The Waiting Room

So I guess this is one of those things that should be prefaced with, "It happened to a friend of mine... not me," and that's partially true (Hey, T****r!).

But the more important preface is THIS IS TOTALLY, COMPLETELY (haha) A WORK IN PROGRESS. I know there are many errors and even missing pieces... they are coming.

***

In here, no one makes eye contact, but everyone's looking at you. if this were prision, people would ask, "What are you in for?" But here, that's far too taboo. So instead, they guess, judge, and assume.

The girl in the corner is obviously a stripper who slid down the wrong pole. Does the girl sitting beside me know that pregnancy isn't a STD? And the pretty boy against the far wall – aids. What do they think about me? Probably that I sat on the wrong toilet seat.

Now it's my turn. I sit in a room with another pair of judging eyes; except this pair knows my name, age, social security number, and exactly why I'm here. Well, partially why; I can only guess the reason as to how I came to be here. I like to pretend the phone tree that resulted in, "Get tested," is a never-ending series. How many calls had been made before it came around to me, and how many were made after I'd made calls? I finally understand infinity.

The doctor, or something thereof, pulls out a needle. Aids test. I fucking hate needles, but truthfully I'm more scared of contracting hiv at this precise moment than anything else. Is it the $15 all‑in‑one STD test or the doctor/nurse/other wearing only one glove? He pierces my skin and fishes around for a vein like a virgin looking for a g-spot. It's thoughts like those that remind me why I'm here. He ends up, without fair warning, poking the needle into my hand. Is that moral superiority I detect?

Fuck. Really, I'd rather not know. If I have HIV, what would be the good in knowing?

He then shuffles me off to another room. The bathroom.

"Here," he says as he forces a Tupperware in my hand; like I'm supposed to know exactly what to do with it. Piss in it, yeah I get that. but why do they never tell you how much? And why do they make you write your own name on it?

So I fucking sign my piss specimen, but don't' wipe off the outside. That's for all the judgment!

Now? Back to the lobby. We wait. No, no one knows exactly what we're waiting for. Some mysteries are too grand. Maybe they're arguing over who gets to tell me the bad news. Personally, I'm pulling for the hand that snatched my pee from behind that little trap door in the bathroom. Can't we do this confessional style?

Finally, "Number 10." Oh yeah, they give you numbers as to not treat you like a real human.

What's the word for how a zombie walks? I sloth over to the room, head down, of course. At this pint, the once judgmental stares of the waiting room seem to have turned to empathy. Yeah, they realize they don't want anyone wishing ill on them as they walk in to hear their fate. All of a sudden, stripper bitch looks like Mary‑fucking‑Magdalene. Perhaps her sins were absolved in the restroom confessional. We're all naked, confused virgins again. Ironic isn't it, how that original set up led us here?

I sit down in a tiny room. Different doctor/nurse/whatever guy is inches away from me. he looks at me, and then down to his clipboard. With a pink highlighter he makes a few swipes. I wonder if the look I'm giving him is similar to the one he sees from expectant mothers waiting to hear the sex of their child. Ha… I suppose this could be worse.

Fuck, what's taking so long? I'm sitting right here! I know he sees me. Hello?

"I hope you consider the turn of events that led you here."

"Yes, sir," yeah, can we get on with it?

That's all he says; ALL HE SAYS. He hands me a piece of paper with pink highlighter over "clean".