u/christopherDdouglas

Last Friday as I was with my friend Ricky, we saw a movie or something of that sort. And maybe it was oysters before the show. Or maybe it was the chili-dog afterwards but sometime around 2am the next day I woke up feeling as if my pancreas was twice as large as normal. I immediately rang for aid.

“Ricky, my pancreas.” I said and went on to explain the sweats and various cramps I was experiencing. “It's horrible.”

“I told you not to eat them.” He said.

“You told me they were good!”

“No, I said I had them once and I thought they were good… but I wasn't going to roll the dice.”

“That's a recommendation!”

“It's my opinion.” He said.

“So I shouldn't have eaten the oysters?”

“What side?”

“My right.”

“Pancreas is on your left, probably the chili dogs. The oysters were good.”

Nevertheless, the pain never subsided during the night and into the morning which forced me to visit my local walk-in clinic.

“My pancreas!” I explained as they wheeled me down the hall to meet with a doctor (technically they were a nurse practitioner).

“Your pancreas is on the left side. They told you that in reception.”

“It hurts!”

They asked me what I ate the previous day and other non important questions like how much I drink and my last sexual partners.

“It was probably the chili-dogs.”

I was sent on my way with a prescription in hand which I immediately brought to the pharmacy.

“I have a prescription. Please fill it.”

The lady at the register who I would assume is a pharmacist took the script and clicked away at her computer.

“It'll be ready in an hour.”

“An hour?”

“Yes.”

“I don't want to alarm you… but my pancreas is about to explode. Can we make it a little faster?”

She read the prescription again and looked at me. “You have a prescription for… Bismuth Subsalicylate?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“That's not-”

“Not what?”

She blew out a breath that I could feel against my face.

“Come back in an hour.”

And so I did. I sat in my car agonizing about my pancreas and the cold sweats that were now running down my leather seats. As soon as the hour was over I was again in front of the lady who originally helped me.

“I'm here for my prescription.”

“Yes, that will be ready in thirty minutes.”

“You told me an hour.”

“Correct, but that was an hour ago. Right now it's thirty minutes.”

Customer after customer came up to her window, exchanged pleasantries, and were handed the requested medication.

“Johnathan? Your prescription is ready.” She handed me a paper bag over the counter. “Thanks, see you next time.”

Next time? For hours my stomach had practically brought me to my knees and they assumed I'd be back again?

“Yes, thank you.” I said and promptly left the store.

The rest of the day I drank a pink concoction and laid on my couch watching re-runs of Matlock. I'm happy to report that eventually the stomach pangs of bad oysters eventually subsided. But I didn't forget what happened.

The following day I returned to the walk-in clinic.

“Hello, one doctor exam please.”

The receptionist handed me an intake form. I circled a few of the listed symptoms and returned it. Her smile changed as she read down the form and she excused herself to the back. Before I had time to sit down a nurse arrived and took me back to the doctor (again, positive she was a nurse practitioner).

“Johnathan, I'm glad you came in.” She said.

“Thank you I really-”

“I'm concerned.”

“Yes, me too.” And I was. The service at the pharmacy is atrocious.

“The list of symptoms you say you have is uncommon. You have headaches?”

“Correct.”

“Nose bleeds and stomach cramps?”

“Occasionally.”

“And… lactation?”

“Yes that's- something that can happen… periodically.”

She said something about a referral and iron deficiency. I wasn't really listening.

“And what sort of medication will you prescribe?” I asked.

“Without tests, and blood work, I'm not at liberty to prescribe anything.”

“But…I'm… I'm lactating!” I pulled on my shirt a little– for effect.

She paused and gave a deep sigh. “This should help you for now but I want you to see a specialist immediately.”

“I agree.” And I did. The scam needed to be uncovered.

The receptionist was asked to call the prescription in. I waited around to confirm the pharmacy had been notified, and set a timer for 2 hours.

“I'm here to pick up my medication.” It was the same woman as before. “The office should have called it in two hours ago.”

“I see that. It should be ready in thirty minutes.” she said.

“Last time it was an hour.”

“A thirty minute wait is standard.”

“After an hour?”

“Depends on the hour.”

“I’ll be back.”

“See you soon!”

See me soon? She said it with such confidence. She said it like she knew something. As if the entire operation was run through her arbitrary construct of medication dealings.

From aisle three, behind the incontinent and laxative items, I watched her service the arriving customers. Every single one was told thirty minutes.

I grabbed a pen and notepad from the stationary section and began to take notes. Her mannerisms, facial ticks, her “see you next time” crutch of a farewell. I despised the role she held. A false god with the authority to dispense one's health… or not.

Pitiful.

I ducked out of the incontinent aisle, passing by the pain relief, around the hair dye, and found the refrigerated section. I quickly grabbed the item I needed and flagged down a sales associate.

“I'm sorry to bother you but is there a restroom?” I asked.

The associate took me to a double door marked Employees Only and directed me to a small employee restroom that had a toilet, a sink, and a door that didn't completely close.

At first I thought I should take my shirt off and soak it in the sink. But the logistics as to why my back was wet would be too difficult of an accomplishment to explain.

I decided that the most simple solution is to simply pour it on the front of my shirt where my nipples are located. The carton was easy enough to open. The fact that it was 2% rather than skim made my plan all the more ingenious.

I carefully took the milk and poured it over my left breast, and then my right. Unfortunately with the carton being full to the brim, liquid not only drenched the front of my polo but descended all way down the front of my slacks.

I flung open the door and marched to the corner of the store where the pharmacy sat. “Excuse me! I have been waiting for thirty minutes for my medication.”

The pharmacist looked at me as though she heard a grand surprise. “Johnathan you're-”

“As you can see, because of my wait time of thirty minutes and my current condition.” I pulled on my shirt again– for effect. “I've lactated all over myself!”

She hesitated and grabbed a bag that was sitting on the counter.

I grabbed it with my hand still wet with milk and walked back to my car. I tore open the top of the bag and took out the bottle inside.

The label read:

Bismuth Subsalicylate

Friday I was told that my role, however insignificant, was made “redundant.”

Sounds correct. They always fire on a Friday.

However, when this was told to me (4pm Friday afternoon), where this was told to me (from the urinal on my left while I held my dick in hand) and who told me, made it an untraditional exchange.

Grant Carmichael.

Who's Grant Carmichael?

Good question.

I have no fucking clue.

I think he's in service, but he holds no rank above me, and we have no direct superiors.

“You're gone next week.”

“Don't they usually fire on a Friday?”

“I heard they do it Mondays.”

“Who said?”

“About the Monday?”

“No – yes, who said I'm gone?”

“On Monday?”

I was out of piss. “No, who was it?”

“It's going around.”

“Around the office?” Pretty sure he was dry too.

“Yeah.”

“So you're gone?”

“Maybe.”

“So why me?”

“Why anyone?”

He zipped and stuck out his hand. “It's been great working with you. Good luck.”

I grabbed it with my left hand as my right was occupied by my wiener. “Yeah, good luck.”

Grant Carmichael, who I've never formally met, and only worked with in the sense we were both employed by the same company, exited the restroom without washing his hands.

I did.