I'm new here. I've been looking for a place to workshop my short fictions. Please read and tell me what you think. It's been a while since I've had something critiqued.
Here it is. It's a wee bit long, but bare with me.

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Last Moments of Drake Jones


Drake fumbled through the heaps of paper piled up on his bathroom sink.
Not there.
Not by his bed either. He couldn’t have left it in my car, he thought. It was too important. He needed that piece. It was nowhere in sight.
He supposed he could always return to the library from the nearby university and look it up again on their internet. Maybe after his appointment.

He woke up that morning dizzy with a bit of a migraine. Strange, even after seven hours of sleep, he still felt tired. Hastily he splashed water on his face, smeared a glob of gel mixed with water unto his thinning hair and combed it as neatly as it would allow. His hair was growing rather long. Maybe he could snip a bit for now and then do the rest later.
He brusquely snipped at the ends and satisfied with the length and the somewhat evenness, he removed as much traces of hair on his shoulder as he could. Slipping into his dress shirt, he carefully tucked in the wrinkled ends into his fading slacks and before exiting his room, stole a brief glimpse at his bathroom mirror. There was a bit too much crease on his sleeves, probably from rolling it up yesterday. But no one should be able to notice. It would just appear as if he had just worn this shirt all day.

He contemplated whether he should even see this new doctor of his for the scheduled follow-up. One visit and already he didn’t like him. The man obviously dyed his hair. It was an unnatural black. And he had a goatee, a sharp, pointed one as black as the thick hair on his head. Probably dyed that too. What kind of doctor dyes his goatee in addition to his hair? He looked like Satan. Why should he return to see a doctor who looked like Satan? And one of his nurses wore those awful pink scrubs! Very unprofessional color for someone who worked in health care.

His last doctor was even worse. He had never actually seen the man, but he knew right away from the way he ran his office, that he must be a quack. The receptionist actually had the nerve to ask to make a copy of his driver’s license when it was fairly obvious that Drake was an American citizen. His last name was Jones for Christ sakes! Yet they say it was necessary. Absolutely ridiculous! Completely went against his right, Drake had claimed. He didn’t have to prove his citizenship to anyone. And after storming out of the office, he immediately dialed for Mary, his case manager and demanded that she change his doctor right away.

“All your doctors are quacks! None of them know what they’re doing. And their staffs are all idiots!” he had yelled angrily on the phone. “This is my third doctor. My third doctor!”

“Sir,” Mary began, “let me remind you that you really need to be seen for pain management and to do that, we really need your cooperation on…”

“I know that! But how am I supposed to get one if all your doctors are brainless whackos! I walked in there, expecting to be seen by the doctor and what do they do? They ask for my driver’s license! Now see here, I’m an American citizen! If they’re going to check for anyone’s citizenship, they should check on that quack doctor’s! His last name is not even American…”

“Sir, this is not a question of citizenship. Surely you must be aware that verification of identification…”

“Listen Mary,” he spoke calmly, “You know I am taping our conversation right now. Everything you say will be heard by my lawyer and by the court. So you best watch what you’re saying. You told me before that I’ll have my pain management referral by the end of the month. It’s been three weeks now and we’re still here looking for a doctor.”

“I can change your doctor if you want, but you must understand…”

Drake had hung up before she could respond.

That damn incompetent. He couldn’t understand what the hell was wrong with their system. Several times he had spoken with Mary, told her of his accident, the constant pain in his back, all the false promises from his former doctors and their constant mistreatment of him, all of his frustrations. Yet nothing was ever done. His new doctor, this Satan, this Dr. Abram, did not appear very promising either. Today he will know for sure.

His appointment was not in three hours. Three hours, he figured, that he might as well spend on looking for that damn piece of paper. That one scrap could be the deal breaker. He could finally show those damn feds exactly who owns the rights to his land. He had lived here with his grandmamma for nineteen years, and he got it from her after she died eight years ago. Now it’s his, legally and binding. So why the hell were they sending him these damn notices? All these threats of seizure, of eviction, their greedy demands for money that they don’t deserve. Drake knew he doesn’t have to pay a damn thing! It’s his house and it’s his land! They only want to steal it from him so they could auction it off to one of those damn, gaming Indians. They want to make a casino out it!
Drake knew his history and his politics. He knew exactly how to play their game. He had printed out an article on tax resistance and tax avoidance from the library the other day. He didn’t believe in the war and he was completely against gambling, so why the hell did he have to pay? So they could fund corruptions and conspiracies? He’ll show them.

