Story 325: It’s Not the Flu, It’s Just Food Poisoning

            (In an office)

           Coworker 1: (To Coworker 2 at an adjoining desk) It’s gotten so bad, I had to keep my kid home from school the other day when he got all phlegmy – turns out it was just allergies from our most recent bout of Fake Summer, but still, couldn’t take the chance, you know?  An entire class of parents would’ve been after my head if my kid’d infected their spawn.

            Coworker 2: And, also, you wouldn’t want to be responsible for getting other people sick.

            Coworker 1: Oh yeah, sure.

            (Coworker 3 enters with an ashen face, stringy hair, and rumpled clothing)

            Coworker 3: (From the depths) Morning.

           Coworker 1: (Stands and points at Coworker 3) No!  No!  You’re sick!  Get out!  Go home!  Go anywhere but here!   It’s probably already too late, argh!  I hate you.  (Grabs a disinfectant bottle and sprays everywhere)

            Coworker 3: (Drops briefcase and coat onto the floor and drops self onto the chair at the desk) Relax, I’m not sick.  (Holds stomach as it grumbles)

           Coworker 2: Sure doing a good impression of someone who is.  (Scooches chair slightly away)

            Coworker 3: I mean, I’m not sick with anything contagious.  I ate some bad veggies last night and my body went on automatic purge mode, so I didn’t catch anything; it’s entirely self-inflicted.  (Unwraps five pieces of ginger candy and pops them into mouth)

           Coworker 1: (Starts putting on a hazmat suit) Ha!  Bet you’re making that up – what’re your symptoms?

            Coworker 3: Please don’t make me relive my night of torture.

            Coworker 1: Tough – we need to determine whether you’re fit to be in our presence, breathing into our air, so spill!

           Coworker 3: (Grabs a mini-garbage can that is under the desk and holds it at the ready) Bad choice of words.

            Coworker 2: (Sympathetically) So, what happened?

            Coworker 3: Well, it all started when I went to the supermarket the other day –

            Coworker 1: Skip the prologue; what happened at the main event?!

           Coworker 3: (Suppresses a burp) Well, a few hours after dinner last night, I had a noisy and active date with the bathroom for quite some time, and apparently it was so good I got a call-back around 4:00 this morning.

            Coworker 2: Aww, poor thing.  (Rubs Coworker 3’s upper arm)

         Coworker 1: (Smacks Coworker 2’s hand with a ruler; muffled by the hazmat helmet) No touching Patient Zero!  (To Coworker 3) I’m still not convinced; the timing could just be a coincidence.

           Coworker 3: I was feeling fine all day until after dinner, and looking back now the vegetables did seem a bit suspect, so food poisoning’s the only logical conclusion.

            Coworker 1: That’s fallacious reasoning – correlation does not equal causation!

            Coworker 3: Huh?

          Coworker 1: Just because you got sick after dinner does not definitively prove that dinner made you sick!  Flu has an incubation period of up to four days, so you could’ve been walking around here with it this whole week!

            Coworker 3: (Holds grumbling stomach) I highly doubt it.

            Coworker 1: You’ve got all the classic symptoms!  Are you a doctor now, hm?!

            Coworker 3: No, are you?!

            Coworker 1: I vote we call Security and have you forcibly removed to home quarantine!

           Coworker 3: (Stands, then sways a bit and leans onto the desk) You’ll do no such thing!  I got the flu shot, this is just bad food that I’m already starting to recover from violently rejecting, so you’ve got nothing!  (Holds loudly grumbling stomach, then freezes)

           Coworker 1: (Also stands) “Starting to recover,” you say?  Starting to infect the rest of us, more like!  You know how many millions of people have gotten the flu this year?!  I refuse to join their ranks, do you hear me?!

           Coworker 2: (Also stands; to Coworker 3) Maybe you should go home, though – from a purely objective standpoint, you look terrible.

            Coworker 3: Yes, I will go home –

            Coworker 1: Aha!

           Coworker 3: Not because I have the flu, but because, like a child, I need to take care of my person, right now.  And any embarrassment I should be feeling is entirely supplanted by absolute irritation at this major inconvenience, and at you!  (Points at Coworker 1) So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking my lunch hour now.  (Stiffly backs out the door)

            Coworker 1: (Takes off the hazmat suit and sprays disinfectant everywhere again) Well, that’s taken care of splendidly.

            Coworker 2: (Sits) What do you mean?  I don’t think that was the flu.

           Coworker 1: (Also sits) Well, with all those people sick and even dying from it each year, I’m certainly not fooling around with something that may only turn out to be a mimic.

          (Several hours later; Coworker 3 is back and sitting at a desk off to the side, surrounded by a furniture barricade)

          Supervisor: (Enters in a rush) Bad news, folks: turns out a member of our office family unknowingly came in with the flu two days ago, so we probably’re all infected with it now.  Did you get the vaccine this year?

            Coworker 1: (Frozen) Yes.

            Coworker 2: I can’t get it anymore – I got Guillain-Barré Syndrome that one time.

            Supervisor: Oh.  Well, it’s a roll of the dice either way – just an FYI you all might get sick in the next day or so.

            Coworker 2: Oh dear heavens.

          Supervisor: So, if everybody could go ahead and submit their weekly reports by the end of today, that’d be lovely!  (Gives two thumbs up) Thanks-bye.  (Leaves)

          Coworker 1: So that’s it?!  We’ve been infected this whole time and didn’t even realize it’d happened?!

            Coworker 3: (Glares at Coworker 1 over the top of a chair pile) Does this mean I get credit for time served then?

