Scenes from a County Health Department

Lucas Thornton

Scene I: Five-Star Review

This room is designed to torture me. On the wall, there is a chart that rates every type of contraception on a scale of one to five stars. The coveted five stars of infallible infertility belongs to vasectomies and tube-tying. Two stars, my level, is home to condoms. Admittedly, it’s a step above the one-star pull-out method, but according to this chart, fifteen out of one-hundred women still become pregnant with condoms. On top of possibly having chlamydia, I might be a father. I wonder if chlamydia can transfer from mother to child. If so, poor kid.

Scene II: The Test

The waiting is the worst part. The test isn’t even that bad. It only hurts for a moment. The doctor, a middle-aged woman, has obviously seen this before, since she was speedy in shoving a dry Q-tip down my urethra. Somehow my shirt, which I was holding up, found its way into my mouth and between my teeth. I felt a prickling sensation. My eyes wobbled between the gloved hands of the doctor grabbing my penis and the embarrassed nurse holding a clipboard over her mouth as she observed the process.

Scene III: Easy Reading

You know, I didn’t think I had HIV prior to coming here, but after reading a few pamphlets on it, I think I may be infected. The writers of these pamphlets—they’re very sure of themselves. Sex without a condom, or a “rubber” as the pamphlet parenthesizes, must lead to disease. A lingering cough or a cold you can’t shake are some of the earliest signs of HIV. Get Tested Now! Had I made a mistake by declining the doctor’s suggestion that I get an HIV test? It was free like everything else. All it required was a simple blood test, much easier than a urethral swab. According to the doctor, I would know my fate in forty minutes flat.

Scene IV: Anxiousness

I walk the floor. I pace from one end of the room to the other. I live in a box. My chest is being overtaken by butterflies and a tight feeling of imminent explosion. Chlamydia or no chlamydia, I will combust when the doctor walks in to announce my fate.

Scene V: Silent Assassin

“I’m not diseased,” I say to myself over and over again. “But that’s the rub of chlamydia,” I think, “most males don’t experience any symptoms. Something unseen could’ve been nibbling away at me for weeks.”

Scene VI: The Wrath of God

My old Sunday School teacher called AIDS a righteous plague sent down by God. Chlamydia can’t be too different. Of course, the pain of its yoke isn’t as severe as AIDS, but it still captures the same aspect of retribution: I sinned and disease will punish me. I must pray.

Scene VII: Our Father

“Dear Lord, I’m gonna be honest. I have sinned and I need forgiveness. Yes, spiritual forgiveness would be nice, but right now in this room, I need physical forgiveness. I need Your healing hand to reach out and wipe away any sickness I may have gotten from my last immoral encounter. If I am not sick, then good. You work in mysterious ways after all. Thank You. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

Scene VIII: Confession

I am a sick man . . . I am a selfish man. I only pray when I’m in trouble. I do not give thanks unto God; I just beseech Him. I deserve nothing from Him. He should let me suffer. Instead of praying, I will distract myself with Temple Run.

Scene IX: The Big Reveal

“So, you tested positive.”

Silence

“I’ve prescribed you some azithromycin. You’re going to need to take that for about four days.”

Silence

“Take the pills after meals. You’ll want some food in your stomach when you take these. This is strong stuff.”

Silence

“Now, I’m going to give you some condoms. Use them next time. Do you know how to use them?”

I did not explode. I am still here.

Scene X: Aftermath

Turns out, there is some pain afterwards. After the test, I mean. I’m standing over the toilet bowl. I have my pants unbuckled. My head is craned toward the ceiling. Everything goes well until a burning sensation scorches my penis. I look down immediately. No blood, just a smoldering pain within me. I guess this is the consequence of having a dry Q-tip penetrate your urethra. I live in fear of my next pee.

Finale: A Certain Body Part in a Certain Area Due South of My Nose

There’s this Russian short story I like. It’s by a guy named Gogol, and it’s about a nose. I think it’s supposed to be some sort of social satire, but I don’t really care for that part. I just like it for its absurdity. A man loses his nose, finds his nose walking around, talks to his nose, and the nose returns to its rightful place. You don’t need to know anything about this story, except for the fact that it exists and I’ve been thinking about it lately. I’m thinking about it because I like the idea that the story implies: a human body part can have a separate life from its owner. This is a comforting idea. It relieves you of responsibility for actions supposedly performed by yourself. “My nose did it, it wasn’t me!” Yeah, unfortunately this is fiction, absurdity.

-Lucas Thornton is a sophomore from Teachey, NC, pursuing a major in English.-