"Name?!" The dour faced nurse barked; not even looking up.
She exuded a sourness that immediately put him off. A cold, uncaring woman with short cut salt and pepper hair and what appeared to be a permanent sneer on her otherwise sour face. Her paintbrush applied make-up gave her the appearance of an evil clown. That was no way for anyone to be greeted. Especially not someone who may be sick or in pain, seeking help and compassion at a clinic to be treated for whatever ailed them.
"Hi. I'm Chase Brandt."
"Good for you. I'll alert the media. Fill this out, Your Majesty!" Again, no eye contact. Not even an inflection in her barked orders as she literally tossed a well-worn, doodle filled clipboard at him.
Chase took a deep breath, counted to ten and tried to explain, but she ignored him completely and slammed the cracked and dirty window closed; dismissing him like yesterday's news.
A brief, uncharacteristic flash of anger shot through him. It was quickly mollified by the seed of an idea that brought a satisfied smile to his handsome face. He decided he'd play along.
At thirty-four, Chase Brandt was no stranger to the gym. His healthy lifestyle consisted of running at least five miles a day and an almost obsessive dedication to the martial arts. Those two passions kept him looking much younger than his thirty-four years. He could easily pass himself off as a grad student.
He sat, scheming, as he filled out the forms, complying to the rude, obnoxious orders so coldly given him by the gargoyle at the window.
As he hastily checked the boxes and gave his life history, the spark of the idea he'd originally had began to blossom.
When he finished, he returned the clipboard through the hole in the window, completely ignored again, checked his watch and sat back to wait.
As he glanced around the dank waiting room he was instantly disheartened. The entire room was filthy. Faded paint, torn wallpaper and the distinct smell of aged cheese. The ancient, threadbare carpet bore the appalling appearance and smell of a slaughter house. The crud building up in the corners of the room and the sticky arm rests on the torn, mismatched, ancient, waiting room chairs thoroughly disgusted him. It was obvious that the clinic hadn't been updated or even cleaned in ages. He'd seen cleaner waiting rooms in rural, third world countries.
To say he was revolted would be an understatement. No one should have to sit and suffer; someone probably already ailing, in such filth while they waited to be treated. From the look of the shabby waiting room, he wouldn't be surprised if someone coming in with a simple sore throat didn't leave with bubonic plague-or worse.
A substantial number of students were just ambling around either listlessly or angrily. Most conversed with each other in harsh whispers. There was about an equal mix of frustrated and disgusted expressions on their forlorn faces. He listened closely, trying to overhear their grumbled exchanges.
The sizeable room was packed: nearly standing room only. And the disconnected staff didn't even seem to give a damn. He hadn't noticed anyone called inside to be seen since he arrived.
He initiated a light, friendly conversation with two very pretty young women sitting on either side of him. What he ascertained from the cordial conversation just confirmed the information he'd received from the regional collegiate medical director who'd hired him. There was an outbreak of the flu at the school; and the outbreak had been running rampant since October. A huge majority of the faculty and the student body had already been infected. That one fact instantly stuck in his craw as he read through the statistics he'd received from the regional director as he rested in his hotel room after his long flight the night before.
Most university clinics were very diligent about stressing flu vaccinations with mass emails, pamphlets and posters starting long before the regular flu season-usually at the start of the fall semester.
One of the pretty young girls sitting beside him confirmed his suspicions. She exasperatedly told him that they were all there for flu shots-those few who hadn't yet contracted the bug-and all of them had been waiting for hours. Both assured him that they'd have gone to the walk-in clinic for the shots if they could afford it. Their limited funds were the only reason either of them would have dared step foot in the nasty clinic otherwise.
After another fifteen minutes or so, many of the disgruntled kids just up and left in defeat. Some even vocalized their displeasure to the deaf ears behind the window. Their complaints, like his arrival, were totally ignored. Chase just got angrier.
As he looked at the swarm of ambling students, he had to wonder whether the medical staff actually put up any posters around campus, or sent out any media or mass emails reminding the students of the need for a flu shot back in the fall. As a former college student himself, he remembered rarely stopping to read posters; and he usually just deleted school emails unless they were department related.
Looking around the clinic, and taking into consideration the treatment he'd just endured at the hands of that vile nurse at the window, he doubted whether the vaccinations had even been offered.
When the two girls he'd been chatting with had enough and they joined the retreating mob, he started reading an article in a very old, outdated, copy of one of the liberal rags; the only reading material in the filthy waiting room, when the door finally swung open.
"Those of you here for flu shots, follow me."
Everyone but Chase whooped and hollered as if they were finally vindicated, then rose, theatrically, and followed the nurse inside; still grumbling. He couldn't blame them.
The longer he sat there, totally ignored, the madder he got. Two hours and six minutes after he'd arrived, a harried looking, unkempt nurse swung the door open. "Brandt!"
"Right here."
"Come on! Come on!" She was downright rude, waving him in like she was guiding a damaged jet onto an aircraft carrier in a storm.
As he followed her down the dimly lit hallway, she was almost at a trot. She swung open a grungy, stained, exam room door with a whoosh, causing it to hit the wall behind it, and waved him in impatiently. She acted as if she had more important things to tend to than a pesky student who was, ironically, her whole reason for being there in the first place.
"You're a new patient. Everything off and put on the gown on the table."
"But, but..." She was gone.
He decided then and there to see the ploy he'd been plotting as he fumed in the waiting room through to the bitter end. Nothing like taking over the management of a clinic like seeing it from a patient's perspective. And given what he'd seen so far, heads were about to roll.
He undressed, slid on the stained gown and hopped up on the torn and tattered exam table. He was appalled. He rocked back and forth, cringing over the thought of what was causing his exposed ass cheeks to stick to the disgusting table.
And he waited in the nasty exam room. And waited.
Forty-five minutes later, an overwrought nurse practitioner knocked, then swept into the room.
Things were looking up. The woman was just plain hot. He guessed late twenties, very long brown hair, huge, piercing, brown eyes, and a drop dead gorgeous body-all compacted into a barely five foot, drool inspiring, package. The woman was fashion model hot.
"Mister Brandt. Hi, I'm Abby Fulbrock." She extended her delicate little hand pleasantly. He shook it, smiling. "What are we seeing you for today?"
