Sweet Child of Mine

“I am trying to be honest with you,” he said, “and it hurts me”. Yes, the truth does hurt. Don’t let that truth happen to you and be a creative truth teller. The truth is your servant, not your master. (Excerpts from “What Would Machiavelli Do?”)

So, back at the “Operation Izmir”, before going on, please read the “s-permite” post if you didn’t do it yet (and send me an apology letter signed by your parents for not reading it on time);

After not eating anything for more than 18 hours and abstaining from any human flesh for 5 days with hallucinations of the freaky image of small Hagi-alike lady midgets running around my bed, I was dreaming about breasts… Chicken breasts…Hunger beats libido and I am ready to flip off the bra down on any fried chicken just with two crispy potato fingers, before biting a piece…Woke up to the voice of my host, whispering loud to get me going to the clinic. It was 7.30 am in the morning.

We hit the road to meet the “nurse”; the iron lady who probably have distributed imprinted invitations for the second half of the show.

In front of the big sliding door leading to the reception area there was a security guard, attentively watching me climbing the stairs … or he was wondering about why was I so dynamically reluctant, jumping the stairs, one by one, but in slow motion and spending few milliseconds in the air after each jump. He knew what I was in to, I guess.

At the information desk, two young girls were sitting, with identical smiles imitating toothpaste TV commercials. Their faces and noses were targeting me but they seemed to look through me or past me. I have enough business meeting experiences at commercial centers and I know the “receptionists”, the experts in receptions and receptioning, descendants of a long line of receptionists, the founders of post-receptionism. They hate each individual orbiting them and punish any act or intention of communication by denying their existence.

To become receptionable, I made few reverences, several head bows and using Sesame Street voice I was accepted by their community, being led to the chief nurse, Ms.S.

She was actually a young girl, mid twenties but had an air of authority over anyone and everyone. “Good Morning Mr.O” she greeted, “how are you feeling today?” “I am fine” I said, and actually thought so until arriving to the clinic.

“You know we spoke on the phone, for the full check-up and the test” I continued, giving her a perfect chance for the verbal backhand.

-“ The test?? Aha. Are you feeling productive today?” and the receptionist who guided me to her room burst in giggles, leaving the room. "Seeds of Love" should be playing in the background and now half of the hospital talks about me.

S showed me the direction with her left eyebrow, indicating where to follow her. We went out to the corridor, the hospital personnel from all levels watching my parade to the lift, not encouraging. She pushed “-1”, which meant we were going to the underground floor. That was logical; probably there was a dark joint, where nurses were bar-dancing during off hours and helping the patients with these tests in VIP rooms. I will ask for a champagne.

The lift door opened and on a narrow corridor, with benches on both sides, I met painful or tired glazes of a dozen pregnant women. Passing through them, entering a maze, turning left, turning right, turning right again; I might not be fertile but as clever as a rat (at least), I am sure that I would find my way out from here if needed. We stopped in front of a closed steel door, with a plate on it “Sperm Room”. When she pulled her hand to grab the handle, I wanted to shout and run; I was afraid that once the door opened, a big load would flood past us. Spots of Indiana Jones, buttock-skiing on a river of... Nevermind.

The room, a cubicle of 8 square meters was painted in dark grey, resembling a prison cell. "I could have tattooed the plans of the clinic on my belly" I thought.

A nice and comfortable couch, bunch of paper towels and napkins; the quantity of paper-based drying tools is a clear proof that whales and elephants also visit this room occasionally for similar test. She pulled off a curtain and a huge LCD screen TV, a DVD player on a shelve full of DVDs were squeezed behind. From the noises coming from the other side of the wall, I realized that I was just next to the corridor where the pregnant ladies were waiting. I feel like being filmed for an early pregnancy prevention campaign for youngsters; "If you don't want to be on that corridor, ask your boyfriend do his thing in the grey room"

She explained that there is also a shower and clean towels, a hairdryer and flip-flops. With all the facilities provided, it could easily serve as a bomb shelter. Started thinking Tom Jones singing “Sex Bomb” and lost any productive hope for the next few hours. Why not Kylie Minogue but him?

S gave me a 100ml plastic glass, “Is it enough, Sir?”. “Yes, for the next year or so” I wanted to say but just made a sound, kind of “Iiighh”….

Without any word, she pushed the play button of DVD, went out (actually jumped out) and shut down the door.

…. …. …. …. ….

I was sitting in front of the doctor, His Haines keeping the results of check-up, including cardio analysis and the “test”… From his unhappy face and mimics, I could easily understand that I wouldn’t be able to make to the door of the clinic and should make my testimony quickly. While distastefully chewing an inexistent gum, he burped out “mmmmm…hmmm… hsssss... uuuummmm...goood…weeelll…”

-“Did I pass, Sir?”

-“What?”

-“The test… eehmm. All O.K.?”

-“nnnmmm… hhhmmm… yeeaahh.. Your results are quite fine. But please be careful; because of those guys considering themselves fertile banana trees, there are too many monkeys around us.”

Russians have a proverb “Men have 2 heads, the depth of trouble depends on the one they use for thinking. Women have 2 mouths, the size of disaster depends on the one they use for talking”