Tuesday, September 19th started like any other day. I went to work, walked cross town, drank my coffee and started work. I did, however, have two things to do: 1. go to the doctor for the results of my STD/HIV test, and 2. replace my broken cell phone.
I hadn't been tested in years and, despite the fact even when I was single (which I hadn't been in about a year at the time), I was no Dave Juan Demarco. I was a little nervous. If you've ever been tested, you know what I mean. But when you make whoppee with someone new, you never know for sure.
I had actually been tested two weeks ago, but you can't get the results for, well, two weeks. I had kind of forgotten about the whole thing, but as I began my walk to the doctor's office, I started to wonder just a little. It's fine....I'm almost positive....I hope.....What if?....Oh whatever, it's fine. By the time I arrived at the MD's office--Dr. Fuks, by the way--I was officially concerned. (I had actually picked this doctor because of his name. I thought it was funny to say, "I'm going to see my doctor, Dr. Fuks." Is there a worse reason to pick a doctor?)
I entered the office, and the nice lady at the desk directed me to the couch to wait. Over the next 10 minutes, I went from concerned, to more concerned, to kind of concerned, to definitely worried. I half flipped through magazines, but my thoughts were firmly elsewhere. One article in some entertainment magazine had an article about Iggy Pop and an accompanying picture. I sort of fixated on this for a while, thinking how bizarre Mr. Pop looked.
"Mr. Testa", the nurse called. I dropped Iggy and the magazine like they were hot and quickly walked to my doctor's personal study, which was a cheap desk and some chairs. Dr. Fuks was a Russian. He had a thick accent and very little tact. Two weeks before, he told me that if I didn't lose weight I wouldn't be able to come back. "Why?", I asked. In a thick Russian accent--think Ivan Drago--he replied, "Because you won't fit in the door." Ouch.
So, I walk in and Fuks is chillin' like a motherfucker. Not a care in the world. I sat down and looked and him. He looked at me, but I couldn't do anything but look at him. A moment passed. "How are you doing?" he asked, in his Drago-voice. How was I doing? You know better than I do, motherfucker! I thought to myself for the split second I blurted out, "I don't know, how am I doing?" in a barely contained shout.
Drago laughed, seeming a bit amused. "Ha, Ha, Ha. Your tests have come back...negative."
Whew, life was good. We made small talk for a minute, I thanked him and walked out the door and into the warm early-fall day.
I may be fat but I didn't have AIDS.
Things could be worse.
With much lighter steps than I had walked in to the doctor, off, I went to get my new phone.