Okay, so I go to the hospital far more than the average ‘healthy person’. I attribute it to this pesky ‘crippling fear of death’ I’ve been dealing with for the last decade.
While I normally rack up unnecessary bills on my UnitedHealthcare Oxford card, last week’s visit was worth it’s weight in T-cells.
It all started when I dropped a bottle of shampoo on my toe whilst showering at my chum Adam’s apartment. Adam has a penchant for luxury, so there was no surprise that a bottle of Kiehl’s Rice and Wheat Volumizing Lather was responsible for the large amount of blood now clouding the water beneath my feet.
After an hour or so of unsuccessful attempts to suture the wound, Adam and I decided it was high time for me to hobble into a cab. Shortly after, I arrived at the St. Luke’s Emergency Room, where I delivered quite possibly the lamest triage evaluation ever:
Me: Evan Krumholz
Me: umm..Shampoo accident…fell on my toe…cut me deep.
Adam: It was a Kiehl’s to be precise.
Nurse: *BLANK STARE*
I think the only reason for hospitalization gayer than that would have involved a glass tube and several hamsters. Regardless, the events that proceeded transformed my night from an inconvenient excursion to an unbearably mammoth mindfuck.
Nurse: HIV Test?
Nurse: Hospital policy. You want one? It’s free.
I don’t know if it was the blood loss or the mischievous grin creeping across Adam’s face, but for some reason I submitted. Enter the Dragon.
My thoughts were akin to those of the hesitant rollercoaster passenger as the cart creeps up the track before that big drop. As I lay in the hospital bed, I grew deaf to the doctor’s instructions regarding the treatment for my sliced toe. Something about changing the bandage frequently. All I could think about were the impending results of my HIV mouth swab. I had twenty minutes until my fate was sealed.
:19 WHAT THE HAVE I DONE?
To quote Chris Rock, waiting to hear the verdict was like watching “Scrooge and the Ghost of Pussy Past”
“Remember me? Aruba 05? I said condoms and Christmas Break don’t mix? MWA-HA-HA-HA”
I took out my phone and began to run an inventory of every broken prophylactic and drunken Durex deferment (see my Excel sexsheet). I recounted every occurrence of finishing, only to see a condom half-sucked up a girl’s snatch (I know that last one has happened to you, loyal readers. She looks at you, you look at her…then down at the bit of latex dangling from her orifice. Shit’s mystifying, but I digress).
From that point on, every paper-clutching orderly and stone faced-intern that walked by embodied the Angel of Death. My heart would stop and my muscles would tense as they seemed to head my way. Yet none of them were the real deal. Adam and I hypothesized how the hospital breaks the imagined bad news.
Adam: Maybe they bring out Phil Collins to sing the results to you.
Me: I see a sad clown walking over and handing you a note and a balloon.
:12 Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped a scrubs-clad resident walking by; probably going to treat someone who wasn’t a complete asshole.
Me: Sorry to bother you, but what if you test positive for the HIV screener? What happens then?
Zach Braff: Well, then the lab runs a blood test to make sure the mouth swab test was accurate.
Almost instantly, a zaftig Jamican nurse began to wheel over a large multi-tubed machine. I gasped loudly, and many of the surrounding staff turned their heads.
Jamaican Nurse: What?...... Oh, you thought this was for YOU? Oh, child! HAHAHAHA
I let out a sigh of relief.
Jamicain Nurse: HAHAHAHAHA!!..YOU THOUGHT…WITH THE AIDS..HEHEHHEHE!!..OH LORD.
She proceeded to veer the machine to the right and head down the hall.
:07 WHAT KIND OF SICK FUCK WORKS AT THIS PLACE??
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my attending physician briskly walked over.
MD: It’s negative. Anywa—
Me: WHOO-HOO!!!!!! FUCK YEAH!!! HERE WE GO YANKEES, HERE WE GO, UH-UH!
MD: Jesus, it shouldn’t be that suspenseful! What kind of life do you lead?! I mean—
I couldn’t hear her. I hopped off the bed with my companion Adam by my side. I was given a clean slate. And by clean slate I mean a penis not ridden with Human Immunodeficiency Syndrome. I seemed to float from the emergency room into the taxi. So many phone calls I didn’t have to make! So many whores I need not hunt down! Huzzah! And let there never be a chance of such an incident again! (Until next spring break)
Cab Driver: Hello my friend.
Me: Murray Hill, my good man. And step on it. We’re goin’ out tonight, cause I don’t have HIV!
Cab Driver: Very good my friend, very good.
Very good, Indeed.