Shelby (11 page)

Suzanne: Although somewhat reserved, she showed an extraordinary passion for her creative endeavours. Dressed all in black save a Guatemalan vest of oranges and reds, she said in her deliberate way, and I quote:

“Clay has moved me since the first time I heard that, ‘The Lord God formed man from the clay of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.' My
God
, what an image. And I, in my humble—humble from the greek
humus
, meaning earthy—way, am doing the same. The breath of life coming, of course, from those who are moved by
my
creations …”

Watching her fully-ringed hands express such a testimony, my innards softened to the consistency of corned beef jelly. I was enthralled to hear a women quote scripture. Sensuality had returned to my senses. Was sex a sin? Who cares. Granted, there was no indication from Suzanne that we would soon tumble. Nonetheless, her grounded presence assured me of one thing: There was life after Lucy.

Two days later, the first of July, I awoke with what appeared to be the flu; sore joints, runny nose, headache and nausea. My anxieties, however, had a different diagnosis. Twenty-two days had passed since I last saw Lucy and I was now more terrified than ever that
her virus
had booked a room in my bodily fluids. A phone call interrupted me in mid groan.

“Yes?”

“Shelby?”

“Yes?”

“You all right?”

I leapt up. “Oh, hi, Dad. Yes, I'm fine—mildly clammy. How are you doing?”

“Good and bad. Here's the bad: Derek and Kristine are talking about breaking up.”

“They are?”

“Listen, I've got a couple of letters here from the university adressed to you. We could really use some good news.”

“Kristine and Derek are breaking up?”

“Ah damn, I can't talk about that anymore! When are they going to learn marriage ain't some summer vacation? More important, your marks are here.”

Out oozed a nervous sweat.

“Did you hear me, son?”

“Um … yes.”

“So, should I open them.”

“I … I'd rather you sent them to me.”

“What?”

“It's a very personal thing—being judged by peers.”

“Come on, don't keep us waiting. Oh, speakin' o' waitin', Larry wants to know if you're coming home. If not he wants to fill your position.”

“
Position
? Dad, standing in a four-foot trough shovelling sludge is not a position. Tell him to hire a retarded orangutan.”

“
Ha
! That's funny. Anyway, when are you coming home?”

“Uh … I'm not sure … I'm doing a lot of research.”

“Oh great,” he said, “that'll cheer up your mother. Let's see. Anything else you want to add? Drug addiction, maybe?”

“
What
?”

“Come on, Dr. Lewis,” he said, “let us at least open the letter.”

“Dad, I—”

“What's the problem? You fail everything?”

“No!”

“You figure your old man can't read?”

“Of course not.”

“I can read,” he said.

“I know.”

“Don't tell me you dropped out!”

And so rose the opportunity to confess my parachuting from Academia Airlines. But, alas, nary a syllable on that subject plunged from my tongue.

“Dad, please …”

“Ah … okay,”
he said, “but let us know, eh?”

There was a pause of relief. “I will. Thank you …”

After hanging up, a bout with post-call melancholy and a yearn for friendship found me dialing Lucy's number. She answered (evidently having returned from her tour) and I hung up immediately. The question, however, of how feelings generated via verbal intimacy and intercourse could be obliterated as though shot with a bazooka still persisted. I had been rejected without consultation.

From bedside over the next five days or so, I enquired through the classified adds for jobs as a waiter, a construction worker, a messenger boy, an inventory clerk and a water filter salesman. None of them offered either medical or pension benefits. I also contacted a couple who were seeking a nanny for their three-and-a-half-year old son. Being male, I didn't get an interview. The process was exhausting—and carrying around the tail end of the flu didn't help. Reality had returned; I was more indispensable than ever to the process of life. Love was a bust. Perhaps only social activism remained. Speaking of which, over another coffee rendezvous with Suzanne I confessed the symptoms of my lingering illness and how scared I was about getting a checkup.

“I would be, too,” she said, “the doctor will probably give you two seconds of time and then prescribe a garbage can full of antibiotics.”

“I'm not afraid of that.”

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“
Shelby
, come on. Antibiotics wipe out the immune system long term.”

I chuckled. “You make it sound like radiation treatment.”

“You said it, not me.”

“You're serious?”

“You bet I am.”

“Penicillin has saved
millions
of lives.”

“Some would say the same for chemotherapy,” she said, “but it's no cure for cancer.”

“But it's an effective treatment.”

“That's the whole problem right there, Shelby:
treatment
. We don't seem to care about prevention. Cancer is about as internal a disease as getting hit by a car.”

“My Grandfather had cancer,” I said.

“And chemotherapy?”

“I think so.”

“And where's he now?”

“Dead.”

“There you go. Did he smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Meat with every meal?”

I shrugged. “My father's a butcher.”

“And I bet
he's
on high blood pressure medication, too, right?”

“I don't know.”

“Useless. Did you know over half the patients in St. Paul's hospital are there for drinking or smoking related diseases?”

“Where did you learn all this?”

Suzanne smiled. “It's kind of a hobby. Plus both my parents are doctors.”

“Wow … Did you know I applied for medical school?”

“I think you mentioned it.”

“Last year,” I said. “Then I dropped out.”

“Good for you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. The health system's dying. I'll bet it falls apart inside of ten years.”

“
What
?”

“It has to. We just don't have the guts to monitor people's health habits—smoking, drinking, obesity—and billing by the cigarette or the pound or whatever. Even my
parents
say to do that would be a violation of human rights. I say political correctness is killing us and that when the system collapses and we end up like the U.S. of A. where only the rich get care,
then
we've got violation.”

“I'm stunned.”

“It's all about supply and demand, Shelby.”

“Even medicine?” I asked, disheartened.