            Coworker 1: (Sinks head down onto the desk) Oh ,who cares what you even really have, now we’re all going to be beaten up by our digestive systems within the next few days, plus who-knows-what-else, and I wash my hands and don’t touch doorknobs all the time, it’s not fair!  (Softly bangs fist on the desk and cries)

            Coworker 3: (Picks up mini-garbage can again as stomach grumbles) I really hope I don’t get the flu on top of this – I have nothing left to give.

Story 251: Repair Work Creates More Problems

            (Tenant, wearing pajamas and a robe, opens the front door to Contractor)

            Contractor: Hi there, the Landlord sent me over – you got a leak from the upstairs apartment that’s destroyed your bathroom ceiling?

           Tenant: (Sniffles) Yeah, thanks, come on in.  (Coughs very productively as they head over there) Sorry, I came home from work with the flu, and when I came in here to drown my head in the sink, I saw this.  (Flips on the bathroom light and points to the ceiling, which is sagging almost completely off the beams and has transformed to an unnatural shade of black)

            Contractor: Whoa.

            Tenant: (Sneezes) Yeah.  You think it’s mold?

            Contractor: I think it’s everything, but I can’t tell how much or how far it’s spread until I’ve done exploratory surgery on it.  Did they stop the leak upstairs?

            Tenant: Think so – they said they fixed it and I don’t hear water running 24/7 anymore, so that part should be all right.  You need anything from me right now to check it out?

            Contractor: Nope.  (Whips out a ladder and a tool chest) All set for the demolition; best not to come in here for the next half hour at least.

            Tenant: Good; I’m gonna go pass out in my room for a bit.

            Contractor: Sure thing, but it’ll get real noisy in here in a minute.

            Tenant: I’ll be dead to the world in 30 seconds.

            (Fifteen minutes later)

            Contractor: (Knocking on the bedroom door) Yoo-hoo!  Still alive in there?

            Tenant: (Slowly opens the door, looking even worse than before) Yup?

            Contractor: Hi there, can I show you something?

            Tenant: If it’s the bill, send it upstairs; I’m not paying a dime.

            Contractor: Ahahahahahaha – no, it’s something… unusual.

            Tenant: Don’t tell me there’s a family of cats or rats or bats up there?

            Contractor: Not exactly.

            (They climb the ladder and stick their heads through the gaping hole in the ceiling; Contractor shines a flashlight onto a spot in the corner)

            Tenant: (Squints) Those look like the Crown Jewels.

            Contractor: Yeppers.

          Tenant: Am I hallucinating?  I think that’s one of the side effects listed on the meds I was given.

            Contractor: Well I’m not taking them and I, too, see expensive-looking items there.  You don’t happen to remember stashing any loot up here, do you?

            Tenant: If I had stuff like that, I wouldn’t be living here.

           (The Upstairs Tenant is called to see the loot.  After descending the ladder, all three stare at the now-exposed ceiling)

           Upstairs Tenant: I think it’s obvious: since they were left under my floor, that clearly means they belong to me.

           Tenant: (Chokes for a few moments) Nah-uh!  They’re in my ceiling, so that clearly means they belong to me!  Not to mention your leak destroyed my ceiling in the first place, ergo they’re mine twice over!

            Upstairs Tenant: Actually, since it was my leak as you remind me every day, you would never have found these things if it wasn’t for me, ergo they’re mine twice over!  Plus I need some compensation for the inflated bill I’ll no doubt be sent.

          Tenant: What about the mold I’m breathing in that probably gave me the flu and is possibly now killing me as we speak?!

            Contractor: Oh, the mold’s contained; shouldn’t be an issue once I dump all this garbage.

            Tenant: But it could have been an issue!

           Upstairs Tenant: Any mold after you moved in here is yours, just as any valuables stashed in the space below my floor and above your ceiling are mine.

            Contractor: Guys, guys, let’s be reasonable.  Since I’m the one who the opened the ceiling and found these things in the first place, clearly they belong to me.

            Upstairs Tenant: In a pig’s eye!  They’re in my floor!

            Tenant: No they’re not, they’re in my ceiling!

            Contractor: Yeah, I think I’ll just take them; finders keepers and all that.  (Starts to ascend the ladder)

            Tenants: No!  (There is a scrum at the ladder as all three try to climb it simultaneously)

           Tenant: (Sneezing) There!  May you both get infected and only have last’s year vaccine, you thieves!

           (The front door slams open; the three freeze as an imposing figure enters the apartment and stops at the bathroom doorway)

            Landlord: Well, well, well.  Seems like I’ve got a tenant dispute on my hands.

            Upstairs Tenant: Back off, M’Lord, this is none of your concern!

          Landlord: Actually, since neither you own a square inch of this property and, heh, I do, anything found above, below, around, under, and in-between is mine.  (Effortlessly passes through the group, climbs the ladder, removes the jewels, and climbs back down) On an unrelated note, rent’s going up 25% next month.  (Hums tunelessly out the door)

            Tenant: (To Upstairs Tenant) You’re still paying for all this.  (Hacks up a lung)

            Upstairs Tenant: As long as you pay for the hospital bills I’m seeing in my future.

         Contractor: (Looking at phone) While you two sort it all out, I’ve had five other jobs that popped up and since we’re neither profiting off of found treasure or solving the mystery of how they even got up there, I’m off to make some real money.  (Leaves)

         Tenant: Hey!  There’s still a hole in my ceiling!  I don’t want to hear this one (Points to Upstairs Tenant) every time they’re in there!

           Upstairs Tenant: How did that stuff get up there, anyway?

           Tenant: I’m thinking the less we know, the better.  What if whoever put them there comes back looking for them?

           

           [Reader Participation: Leave a comment below or post to @JenPergola on Twitter suggesting an idea on how the jewels got there – I will pick one and write a story around it!]

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.”