Pool_1

Valentines, presidents, shamrocks, the usual first grade over the blackboard stuff taped to any spot that might actually hold tape. Over the center island and over those booths near windows, were suspended baskets with hanging flowers, always looking fresh and plastic, a nice minimal effort. And prominently visible above the center island were the four large numbered clocks, one facing each point of the compass. This was the eye magnet that pulled at the attention of all assembled here. No conversation was ever so absorbing as to deter spasmodic upward lateral glimpses toward the ultimate master, time. When you surveyed the room, you saw clusters of cafe tables and booths accommodating about four people, maybe five apiece. Each had a token small satin flower in a plastic vase. One location, when the place was empty, at the far end of the room, caught the eye simply because it was different. Kind of like an altar, there were three square tables joined in a row parallel to the far wall covered by a single white cloth, the only fabric in the place. Two unique salt and pepper shakers, tall ones, set dead center on that white surface, heightened the liturgical feeling. Probably no accident. But it was anything but a place of reverence, more a sacrificial stone, maybe. And it had more going for it than the only salt and pepper shakers, it had a history and a name. It was The Table. For here unwritten, unarranged, but reliably and regularly met the front line working brain trust of County Hospital who were also collectively referred to as The Table. This was where medicine swirled with old syle philosophy and modern cynicism. You didn't come to The Table to escape, rather to probe or be probed. The more timid or aloof who were nevertheless drawn to the workings of the table peppered its perimeter.