking for the next patient. Nobody answers. “JOHN?” she says again more sternly. Then she makes eye-contact with one man only a few feet from us who says , “John WHO?” She says his last name. Then he gets up and follows her into the inner examining sanctum.
I’m like, cracking-up inside, and must have let an audible snicker fly, that nobody picked-up on, as I pretended to continue reading my hardback novel – WTF? Did he think he was in a room full of “Johns”? They only have to say one of my names, first or last, and I’m like, “Right here!” getting up out of the chair and putting my book away to be finally seen wherever I go in one of these situations, and if there is another other similar, let the roll-caller specify at that time, otherwise it is a “first come, first served basis” moment.