open. I could sense my deodorant already starting to break down, and idly I wondered if I’d need to change before long. But my miseries were just part of the price we pay here for enjoying summer weather that would make a Louisiana shrimper cry for mercy. Of course it’s not always like this. In winter we sometimes get snowfalls so deep and icy the citizens of Buffalo gaze upon us with ill-disguised envy.
Walking up to the clinic’s pebbled glass door, I heard the wet, sticky sound soft tar makes when it clings to your shoes, but there was no avoiding it. It was everywhere.
I noted the place’s hours were posted on a white, plastic sign, which listed them in jet-black letters as Monday through Saturday, eight a.m. to six p.m. closed Sunday. So far so good. Wiping off my feet as much as I could, I opened the door and entered.
Last night I’d considered how best to do this, and I chose the role of being a reporter. It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. I’d minored in journalism in college, so I know the language, and a while back I made up some press cards and IDs stating that I was, depending on the need, Stanley Niles, special affairs correspondent for the Indianapolis Democrat-Advocate , or Thomas Ballinger, political beat editor for the Lexington Beacon . I’d only used this a few times in the past; when I had, thankfully, no one involved had ever thought to check to see if those newspapers even existed.
They didn’t, of course, except in the fevered brain of yours truly.
I gave the interior of the room I’d entered a quick scan. The place was nothing fancy, just a square, beige-painted, drywall-clad waiting area dotted with the same type of crappy artificial rubber plants and plastic fichus trees I kept at my own office. Against the wall squatted four or five uncomfortable-looking, mustard-yellow plastic chairs, and placed in front of them was a low, scarred, wooden coffee table covered by last year’s magazines. All in all, fairly mundane.
But it wasn’t just the room’s cold air that made me start as I did a double take at what passed for art around here. Hung all around were graphic posters of VD-encrusted genitalia, all of them in searingly full color. In other words, have safe sex. Or else.
At the back of the room stood a counter topped by a frosted-glass wall stretching from its surface to the ceiling, with an open sliding glass window occupying its center. Behind it sat a bristly, fiftyish nurse-type, capped with short unnatural-looking electric red hair and sporting enough mascara to shame a raccoon. She scowled as I strode up.
“Yes? May I help you?” Her face was marred by a deep frown, as if helping me was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. Her frown deepened as she stared down at my shoes. I did the same, following her gaze, then looked behind me. Wups. Six well-defined footprints showed I’d tracked in some of the gummy tarred parking lot with me. Oh well.
“Hi there, Miz …” I read her nametag. “Blutarski.”
Blutarski? I swallowed a laugh at her handle, only keeping my face straight with difficulty. The only person I’d ever heard with the last name Blutarski was John Belushi’s character Bluto Blutarski in the movie Animal House . But looking at the woman again, it fit. She could have been him in drag.
Her reply was frosty, and held an edge. “My name is Mrs. Blutarski.” Married in a weak moment, no doubt. “And I asked you if you needed help.” Her watery brown eyes glared coldly at me as above her lip a faint furze of brown mustache quivered in annoyance. My goodness, what a pleasant woman. Mr. Blutarski, whoever you are, you’re a lucky, lucky man.
Okay, time to load up the charm gun. Diving right in, I went into my John Brenner, cub reporter mode. “Yes, you can help me, ma’am. At least I hope so. And I’m sorry about messing up your floor.” I handed her a card. “My name is Stanley Niles. I’m special affairs correspondent with the Indianapolis
Walking up to the clinic’s pebbled glass door, I heard the wet, sticky sound soft tar makes when it clings to your shoes, but there was no avoiding it. It was everywhere.
I noted the place’s hours were posted on a white, plastic sign, which listed them in jet-black letters as Monday through Saturday, eight a.m. to six p.m. closed Sunday. So far so good. Wiping off my feet as much as I could, I opened the door and entered.
Last night I’d considered how best to do this, and I chose the role of being a reporter. It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. I’d minored in journalism in college, so I know the language, and a while back I made up some press cards and IDs stating that I was, depending on the need, Stanley Niles, special affairs correspondent for the Indianapolis Democrat-Advocate , or Thomas Ballinger, political beat editor for the Lexington Beacon . I’d only used this a few times in the past; when I had, thankfully, no one involved had ever thought to check to see if those newspapers even existed.
They didn’t, of course, except in the fevered brain of yours truly.
I gave the interior of the room I’d entered a quick scan. The place was nothing fancy, just a square, beige-painted, drywall-clad waiting area dotted with the same type of crappy artificial rubber plants and plastic fichus trees I kept at my own office. Against the wall squatted four or five uncomfortable-looking, mustard-yellow plastic chairs, and placed in front of them was a low, scarred, wooden coffee table covered by last year’s magazines. All in all, fairly mundane.
But it wasn’t just the room’s cold air that made me start as I did a double take at what passed for art around here. Hung all around were graphic posters of VD-encrusted genitalia, all of them in searingly full color. In other words, have safe sex. Or else.
At the back of the room stood a counter topped by a frosted-glass wall stretching from its surface to the ceiling, with an open sliding glass window occupying its center. Behind it sat a bristly, fiftyish nurse-type, capped with short unnatural-looking electric red hair and sporting enough mascara to shame a raccoon. She scowled as I strode up.
“Yes? May I help you?” Her face was marred by a deep frown, as if helping me was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. Her frown deepened as she stared down at my shoes. I did the same, following her gaze, then looked behind me. Wups. Six well-defined footprints showed I’d tracked in some of the gummy tarred parking lot with me. Oh well.
“Hi there, Miz …” I read her nametag. “Blutarski.”
Blutarski? I swallowed a laugh at her handle, only keeping my face straight with difficulty. The only person I’d ever heard with the last name Blutarski was John Belushi’s character Bluto Blutarski in the movie Animal House . But looking at the woman again, it fit. She could have been him in drag.
Her reply was frosty, and held an edge. “My name is Mrs. Blutarski.” Married in a weak moment, no doubt. “And I asked you if you needed help.” Her watery brown eyes glared coldly at me as above her lip a faint furze of brown mustache quivered in annoyance. My goodness, what a pleasant woman. Mr. Blutarski, whoever you are, you’re a lucky, lucky man.
Okay, time to load up the charm gun. Diving right in, I went into my John Brenner, cub reporter mode. “Yes, you can help me, ma’am. At least I hope so. And I’m sorry about messing up your floor.” I handed her a card. “My name is Stanley Niles. I’m special affairs correspondent with the Indianapolis
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