The elevator in the hospital’s main lobby, the one caddy-corner the one I use to transport patients up to radiology is out of service for the third time this week. Of course I don’t know this when I leave the emergency room pushing an obese middle-aged man in a wheelchair, so by the time I get there and see the hastily scrawled note Do Not Use scotch-taped across the elevator door, I’m winded and annoyed.
“It’s as broken as I feel,” I mutter.
“At least you ain’t fat,” the man snorts.
When did my lowly job become a pissing contest?
“It’s as broken as I feel,” I mutter.
“At least you ain’t fat,” the man snorts.
When did my lowly job become a pissing contest?