“Sure. Health and capitalism. N-A-F-T-A. Big business. We sanction the promotion of useless drugs, bad food, cigarettes. It's amoral. Same goes for medical research: I mean how many animals will die before we admit that the physiology of a rat is irrelevant to our own?”

“Millions?”

“Trillions.”

“I had no idea how much you knew.”

“Hey, I've been in the biz all my life.”

“Why does this happen?”

“I'll tell you why, Shelby. Because to a businessman, a dollar saved will never be the same as a dollar earned.”

“So you don't think I should see a physician?”

“Are you kidding? You look terrible.”

Fittingly, it was rainy and gray when I slipped into the Venereal Disease Clinic the following morning. I gave the woman at the front desk my real name and then instantly regretted doing so. She didn't ask for identification. I could have said anything. Now I was forever enshrined as one of
those
who consent to sex with people they barely know—a fact that, if leaked, could get me shot should a military and/or moral majority fundamentalist government ever rise to power.

While waiting for my name to be called I browsed through a few pamphlets.
CHLAMYDIA: DO YOU KNOW THE FACTS?
I obviously didn't—I'd never even heard of it. The pamphlet said it was rampant among college students and virtually undetectable in males—no discharge, no irritation—but left untreated could cause sterility and pelvic inflammatory disease.

My name was called out loud enough to be heard stateside. I shuffled into the examination room feeling like I should have been wearing a trench coat and rubber boots with nothing underneath. The room was white and empty. I hung my jacket on the coat rack and sat down. My underarms were sticky. The door opened and I was stunned by the woman who walked in. She had olive smooth skin straight off a Mediterranean Isle, straight teeth, facial hair and a starched white lab coat that, like everything else, aroused me. Cursed addiction!

“Hello,” she said, but I knew what she was thinking—what
everybody
thinks when a patient arrives at a venereal disease clinic. I searched my brain for a tactful way to tell her, “It's not what you think.”

“It's not what you think,” I said.

She smiled. “It rarely is. What can I do for you?”

“I … I'd like to be tested for venereal disease, please.”

“This is the place to be. What are your symptoms?”

“Um … anxiety, headaches, fatigue …”

“Any genital irritation?”

“No.”

“Discomfort when you urinate?”

“No.”

“Have you been with someone who has informed you of having a sexually transmitted disease?”

“No.”

She paused, her mouth flexed as though about to speak. “Why are you here?”

“Well … it's just … I thought … as a citizen, it's something I feel everyone … should be here.”

She put the pad down. “You're sweating an awful lot,” she said gently. “Are you all right?”

“Yes … good … somewhat anxious … I understand chlamydia can be difficult to detect.”

“Have you been involved with someone who has had the disease?”

“Who can know?”

“So you've had multiple partners?”

“
No
. But I've had sexual intercourse without the use of a prophylactic. We used one at first
and
since but in the heat of a brief moment, my inner reproductive drive outwilled my internal yearn to survive and we didn't … and the problem is I don't know her sexual history. I think she's quite … well, let me put it this way. She's in her thirties and she dances nude.”

The woman cleared her throat. “It doesn't sound like you have much to worry about. But just to be sure, we'll do a swab. Take down your pants, please.” My penis slipped into my groin like a sinking ship on a vertical sea. Opening a drawer on the examination bed, the woman pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapped them twice and slipped them on. I couldn't move, paralysed at the thought of exposing my genitals to a stranger. I'd done that with Lucy and the results were obvious. I hedged my way towards her.

“I must confess,” I said, “I'm mildly afraid of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.” She looked up as though wanting me to continue. “I've been run down lately. Actually, I feel relatively healthy today but I've had what felt like the flu for about six, maybe seven, days.”

“Are you at risk?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you practice high risk behaviour … anal intercourse, needle sharing—are you bisexual?”

“Bisexual? No. Never. I'm hardly heterosexual … none of the above. I just … high
risk
? Good Lord. Fifteen
million
people have the disease! We didn't use a condom! What does it take to be high risk?”

“Sir,” she said, “I'm going to ask you to sit down.”

“Oh … sorry.” I sat down.

“So … How long ago did you have sex with this person?”

“A month?”

“Hm.”

“I'm not promiscuous. I
loved
that woman.”

“Did you know there's a three to six month incubation period for antibodies to show up in testing for the AIDS virus?”

I slumped. “So you think there's a chance?”

“I think you're fine, sir, but we can take a test to ease your mind. Then, if you so choose, you can get tested again in a few months.”

“Thank you,” I said, “very much.”

She smiled. “Now, stand up and take your pants down, please.” She turned away and picked up a urethral swab off the table. My pelvis took a step back. I undid my pants and let them drop. She turned around and looked at me—and then at my mid-section. “And your underwear,” she said.

“Oh, of course,” I said. Not knowing procedure, I had hoped she wouldn't mind if I just let my penis peek through as though not really belonging to me. I lowered my boxer shorts, dismayed to find my penis resembling a withered mushroom. The woman readjusted one of her gloves and I had a flash of her returning home after work and relaying in Italian to a massive extended family the story about the man with no genitalia who came in for a V.D. test.

With the thumb and index finger of her left hand she held my penis. With the other hand she held a urethral swab dart-like and cocked. “This is going to sting,” she said.

In it went. I grunted, feeling as if my urethra had been pierced by the fat end of a pool cue.

She pulled it out. “We'll take a culture of that and then let you know.” She turned and put the swab in a test-tube and then turned back to me. “Now we'll take a blood test—you can pull your pants back up at any time …”

“Sorry.”

The blood test was less traumatic. In fact, by its completion we were deep into a non-venereal disease conversation and I, young fool, felt urged to ask her out on a date. Unfortunately, blurting, “It's queer this game of love,” was as close as I got. She responded with, “Call next week for the results,” and offered a smile (the closed mouth kind) before leaving.