Foote’s Hole (a serial II)
“I don’t have friends anymore; I don’t have any friends.”
The whining could be overheard though the closed door of the chiropractor’s office against which Anson was pressed in an effort to straighten himself out. Anson felt as if he was arced around his left side like a bow strung tightly from left ear to left shoe. He wondered what sort of questionable person no longer had any friends and he found himself doubting the character of a chiropractor that would have such a person as his patient. This made Anson uneasy; but he convinced himself that this was a good thing, that really he had been too intimidated by the whole idea of the chiropractor – not just because of the exotic mystique chiropracty represented for him, but more so because Dr. Heath had been so vigorously recommended by his friend Jeremy Stantz; Jeremy, his friend, whom Anson admired for his moral quality and excellent social standing. Jeremy was the data analyst he looked up to most in his office, which was saying a lot because everyone he worked with at the Bureau of Exceptional Statistics, he could tell, was a person of great virtue.
As these thoughts were starting to make him feel better, the door opened abruptly and Anson toppled over into the arms of Lowry Heath who, cradling Anson, laughed gently, lifted him to his feet and said,
“Easy there, tiger.”
A man in a brown coat was standing by a chair next to the chiropractor’s desk, wiping his eyes with a frayed linen handkerchief. Once he noticed Anson staring at him, not blinking, the man in the brown coat, whom the giant Doctor was referring to as Mr. Hanley, as in “so I’ll see you on Thursday, Mr. Hanley,” or “don’t forget your satchel, Mr. Hanley,” kept his back to Anson as he slinked comically out the door. Through the slats of Dr. Heath’s vertical faux-walnut blinds Anson watched the man shuffle guiltily from the outer door and into the street, taking note of his matted gray hair, the lighter brown elbow patch of his brown coat, his brown satchel, and nervous gait. Mr. Hanley was perhaps the beigest person Anson had ever seen. He sighed in relief after the man disappeared, and Dr. Heath said,
“You must be Mr. Foote, yes? Are you all right? Nasty heat, no? Did you find the place ok? Please have a seat. Water?”
Anson blinked.
