Take a Number

“Dear Meryl,” I prayed with a cold face cloth draped over my forehead. “I know we are in the midst of a pandemic and my body temperature is currently set to high; but please let me wake up in the morning feeling totally, absolutely fine. Yours, in humility and good looks, Rugged.”

Six hours later, I awoke from the wrong kind of wet dream. My bed sheets and pillowcase soaked, for a hot second I thought my waterbed had burst until I remembered I did not have one. Climbing off the mattress like I was stepping outside a kiddie pool, every muscle in my body ached. When the thermometer flashed red again, it was clear that Meryl was not going to let me off that easy.

Taking one look at the couch in the living room, the dry, warm, inviting couch, I debated becoming horizontal again, however, I knew what needed to be done. Dragging myself to the closet, I dressed in a three-layer outfit customizable for chills, sweats, and high fashion. Strapping my designer Roots face mask around my ears, I armed myself with two bottles of sanitizer, 1000 mg of extra-strength Tylenol and the latest issue of Vanity Fair. Then locking the Fox Den behind me, I went to get tested.

Fortunately, the COVID clinic was only a twenty-minute walk from my apartment downtown. As I stepped into the back lane, the crisp morning air was a welcome relief to the warmth I felt inside. Walking past Nelson Park and St. Paul’s Hospital, the sun rose behind me while the seagulls squawked in front. Taking a left at the Starbucks on the corner of Davie Street, I looked up at the rainbow flags above and down at the cigarette butts below.

When I arrived at the medical centre, I opened the front door using the sleeve of my sweater, and took a number from the deli-style ticket counter attached to the wall. The time was 7:28 am, the office was still 32 minutes away from opening, and already there was a line-up forming. Taking a seat at one of the few empty chairs left in the waiting room, I plugged my earbuds into my phone and pressed play on Bonnie Raitt’s “Nick of Time.”

“Dragging myself to the closet, I dressed in a three-layer outfit customizable for chills, sweats, and high fashion.”

As the soothing eighties drum beat and keyboard kicked in, I took a deep breath and sunk into my seat as the first verse began. Taking a look around the room and everyone else in it, I thought back to the last time I found myself in a chair waiting to get tested. It looked a lot difference from this, I can tell you that much.

For starters there were no masks or empty spaces dividing each seat; just a collection of anxious gay men assembled for a single purpose. Sitting up straight and cross-legged as one of them, I listened to “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” and waited for an HIV test.

At 8:00 am, I opened my eyes and was astonished to see the line-up had tripled in size, stretching out the front door and right around the block. Returning to a harshly-lit reality, I unplugged from my phone and waited for my number to be called. When it was my turn, I followed the lead of every person before me and checked in.

“Do you have any symptoms?” asked the nurse, a gorgeous Indian woman in her early twenties. One must assume she didn’t sign up for this job coming out of school.

“A fever,” I replied, unsure whether it was shame or gravity pulling my gaze down to the floor.

“We should check your temperature then.”

Removing my mask and depressing my tongue, I waited for the machine to beep. Judging by the nurse’s trepid reaction as she took back the thermometer and lifted up her pen, I knew this couldn’t be good.

“You look really well…” she said as I put back on my mask.

“Thank you so much!” I smiled glancing down at my outfit.

Feeling the sweat on my brow take on a distinctive glow, her words became a glimmer of hope in an otherwise stressful situation.

“But you are not,” she followed-up, “not even close.”

“Gosh darnit.”

To be continued.