Yesterday, a woman entered the Physical Therapy Office where I work, part-time. Her stride was that of a strong, confident woman looking for some answers. She stood with the air and pride of someone who knows what they want and that they are going to get it. She stood with her weight shifted squarely on one foot, much like that of an assertive Amazonian.
I prepared the words I was going to say like a wizard prepares a scroll. I approached her and asked if I could help her. She rated my alignment before informing me that she wanted to know a little about our office/services and that she had recently been in a car accident. The damage that she had taken from the offending seat belt had left her in a rather dubious state for the conflicts that she faced on a daily basis. She required the help of the healer that I assisted three times a week.
I have worked with the healers in this office for quite some time and have never seen her before. Most of our patients wave to us from the doorway as they hold themselves up on the island next to the entrance. Many of them have suffered egregious wounds at the hands of their character classes. We usually assist our wounded soldiers upon entering the office.
I tried the hide the knowing smile that I’m sure crossed my face. I knew how to dispatch this villain quickly. I drew one of the prepared songs that I kept nearest the front of my tongue.
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry to hear about your recent accident. Have you been to see a doctor?”
I wasn’t surprised by the smile that this woman greeted my question with.
“Yes, I have spoken with Dr. [H.I.P.A.A.]. He told me that I have whiplash. I was really just wondering if you work directly with the insurance of the punk that hit me or what?”
I didn’t even try to hide the grin that smeared itself across my face. I knew I had feinted properly and that she had failed her saving throw for my spell. She only wanted the gold of the “punk” that had offended her. She wasn’t interested in getting better, but in teaching a lesson, a lesson that she had no right to teach. Luckily, I was prepared; I would help my fellow “punk” from being wounded more than he had already been. I began my song and watched her mouth fall open.
“I am unable to answer your insurance questions. To learn more about that you need to call over to our corporate office. I should also tell you, in order for us see you as a patient you need to get a prescription from your doctor. I can’t understand why your doctor wouldn’t have given you one already if you are in as much pain as you say your are.”
I can only imagine that our Amazonian heroine would have been the type of patient that would have continued to complain of pain long after a person twice as fragile as she would have been healed.
PS. No, I do not have intentions of being a healer myself, but more of a bard.
PPS. Also, DnD needs to find a new name for the bard character class. Give it a name that is befitting of the class. I prefer artist.
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