He still couldn’t find that piece of paper. He had already rummaged through the stacks lying on his kitchen counter and still no sign of it. He navigated his way to his cramped living room, his legs a bit wobbly. Probably from his fatigue. There awaiting him were more piles that laid about on the floor, the coffee table and on the couch. His grandmama’s crocheted coverlet hung stretched across the top of the couch, one end pinned on the seat of the couch under heavy piles of books and papers. Her dusty figurines and vases still laden with shriveled twigs, the remnants of long expired plants, were removed from every available surface to make room for all of Drake’s research. Most were loaded into a large Tupperware Drake found in one of the kitchen cabinets. The rest were left on an unnoticed spot on the living room floor Drake rarely ventured. They toppled over one other, chipped and broken.
The heavy drapes of sage green shielding the large and only window in the living room have not been stretched open since his grandmamma was alive. Drake could not open them now, even if he wanted to, when all the clutter of his work were blocking his way from accessing it. He never wanted them pulled back anyways.
He switched on the lights and continued his search through every stacks and folders lying about. Finally, he sat down on a sparse surface on the coffee table, his breath short and his head staggering a bit from searching too long. It appeared he will have to return to the library after all, a task he was not quite looking forward to. He can only hope that library lady wouldn’t be there. The bitch seemed to have something against him. Every time he had been there, she seemed to enjoy making things difficult for him. All he wanted was to take out a few items, but the stingy lady wouldn’t allow him unless he had a stinkin’ library card; told him that he had to be in some way affiliated to some university or college in order to obtain one; else he will have to shell out $20.00 for a card.
It was only after he already paid for a card and undergone the task of poring over government documents and plucking out the materials he needed was he told that as a non-campus affiliate, he was not allowed to check out government publications. Drake could not believe the stupidity of that woman. Shouldn’t she have warned him of that before he had purchased a library card? It was in the library brochure she had handed to him earlier, she had said, on the list of materials he could not check out. Of course, Drake wouldn’t have read the brochure when he had more important matters to attend to. As a library personnel working in an institution, she should have been educated enough to know that. What kind of institution would employ such poor and inadequate workers? All this education bullshit. They only produced worthless human being like her, he thought.
And Drake had been quite hopeful too when he had first entered the building. He was greeted by the sight of a lovely, young lady working at the front desk, a student maybe, a brunette with short, curly hair. She was friendly and courteous when she had greeted him. And she had answered all of his questions with such willingness, as Drake observed. She behaved in a manner very much eager to accommodate. Drake was as equally courteous, even asking her about which country she was born from, if she spoke a second language and what kind of classes she was taking. She was of some Mexican background and a Psychology major. Drake liked that. He was into that Philosophy stuff too, like Socrates and Galileo.
But when had asked about the location on the subject of land rights and Indian lands, she became somewhat confused. Of course she couldn’t understand what Drake was talking about. She was young and yet to learn the things Drake knew. She said she didn’t know the exact location of the subject he was looking, that she will ask her supervisor about it.
And that’s when the bitch showed up. At first glance, she appeared sweet and friendly, not at all the scathing woman she apparently was, Drake remembered. She told him he needed to be a bit more specific about the subject he was looking for as she could not locate it either. She had no excuse to be that stupid. She was an older woman. An educated one at that. And yet she could not understand Drake’s research topic. It just showed how the American educational system was completely failing, when Drake, an informally educated drop out, could grasp things better than a formally educated woman of his age.
Hopefully she will not be there today. Maybe the young lady will be there today. And maybe the two of them could talk about Philosophy some more. Drake had watched her constantly while she worked behind the desk, his eyes never leaving her. A few times he found her wandering about the library, picking up books. He tried to catch up to her, but she was gone in an instant, disappeared among the mazes of shelves and books.
A dull ache began to throb through Drake’s back. He stood up and slowly headed for his bathroom, knowing that any second that it could erupt into an intense, piercing pain. He screwed open a prescription bottle. Empty. How could that be? He just had his prescription refilled a week and a half ago. It should have been enough to last him for four weeks.
“Those lying bastards,” he muttered under his breath.
That was the last time he was going to that ER, he decided.
It didn’t matter. He had a substitute waiting for him in the kitchen. He wobbled his way back through the corridor and into the kitchen. It wasn’t there. It was in his bedroom.
The whiskey bottle was nearly empty when he found it, maybe only enough for three more shots. Drake drank two. He felt the warm liquid thickly seep its way down his throat to the pit of his stomach. He already felt better.
The phone began to ring by his bedside.

“Hullo?” He muttered.

“Hi Drake. This is Mary, your case manager. How are you doing today?” Mary’s voice chirped on the other line.

“I’m out of meds.”

Drake heard a deep sigh from the other end.

“I’m only calling to remind you that you do have an appointment today at 1:00. Your pain management doctor will talk to you about that.”

“I don’t have time for this. I need my pain meds now.”

“Again, you will have to talk to your pain management doctor for that. Have a nice day.”

Mary hung up before Drake could respond. Drake was in no mood. He dialed Mary’s number. Nothing, but busy signal. Again and again, it was nothing but busy signal. Drake was dizzy and tired by the time he redialed his last. He felt drunk, a sign that the whiskey was doing its job. He leaned back on his bed, facing the ceiling. His appointment was in two and half hours. He supposed he could nap for a bit. His body felt numb and tired. He never felt this kind of drunk before. He could barely move a single limb of his body. Maybe he should have eaten at least some breakfast, he realized. Maybe in an hour or so, he figured. For now, he will clear his mind of doctors and libraries and think only of that young library girl. He pictured her up in the ceiling, his eyes open. He didn’t feel or noticed the film slowly shrouding them.

And he never had the chance to close them before they turned dark and cold.