MINUS 095 AND COUNTING

When the R’s went through the door under the red arrow and into the examination room it was just a few minutes after nine‑thirty. A lot of the initial excitement had worn off, and people were either watching the Free‑Vee avidly, with none of their prior dread, or dozing. The man with the noisy chest had a name that began with L and had been called over an hour before. Richards wondered idly if he had been cut.

The examination room was long and tiled, lit with fluorescent tubes. It looked like an assembly line, with bored doctors standing at various stations along the way.

Would any of you like to check my little girl? Richards thought bitterly.

The applicants showed their cads to another camera eye embedded in the wall and were ordered to stop by a row of clotheshooks. A doctor in a long white lab coat walked over to them, clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Strip,” he said. “Hang your clothes on the hooks. Remember the number over your hook and give the number to the orderly at the far end. Don’t worry about your valuables. Nobody here wants them.”

Valuables. That was a hot one, Richards thought, unbuttoning his shirt. He had an empty wallet with a few pictures of Sheila and Cathy, a receipt for a shoe sole he had had replaced at the local cobbler’s six months ago, a keyring with no keys on it except for the doorkey, a baby sock that he did not remember putting in there, and the package of Blams he had gotten from the machine.

He was wearing tattered skivvies because Sheila was too stubborn to let him go without, but many of the men were buck under their pants. Soon they all stood stripped and anonymous, penises dangling between their legs like forgotten war­clubs. Everyone held his card in one hand. Some shuffled their feet as if the floor were cold, although it was not. The faint, impersonally nostalgic odor of alcohol drifted through.

“Stay in line,” the doctor with the clipboard was instructing. “Always show your card. Follow instructions.”

The line moved forward. Richards saw there was a cop with each doctor along the way. He dropped his eyes and waited passively.

“Card.”

He gave his card over. The first doctor noted the number, then said: “Open your mouth.”

Richards opened it. His tongue was depressed.

The next doctor peered into his pupils with a tiny bright light, and then stared in his ears.

The next placed the cold circle of a stethoscope on his chest. “Cough.”

Richards coughed. Down the line a man was being hauled away. He needed the money, they couldn’t do it, he’d get his lawyer on them.

The doctor moved his stethoscope. “Cough.”

Richards coughed. The doctor turned him around and put the stethoscope on his back.

“Take a deep breath and hold it.” The stethoscope moved.

“Exhale.”

Richards exhaled.

“Move along.”

His blood pressure was taken by a grinning doctor with an eyepatch. He was given a short‑arm inspection by a bald medico who had several large brown frec­kles, like liverspots, on his pate. The doctor placed a cool hand between the sac of his scrotum and his upper thigh.

“Cough.”

Richards coughed.

“Move along.”

His temperature was taken. He was asked to spit in a cup. Halfway, now. Half­way down the hall. Two or three men had already finished up, and an orderly with a pasty face and rabbit teeth was bringing them their clothes in wire baskets. Half a dozen more had been pulled out of the line and shown the stairs.

“Bend over and spread your cheeks.”

Richards bent and spread. A finger coated with plastic invaded his rectal chan­nel, explored, retreated.

“Move along.”

He stepped into a booth with curtains on three sides, like the old voting booths­ voting booths had been done away with by computer election eleven years ago­ and urinated in a blue beaker. The doctor took it and put it in a wire rack.

At the next stop he looked at an eye‑chart. “Read,” the doctor said.

“E‑A, L‑D, M, F‑S, P, M, Z‑K, L, A, C, D‑U, S, G, A—”

“That’s enough. Move along.”

He entered another pseudo voting booth and put earphones over his head. He was told to push the white button when he heard something and the red button when he didn’t hear it anymore. The sound was very high and faint—like a dog whistle that had been pitch‑lowered into just audible human range. Richards pushed buttons until he was told to stop.

He was weighed. His arches were examined. He stood in front of a fluoroscope and put on a lead apron. A doctor, chewing gum and singing something tunelessly under his breath, took several pictures and noted his card number.

Richards had come in with a group of about thirty. Twelve had made it to the far end of the room. Some were dressed and waiting for the elevator. About a dozen more had been hauled out of line. One of them tried to attack the doctor that had cut him and was felled by a policeman wielding a move‑along at full charge. The pal fell as if poleaxed.

Richards stood at a low table and was asked if he had had some fifty different diseases. Most of them were respiratory in nature. The doctor looked up sharply when Richards said there was a case of influenza in the family.

“Wife?”

“No. My daughter.”

“Age?”

“A year and a half.”

“Have you been immunized? Don’t try to lie!” the doctor shouted suddenly, as if Richards had already tried to lie. “We’ll check your health stats.”

“Immunized July 2023. Booster September 2023. Block health clinic.”

“Move along.”

Richards had a sudden urge to reach over the table and pop the maggot’s neck. Instead, he moved along.

At the last stop, a severe‑looking woman doctor with close‑cropped hair and an Electric Juicer plugged into one ear asked him if he was a homosexual.

“No.”

“Have you ever been arrested on a felony charge?”

“No.”

“Do you have any severe phobias? By that I mean—”

“No.”

“You better listen to the definition,” she said with a faint touch of condescen­sion. “I mean—”

“Do I have any unusual and compulsive fears, such as acrophobia or claustro­phobia. I don’t.”

Her lips pressed tightly together, and for a moment she seemed on the verge of sharp comment.

“Do you use or have you used any hallucinogenic or addictive drugs?”

“No.”

“Do you have any relatives who have been arrested on charges of crimes against the government or against the Network?”

“No.”

“Sign this loyalty oath and this Games Commission release form, Mr., uh, Richards.”

He scratched his signature.

“Show the orderly your card and tell him the number—”

He left her in midsentence and gestured at the bucktoothed orderly with his thumb. “Number twenty‑six, Bugs.” The orderly brought his things. Richards dressed slowly and went over by the elevator. His anus felt hot and embarrassed, violated, a little slippery with the lubricant the doctor had used.

When they were all bunched together, the elevator door opened. The bullet­proof Judas hole was empty this time. The cop was a skinny man with a large wen beside his nose. “Step to the rear,” he chanted. “Please step to the rear.”

As the doors closed, Richards could see the S’s coming in at the far end of the hall. The doctor with the clipboard was approaching them. Then the doors clicked together, cutting off the view.

They rode up to the third floor, and the doors opened on a huge, semi-lit dor­mitory. Rows and rows of narrow iron‑and‑canvas cots seemed to stretch out to infinity.

Two cops began to check them out of the elevator, giving them bed numbers. Richards’s was 940. The cot had one brown blanket and a very flat pillow. Rich­ards lay down on the cot and let his shoes drop to the floor. His feet dangled over the end; there was nothing to be done about it.

He crossed his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 920