Just Like Duct Tape
It was sunny out. Very sunny. And kind of hot, too. Though it could have been hotter. I had hoped there’d be more shadows hanging over the west sides of the streets, but apparently 2:30 is just like noon.
I took Berkley towards the river, passing by shops and homes. As I approached Comm. Ave., I realized that I could have a little reprieve from the sun. Commercial Avenue (which has far too many syllables, so everyone just says “Comm. Ave.”) is a real traditional avenue. It comes complete as a divided road with a park running through the middle. Technically, it’s called a mall.
So, I walked along the mall, with my ever so slight limp, wearing my bright white work out sneakers, until I reached Dartmouth. See, in the Back Bay area of Boston, the streets that run perpendicular to the Charles are alphabetical. First there’s Arlington, then Berkley, followed by Clarendon, and then Dartmouth. When walking across these, you are walking long blocks – think avenue blocks in NYC. My new podiatrist’s office was to be found between Dartmouth and Exeter on Beacon Street.
As I got closer to the address, I started to wonder what kind of building the office could possibly be in. Beacon Street is lined on either side with old brown stones and brick buildings. It’s not really a commercial type of place; this is where you’d be more likely to find residences than doctors’ offices.
When I got there, I found that it definitely was in just another brown stone. And as I approached, I had a sudden fear. I checked the post-it note in my pocket. Yep. Definitely says 4th floor. What if this building is too old for an elevator. Oh man, what kind of podiatrist puts her office at a fourth floor walk-up?
When I entered the building, I thought my fears had been realized; all I could see was regular doors with handles. I quickly noted the one that had a stairwell behind it, and whimpered as I headed towards it. Then I realized something. The door directly in front of me had a familiar looking brass dial above it. It pointed half way between a 3 and a 4. Then I spotted the button.
With a sigh of relief, I pressed the button and watched for the dial to move. It didn’t. Thoughts of hobbling up four flights started to cloud my mind. But then it came into view of the door’s narrow window. It was an elevator all right. The kind with a gate that you have to open and close yourself.
I opened the door, and pulled back the (very heavy) gate. As I slipped into the box of the elevator, the gate slammed itself shut. (Told you it was heavy.) I nervously pressed the button labeled 4 and the elevator lurched into action. I could see through the gate exactly why the dial showed no valuable information – the rope that once controlled the dials had been cut off at each and every floor.
I was happy to see the 4th floor come into view. I was even happier when the elevator stopped exactly there. I pulled back on the grate, pushed open the door, and bolted out of that wretched box.
There were several doors to choose from there on the fourth floor. I studied a couple signs before I found the door I knew I wanted. It said podiatry on it. That’s foot-doctor-y. That’s what I’m looking for.
The door was ajar. I pulled the handle and found myself looking into what really looked like an apartment. This was an entry hallway, with a coat closet on the left. Ahead the waiting room sat only 4 chairs and a table, and just beyond that was an office with a front-desk looking front-desk. Someone was already at that front desk talking, so I patiently waited in the hallway. When she had gone, I walked up to the counter and started, “Hi, I’m…”
“Diane?”
“Yep.” I like it when they’re paying attention. Insurance card, co-pay, forms, more forms, more forms… I didn’t wait too long after my form-filling was complete. I had my Games magazine with me, and probably only managed about five crossword entries before the doctor came out to fetch me.
Her curly hair was pulled back in a low pony tale. Her glasses perched low on her nose, which was very centrally located on her pale face. My eyes went to look at her shoes. They were cute! I was jealous. Here I am, wearing white work-out sneakers, and she’s got on these awesome chunky-healed sandals with ties going up her ankles. Oh well. I guess her feet don’t hurt.
So, we talked about my foot. She told me all kinds of fun reasons why this could happen. We both agreed that it was probably due to the extreme change in the amount of walking I do in a given day now that I work in the city. She told me it was good that it hadn’t been going on for too long, and that if I make sure I wear good shoes with arch supports, once I kick this current pain, I’ll be perfectly fine.
Then she gave me two options. Tape or an injection. I absolutely will not ever be taking a cortisone shot. So, tape it is! She started ripping off even strips of wide white medical tape. *shrrrrrrrrrrrkkkk!* She gripped each end of the strip and pushed it hard against the arch of my foot. *shrrrrrrrrrrrkkkk!* The next one overlapped the previous one by half. *shrrrrrrrrrrrkkkk!* Each strip overlapped the previous, and she taped down the ends to make sure nothing would move.
Then she repeated the whole process.
I felt like my foot was now being held together with tape. Apparently feet are to doctors like most problems are to lazy engineers. Anything can be fixed with duct tape. Or in this case, white medical tape reinforced with string.
Lucky me! I have to plastic-wrap my foot to take a shower!
This had better work.
My walk back to my office was a little shadier (in a good way) and a little more awkward.
Isn’t it Commonwealth Avenue, not Commercial?
May…be…
Yes…
I’m an idiot! And, yes, I promise to leave my idiocy there for all to see.
In all fairness, though, see, I always call it Comm. Ave… That’s all it is to me… Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to educate the masses when I’ve not been educated myself…