I’m at a walk-in medical clinic just outside of Poughkeepsie, New York. It’s been two hours before the doctor sees me. She shines a light in the back of my throat and gasps.
“Oh, honey, you must be dying.”
“Jesus, this is the worst throat I’ve ever seen!”
“And you’re burning up!”
She swabs the back of it three times and draws blood. I’ve either developed tonsilitis, strep throat, mono or swine flu. I am banking on strep throat, and I’m right.
“What do I win?” I ask her.
“Antibiotics and vicodin,” she says, and writes me a few prescriptions. “And I never give pain killers for sore throats. But yours looks like death.”
I grin, pathetically. That was the best news I’ve heard all day.