Depressing scene.

Chiropractic office.
A mother and her daughter entered with a small boy.
At first it was unclear which was the mother of the child, but it soon became apparent that the younger was, and that the elder cared for both.
The daughter had a vine tattooed on her foot, and something swirly on the back of her neck.
Far be it for me to talk about tattoos being trashy, but on this girl they definitely screamed underprivileged teenage mom.
Mother and daughter were getting adjusted.
It was clear that they came a lot.
A heavy set nurse with bleach blonde frizzy hair in a mullet shaped perm came out to personally greet them. She had a round, pink face that reminded me somewhat of Miss Piggy.
I felt she was the type of person who wore an oversized Tweety Bird shirt to bed (and to Wal-Mart, for that matter) and yelled "Wash your cooter!" to her kids.
"Look at the little man! What's his name again? Jayden?...Jayden has football throwing hands!"
Jayden wasn't even old enough to walk, and was crawling around the floor of the waiting room unwatched by the others.
Somewhere in the office a receptionist asked how to abbreviate appointment.
I mentally rolled my eyes.
I've become a touch too judgmental lately, but really? Seriously?
I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
I glanced up at the generic clock on the tacky pastel wallpaper that walls of every cheap doctor's office boast. The music being piped over the intercom was starting to get under my skin. It sounded like it came straight from a Casio keyboard tone bank. I wondered idly if the chiropractor was down with Wesley Willis.
My client finally emerged and as we finally exited the building, I heard someone ask "Where's Jayden?"
That boy will be looking for himself his whole life.