My Brief Career As A Plantologist

It was a warm spring morning in Vancouver. Cherry blossoms were drifting to the ground and fledgling crows performed a wobble dance on every tree.

I slurped the last dregs of my second cup of coffee and headed to the train. The coffee, the fact that I was late, and trepidation of what I would encounter at my destination sped up my foot-dragging pulse.

Geographically speaking, I’m over the hill and there is little water left to pass under my bridge. The condoms in my pocket have been replaced by Rolaids and most of my daily activities are chosen according to the capacity of my bladder. My math-oriented grandchild figures I’m more finite than infinite, all of which explains why I was on my way to visit a doctor. My appointment was at 1:00 PM and, believe it or not, I arrived early.

The address was on the third floor of an old office block on a busy downtown street. An information board in the lobby showed the building was home to every species of medical practitioner. One could be treated from head to foot (psychiatrists to podiatrists) or from top to bottom (psychiatrists to proctologists).

I was here because of middle ground. My post-lunch appointment was with Dr. Peter Freeleigh, a urologist. The third floor was obviously urology heaven, and I joined a gang of impatient old men prostrating themselves in front of the elevator which seemed to be stuck elsewhere in the building.

Eventually, it arrived, and we all squeezed in. The ancient contraption began its journey, creaking and groaning the entire trip. Each of us pushed and jostled to be at the front in anticipation of a race to the bathroom.

The door slid open and disgorged the frantic mob. I could just make out an eye-level picture of a toilet on a door at the far end of a long hall. One octogenarian, whose name was probably Fleetfoot Mac, led the pack only to come up short because the door to the promised land wouldn’t open.

He turned to the oncoming horde, a look of despair accessorizing his countenance. ”It’s locked,” he said, throwing up his hands.

“I’ll get the key,” I gasped, voluntarily backtracking to the office window of a uro-doc whose shingle read Dr. Ignacio P. Daly. The receptionist manipulated her lips into the shape of a cat’s bum and swatted a nonexistent fly. “You have to get the key from your own doctor,” she said.

Easy, I thought and marched back a few offices. “I have an appointment,” I said. “But first, I need the bathroom key.”

This receptionist portrayed a less mean demeanor but shook her head. “Someone walked away with it this morning. We don’t have a spare.”

It was still lunchtime, and no other offices were open. I was on the verge of choreographing my own wobble dance but there was nothing to do but wait. I sat down, crossed my legs and pretended I was in a calmer place at a less urgent time. I visualized a tropical island with palm trees, a waterfall and a river running into the sea. Bad choice. Running water is not a good thought for someone in my situation.

I ran back to my doctor’s office. “I have to go bad. Is there a private facility for staff?”

“Not a chance. The building’s old. They didn’t have private toilets when it was built.”

What to do? In the grand scheme of things, I didn’t have much time left and in the shorter, more urgent scheme, I didn’t have any. I returned to Dr. Daly’s receptionist for one more try. “Look,” I said. “If you don’t give me your key, you’ll be totally responsible for what happens.”

She laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t help it if you don’t know enough to go to the john before you leave home.”

“I’m desperate,” I said. “I’m going to pin a note to my fly saying it’s all your fault and throw myself out the window. Explain that to the police.”

She laughed again. “Do you see a window along this hall? Maybe you could disembowel yourself with a paperclip.”

I gave up and resurveyed my surroundings. The offices were aligned on one side of the long hall. The other side contained sectioned-off waiting areas for each office. A few of the men had been accompanied by wives who had quietly taken seats. Each area was identical: chairs, a pile of tattered magazines on a corner table and bushy potted plants along the wall.

The plants! Maybe the foliage would hide me. I pulled one from the wall. It wasn’t tall enough, so I knelt down behind it. The plant now hid my planned activity, but the pot proved to be higher than I could possibly pee.

Maybe if I stood and put the pot on the table. This proved to be the right height but the table, being in a corner, meant I couldn’t get behind the plant. However, the time of no choice was upon me. I quickly unzipped and started my project with my back to the receptionist and the waiting area.

All was running smoothly when a female voice behind me said, “Excuse me. I’d like to look at the magazines.”

In a former time, it would have been possible to shut down the embarrassing activity, corral loose body parts and assume an aura of respectability. However, recent experiences include a multitude of apparatus malfunction. An ancient adage states that of all humankind’s urges, an old man’s desire to relieve himself is most powerful. Like a breached dam, the flow is unstoppable.

I reached down, grabbed the pot with both hands, lifted it off the table and turned around. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to hog the magazines,” I said.

She glanced down. “No bother. What are you doing with the plant?”

“I was taking a close look. I’m a retired plantologist. This is one of the healthiest examples of a European Water Bush I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh,” she said. “My hobby is plants. We should talk. By the way, you’re holding a ficus.”

“Oh no,” I stammered. “I wouldn’t hold my ficus in public.” Carrying the pot, I fled and flowed into the crowded hallway.

The End