What a Shitty Place

Here's something I wrote for a class today.

What a Shitty Place by Maria Schmitt

I didn’t think that I would ever have to take a test I didn’t need to study for.
I walk into the free health clinic and sheepishly look around. The windows are tinted, which doesn’t matter because the blinds are almost completely closed anyways. The small waiting room has too many chairs for anyone to comfortably sit. Not that I am exactly looking forward to sitting on those chairs anyways. I think if I didn’t have a disease, I will now. The magazines are all from more than a year ago and look as if they could fall apart if you looked at them wrong. No one makes eye contact with anyone. No one speaks.
Behind the bulletproof glass at the counter, an impatient Hispanic woman types furiously. Her black hair has been teased and curled and sprayed so much that I couldn’t even imagine what would happen if she was near an open flame. I hope she’s not a smoker. Her tits are pushed up and squished into a tiny shirt that was probably made for a teenager, not a woman her size. I must have been staring at those tits for too long because she says, “Are you here for the scenery or do you need something?” Her eyes drill deeper into mine with every word.
“Oh, uh…sorry. I was, uh, looking at your nametag.” I have no idea if she’s even wearing one and I’m too afraid to look now. “I, uh, need to get some blood work done.”
“For what.” This isn’t a question. It is a statement, or a command. It terrifies me. I was hoping that this question wouldn’t arise until I was in a private room with a man who went to medical school for too many years and has been practicing for longer than I have been alive.
“I, uh…well…I think I may have, uh, con- contracted – I mean caught something.” “Sir, you are going to need to be a little more specific. There are many things we may need to look for. What sort of disease do you think you contracted.”
“AIDs.” I can’t believe I said it out loud. I haven’t even officially thought this yet. I mean, I know that Sherry had – has it, but there’s still some semblance of hope that she didn’t give it to me. Sure, we had unprotected sex and I have been feeling like I have the flu for weeks, but I haven’t seen her in months! But then Alex told me that he was diagnosed with it a few weeks ago. Alex. My roommate. I don’t even want to think about all the times we…never mind. I am so fucked.
“Fill these out, bring them back to me, wait over there for the doctor, and please refrain from any drug use while on the property.” She says this with so much boredom in her voice. Is this a common occurrence here? I probably shouldn’t go to the bathroom.
I sit in the waiting room, balancing on the edge of the chair and touching nothing. After a half hour, the receptionist opens a door and calls my name. I was half expecting her to announce to the world why I was here. Everyone looks at me. I feel like they all know. I feel like they’re about to start talking to me as soon as I turn the corner.
She takes me down a drab hallway with nothing to look at. Every door I pass is closed. The reality of this situation is starting to hit me and I’m getting depressed.
The receptionist/nurse has taken me into what looks like a bathroom without a toilet. Without saying a word she puts a tourniquet on my arm, wipes the inside of my elbow with alcohol, and sticks me with a needle. I don’t watch. I stare at the sink. Then, as silently as she started, she’s done. I feel like I should say something because I think she’s about to leave and I have no idea what is going on, but she speaks before I have the chance.
“You will hear from one of our doctors in three to five days.”
“Three to five days?” I am panicking.
“Yes, sir, that’s how long the test takes. And when you come back, don’t stare at my tits.”