Wrong Time

By Fallton Havenstonne

The wooden door closed behind Mr. Baxton as he paced up to the check-in desk. He wiped his forehead dry with his long sleeve shirt, his face sweaty after running up the stairs for five floors since the elevator was out.

“I’m here for my appointment,” he said to the receptionist.

“You’re late, Mr. Baxton. You should’ve called if you couldn’t make it on time.”

“But I’m early. It isn’t three yet.”

“Your appointment was at two o’clock, not at three . . .”

Mr. Baxton felt like he had been punched in the gut. He let out an audible sigh and checked the time on his wristwatch. It was 3 pm, and he had honked through bumper-to-bumper traffic to get there, speeding through yellow lights and driving fifteen to twenty miles per hour over the speed limit on the highway. He was certain that his appointment was at three, double-checked it this morning when he woke up, and at work during his lunch break in the office. After his last appointment, he scribbled it down, hung it on the refrigerator so that he wouldn’t forget.

He waved his finger at her like he was scolding a rascal. “Has to be a mistake. You must’ve scheduled it wrong on your computer. Everyone makes mistakes. Wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t your first—”

“It’s not a mistake, Mr. Baxton,” the receptionist said matter-of-factly. She tapped her yellow-painted fingernail on the desk with a click-click-click and rolled her eyes. “You still have to pay the copay. Will it be cash or credit?”

“I’m not paying until I see the doctor.” He narrowed his eyes darkly. “Look, lady. I made this appointment a week ago on the phone. Don’t you remember our conversation?”

“Don’t call me lady, Mr.—”

“It was definitely you. I remember your voice,” he said haughtily. “You’re Sandra, right?”

Her name was on the desk block, not that he noticed.

“I’m the only receptionist at this office, Mr. Baxton,” she said dryly. “Been that way for seven years.”

“So you remember our conversation. You went over the different times, said that three was available in the afternoon. I know because I had asked what times were available and you said 10 or 3. Had to take off early from work just to make it here.”

“I understand, but you do know our policy about showing up late, and canceling appointments within twenty-four hours . . .”

A woman came into the doctor’s office and stood behind Mr. Baxton at the check-in desk. She wore shades, kept her head low as if she didn’t want to be noticed by anyone.

The receptionist smiled casually at her as was expected from her boss. It was important to maintain a good rapport with the patients so that they would keep coming back for their checkup appointments, but Mr. Baxton felt like he was the exception. He could tell the receptionist was done with him, especially by the way she waved her pen in the air like a wand, then pointed it at the sign on the desk that said in bold words: CASH OR CREDIT ONLY. NO CHECKS.

“Mr. Baxton, my calendar says your appointment was at two,” she said with an air of finality. “You can either pay now or we will bill your—”

“Look, lady. Just admit you scheduled the wrong time. It took me forty-five minutes to get here by three. Almost got in a wreck, probably got a ticket from a red light camera, and I nearly hit a bicyclist that crossed the road without looking. And you still insist that I’m late, that I need to pay when I’m actually on—”

“So you’re always late. That’s your problem,” the woman behind him said with a grin.

He turned to her, gazing at himself through the reflection of her shades. “Stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”

“Ah, Mr. Baxton. There you are,” the doctor called from the door. “Almost came on time today, eh.”

“He’s an hour late,” the receptionist said.

“Right. Thought I wasn’t going to see you today,” the doctor said. “You’re improving, though. Old habits die fast.”

“It’s old habits die hard,” the woman with the shades said.

“Or never,” the receptionist added.

“I wasn’t late,” Mr. Baxton said, raising his voice as if he wanted everyone in the room to know. “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? I said my appointment was at TWO O’CLOCK!”

He let it slip, and suddenly, he felt like his mind had separated from his body like he was two different people: one who knew the real time, and the other who believed what they thought they heard was true.

The receptionist smiled, and rapped her fingernail on the payment sign on the desk.

“Don’t sweat it,” the doctor said. “A broken clock is right two times a day.”

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