Story 285: Chamomile Tea Is the Flippin’ Cure to Everything

            (In an office: Co-Worker 1 is typing as Co-Worker 2 shuffles in, bundled up from head to toe, with a red nose, glassy eyes, and a hanging-open mouth)

            Co-Worker 1: (Staring as Co-Worker 2 stiffly drops into the chair at the desk, does not remove any of the outer items of clothing, and turns on the computer) Don’t tell me you’re sick again.

            Co-Worker 2: All right, I won’t.  (Hacks up a lung)

            Co-Worker 1: Gross.  Are you at least taking anything for it?

            Co-Worker 2: There’s nothing to take, it’s a virus – if someone gives me antibiotics, it’ll just make the bacteria that survive even stronger than they already are.  They’re poised to take over the world any day now, in case you haven’t heard.

            Co-Worker 1: Whatever; why don’t you use a sick day, that’s what they’re there for, and you wouldn’t be contaminating my space with your pestilence.

          Co-Worker 2: I don’t have any more sick days: I used them all up with my never-ending illnesses.  I’m also late with a bunch of projects because, you know, all the days I took off.  (Holds stomach as it grumbles) Ugh – you might want to clear a path out of my way, if you know what I mean.

            Co-Worker 1: Ew-ew-ew!  I’ll be right back.  (Runs out)

            Co-Worker 2: Don’t blame you.  (Begins typing with two fingers, one key every five seconds)

           Co-Worker 1: (Returns several minutes later with a steaming mug and sets it on the desk under Co-Worker 2’s face) Here.  Drink all of this now.

          Co-Worker 2: (Leaning on one hand, turns green while staring at the mug) I literally can’t stomach any ingestibles at this time, I thank you.  (Pushes mug aside)

            Co-Worker 1: (Pushes mug back) Trust me.  It’ll fix everything.

            Co-Worker 2: (Raises an eyebrow) Everything, eh?  That’s a bold prediction.

            Co-Worker 1: Just drink it, you’ll thank me.

            Co-Worker 2: OK, but be forewarned: it may not be pleasant here within a minute.  (Gingerly sips beverage, smacks lips, and nods) Mild.  Hmmm, soothing.  Aaaand it’s staying put.  In conclusion: not horrific.

            Co-Worker 1: Drink more, and give it a minute.

            Co-Worker 2: Sure.  (Sips a bit more, resumes tapping keys, then stops) Hold on.

            Co-Worker 1: You feel it?

            Co-Worker 2: (Pats stomach several times, sniffs clearly through nose, and breathes freely for the first time since entering the room) The sick’s gone.  Where’s the sick gone?

            Co-Worker 1: Feeling much better, yeah?

           Co-Worker 2: “Better?”  “Better” is not the word – (Stands, flinging off heavy coat, gloves, and hat) I am feeling ASTOUNDING!

            Co-Worker 1: Told you.

           Co-Worker 2: (Downs the rest of the drink and sighs loudly) Yessss, I am cured!  Absolutely cured, hallelujah!

            Co-Worker 1: You’re welcome.

            Co-Worker 2: So what is this, a miracle drug you’ve been holding out on the world?

            Co-Worker 1: Nope, it’s just chamomile tea.

            Co-Worker 2: Get out.

            Co-Worker 1: Sometimes the non-prescription ways are the good ways.

            Co-Worker 2: I don’t believe it!  Tea?!  This – (Holding mug aloft) is no mere tea!  This is the cure to everything!!

            Co-Worker 1: I don’t know about everything; I just know it helps with nausea –

            Co-Worker 2: I must proclaim this panacea to the world!  (Dashes out of the office)

            Co-Worker 1: Oh dear.

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

            Co-Worker 1: (Enters with New Co-Worker 2) And this is your desk; mine is right nearby if you need anything.

           New Co-Worker 2: Thanks.  (They both sit at their respective desks) Hey, this is where my predecessor sat, right?

            Co-Worker 1: Oh yeah.  (Begins typing)

            New Co-Worker 2: Have you heard from them lately?

            Co-Worker 1: (Swivels chair to stare at New Co-Worker 2, then swivels back to the computer to bring up a video) Oh, just this.

            (New Co-Worker 2 rolls chair over to Co-Worker 1’s desk to watch)

            (VIDEO: Former Co-Worker 2, a glowing picture of health, beams while facing the camera)

           Former Co-Worker 2: Hello out there, all you poor saps who suffer from illness, headache, nausea, soreness, pain, and all those other annoyances that plague us throughout the day.  Haven’t you ever longed for a cure-all pill that would take all that nuisance and chuck it out the window?  Well, long no more, because the answer you seek is not in pill form: (Holds up a steaming mug) it is the simple, modest, unassuming, taken-for-granted leaf-and-water combination that is CHAMOMILE TEA.  Just one sip, and what ails you will be utterly annihilated.  (Sips with closed eyes) This is all I ever drink now, and you should, too.  No more prescription meds all fighting each other and giving you more problems than you started with; no more constant discomfort with no end in sight; no more nothing!  And the best part is, no corporate sponsor, either: Chamomile Tea, available in the coffee and tea aisle of your local grocery store!  Take control of your life and start feeling non-sick today with this CURE TO EVERYTHING EVER!

            Voiceover: (While Former Co-Worker 2 continues to gulp down the tea) Warning: the preceding statements have not been verified by any medical authority.  Chamomile tea is not a tested or proven cure for cancer, diabetes, autoimmune disorders, neurological disorders, heart disease, stroke, aneurysms, hypertension, hypotension –

            Co-Worker 1: (Pauses video) This goes on for another 10 minutes, but you get the idea.

            New Co-Worker 2: Oh wow.  You know a celebrity!

            Co-Worker 1: Sadly, yes.

           New Co-Worker 2: Actually, my stomach’s been bothering me a lot today, what with the stress of starting a new job and finding a parking space and everything – you mind if I go make a cup of chamomile tea for myself?

           Co-Worker 1: Go right ahead.  (New Co-Worker 2 runs out; Co-Worker 1 addresses the paused video)  Not that I’ll ever see a dime from all this, when you never would have known about it if it wasn’t for me!  And you can’t make money off of something people already know about, and that you didn’t invent, and that a bunch of companies already manufacture!  (Stomach grumbles) Great, now I feel sick.

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.”