Story 229: The [Disease] Carrier

            “Aw, man!” the Administrative Assistant whined.

            “What?” his neighboring Admin. asked.

            In a low voice he said, “They want me to work at those Corporate events next week and I thought I had timed my vacation to miss them but I requested off the wrong week!  And now I’m stuck because I can only use the funeral excuse for one day and I need five!  And having to work these things is always so draining; my life is ruined, absolutely ruined!”  He dramatically banged his head on his folded hands resting on the desk, and sighed.

            Looking around her first, the neighboring Admin. leaned in and spoke in a low voice: “Not necessarily.”

            Without looking up: “Hm?”

            “I know someone who can help you, if you’re willing to put up with mild-to-major discomfort and the slight possibility of death.”

            His head popped up: “I’m willing.”

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

In a dirty, seldom-travelled hallway of the building, the Admin. checked the information on the card he had been given and finally located the door labelled “Boiler Room.”  He knocked and waited a full minute before a disheveled employee answered the door.

“It’s open; you could’ve just come in,” Disheveled said.

“Sorry,” the Admin. replied.  “I didn’t know the protocol; you know, I’ve worked here for eight years and never been down here until now, heh-heh-heh.”

“[Grunt]”

“So!  I was referred here by a colleague to meet with ‘The Carrier,’” he overdid the air quotes, “who I was told could ‘assist’ with a certain ‘problem’ that I ‘have’ – ”

“All right, all right, get in.”  Disheveled opened the door wider and led the Admin. to a chair in front of a desk in an expectedly filthy office.  The former rummaged through a drawer, gave the latter a clipboard and pen, said “Fill it out,” and left.

The Admin., all alone with the creepy-crawlies in the shadows, felt that he would soon be murdered; knowing that the improbability of that triumphs over the possibility, he proceeded to answer the health questions on the 10 double-sided pages attached to the clipboard.  When he finished, he had no idea how to convey that to the person who seemed in charge of this joint.  He was about to make a run for it when Disheveled re-entered the room, grabbed the clipboard out of the Admin.’s hands, and exited, slamming the door behind him.

One of those old-fashioned waiting periods commenced for the Admin., in that he had nothing to do but wait since he had accidentally left his phone on his desk, which he realized also would have come in handy if he needed rescuing, but oh well.  He spent the next who-knows-how-long (since he also never wore watches anymore) counting the floor and ceiling tiles several times over and anticipating each time the furnace would roar to life when he heard someone approach the door.  He braced himself to face Disheveled’s Evil Twin, or, perhaps, Disheveled’s Monstrous Parent.

The door opened and a pleasant, well-dressed woman entered, carrying the clipboard.

“Hello!”  She shook the Admin.’s hand and sat in the chair across from him.  “Sorry for making you come all the way down here and wait – not the most sanitary of conditions, if you know what I mean, but can’t be helped.”  She flipped through the pages he had completed.

He stared at her.  “You’re The Carrier.”

She looked up at him and smiled.  “Oh, that – my title’s actually Supervisor, but my clients tacked that other one on me over the years.  Whatcha gonna do?”  She chuckled, then read from one of the pages: “So, according to this, you’re pretty healthy.”

“Unfortunately, yes.  No one’s going to believe I’m sick for five days without any warning unless it’s something really good.  I was thinking the flu – everyone’s got that this year, right?”

She shook her head.  “No, that’s too much of a wildcard – people die from it, you know, and some of them were pretty healthy themselves.”

“I’ve had it before; I can handle it.”

“Mm-hm, and which strain was it?”

“…There’s more than one?”

She shook her head again.  “Nope, won’t do it; it’ll have to be something else.”

“But I deliberately didn’t get the flu shot this year so I could get some sick days!”

“And that was a stupid reason not to get the shot, but it’s not too late; you should get vaccinated ASAP.  Let’s see,” she flipped through a few pages while he slumped in his seat, “you wrote here that you had chicken pox when you were a kid: I can reactivate that to give you a nice case of the shingles that’ll lay you up for at least a week, if you want.”

“Wait a minute, I thought I can’t get the shingles because I had the chicken pox!”

“Ha!  The virus never left – you might get shingles, you might not, there’s no way to tell.  You’re just a ticking time bomb waiting for the right circumstances to break out in agony.”

He turned green.  “Maybe not that one, then.”

“Leave be as you say.”  She turned to another page.  “What about pertussis?”
            “Percussion?”
            “Whopping cough.  This says you missed the vaccination when you were a baby.”

“Hmm…”  He thought on this, then shook his head.  “Nah, I don’t want to spend the whole time coughing my lungs out, that’ll be exhausting.  Isn’t there one you have that’ll just let me, I dunno, sleep the whole time?  Yeah, how about sleeping sickness?”

“You don’t want that one.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got it.”  She set the clipboard definitively onto the desk.  “Gastroenteritis with a side-helping of appendicitis.  You’ll be puking for a few days, but if I time it right you’ll be out for at least a week with a nice hospital admission for corroboration.”

“But I don’t want a hospital admission!”  He stood to emphasize his point.  “I just want to call out sick so I don’t have to cover a work event!  Now you’re going to have them cut me open and take my appendix?!  What if I need it?!”

“You’re the one who came here for my help.”  She remained in the chair and folded her arms.

“Yeah, but not to have my organs stolen!  Plus it'll leave a scar!  And I don’t want to be puking!”

“Then the best I can offer is common cold that peaks for four days max.”

He heaved a mighty breath, sat back down in the chair, and grumbled: “I guess if that’s the best you can do….”

She held out new forms and the pen: “Sign these so you can’t sue me later.”  He did so; she then held out another piece of paper and a credit card scanner.  “Now swipe your card here.”

“It’s that much?!”

“This is a very specialized service I offer; it takes a lot of effort to properly titrate all the strains of disease I carry.”

“All right, mumble-mumble.”  He slowly opened his wallet and swiped his card.

In the meantime, she put on a pair of gloves, rolled up his left sleeve, swabbed his inner elbow with a cotton pad, selected a syringe from the multiple rows that lined the inside of her coat, and injected him with it.  “There.  You should be good and sick by 7:30 tonight at the latest.”

“Thanks.”  He rolled down his sleeve and stood to leave as she cleaned up her mini-lab.  “You know, with all that stuff going on in your blood, you probably have the cure for cancer floating around in there and don’t even know it.”

“I doubt it – with all that stuff going on in my blood, I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long.  Might as well make some money off of it.”