I was greeted by what looked to be a Wookie wearing a pair of briefs. A green pair of briefs. A tight pair of green briefs. I stepped away from the door hesitantly and…
Don’t you hate joining a conversation mid-story?
Ok, let me start from the beginning. It was an experience that happened 3 weeks ago, and I have only now gotten over my trauma to speak about it.
I had just sprained my ankle, or so said the experts, aka my nurse friend from Richmond, who just happened to be visiting me the night the sidewalk and I had an altercation, and my roommate, a surgeon of some sorts. The experts opinion: Probably not broken, probably sprained, would need an X-ray to confirm. Fuck that I say, a “medical probably” is good enough for me.
A few days later the ankle is still as big as a melon. I begin to regret my cocky attitude from just days before. My nurse friend has returned to Richmond. I hurriedly seek out my surgeon roommate.
I knock on his door and announce my presence. “Come in,” he says.
I begin to open the door only to see him sitting in a chair, completely naked save for the described tiny pair of underwear. I back away from the door, unsure whether I have heard him right.
“Come in,” he repeats. I am already committed. I tentatively step through the doorway into his room.
A mantra begins in my head. “You have been in a locker room before. You are mature. You have been in a locker room before. You are mature.”
As he grabs and pokes my foot and ankle, pain shoots through my lower body. It is a welcome distraction. Second diagnosis: Probably still not broken, probably still sprained, probably would need an X-ray to confirm. “I could take you to the hospital and get it X-rayed for you, if you’d like.” Fuck that I say to myself, thank him for his time as I leave his room and immediately seek out a remedy for the BURNING IN MY EYES.Moral of the story: You get what you (don’t) pay for.