Strains

Nothing has been going right for me lately. Everything, in fact, has been coming completely left. First, it was a car on a one way street.

Which, let me tell you, not a pleasant way to go AT ALL.

Then it was a mountain of paperwork. Enough to make me realize I hadn’t made it to heaven. Also enough to teach me that carpel tunnel is not avoidable, even in death.

And now, coming in through the left door of my not so sterile exam room, was my next dose of hell.

“I went over your paperwork. I can’t make much of an assessment considering your level of illiteracy so I had to call in a specialist.”

Where the hell did that come from? I just met this guy and he handed me a stack of confusing paperwork. Hardly enough to come to the conclusion that I can’t read.

“I can read just fine.”

“You hardly filled out the assessment. What other conclusions am I supposed to come to?”

“Listen, Dr.”

He put his hand up.

“My name is Doc. I’m not a Doctor.” He says as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette.

I nearly brake into tears.

“Not a doctor? Then what the hell am I doing here in this paper nothing gown and why are you in a lab coat?” I grab at the paper covering the table and try to cover my exposed backside. The creep chuckles and lights his cigarette.

I do not need this today. I point to the door.

“Get out.”

He shrugs his shoulders and stands up from his stool. His hand slinks towards the knob, but just before he’s able to turn it, it opens.

Now there are two men in the room while I’m one stray breeze away from naked. This new character isn’t wearing a lab coat. So not a pretend doctor. He’s dressed neatly, in a crewneck polo and starched khakis. Must be the “specialist” Doc mentioned.

“Punctual as ever, eh Matthew?” Doc says, clasping him on the shoulder. “Do what you gotta do.”

That doesn’t sound very professional.

Matthew peaks past him and my brown eyes meet his.

“I’ll wait out here while you get dressed,” he says then follows Doc outside the room and shuts the door slowly behind him. Maybe he actually is a specialist. Not that I, who spent the last three years of my life as a dedicated English major, needs a literacy specialist. But at least he’s handsome, so it won’t feel like a complete waste of time.

I climb off the exam table and peel the paper from my skin. After two hours of shuffling through paperwork, the gown is soaked and so is the sanitary paper on the table.

Gross.

Even in death my body is as embarrassing as ever. I throw the gown and paper away, shoving it beyond notice in the trash. A few dabs of wadded up napkins later and I’m as fresh as I could possibly get. This is my first stop in my post -life journey, so I haven’t gotten to visit ghost version Target yet for my necessary toiletries. But, then again, this isn’t the good place so I’ll likely have to settle for whatever the equivalent of Walmart is.

You wouldn’t think to prepare for these things, but you have to. Just as the Greek would place gold coins on the eyelids of the deceased to pay for passage across the river Styx; best stash deodorant in your pockets, if you can help it.

Luckily, I was able to die in one of my favorite sexy-ish yet comfortable pairs of panties and a bra that actually matches. One in a million. It’s probably the extent of my luck that day. The dress, a navy one embroidered with gold daises, is not as comfortable, but fits well and is luckily made with cotton and not the cheap polyester that made up the rest of my living wardrobe. That’s it. All the clothes that I have.

I mean, I do have a simple pair of socks and some plain white velcro sneakers that don’t match the rest of my outfit. I don’t remember buying them, or what would possess me to wear them with this dress; but they’re comfortable, so I can deal with them.

I fix my hair in the reflection of the metal paper towel dispenser. The curly mop of brown on my head is in desperate need of TLC and probably a heavy dose of leave in conditioner. My light caramel skin that I’m usually proud of looks dull and overly dry; but until I can get into a shower, this is as good as it’ll get.

Behind me, the door swings open.

Matthew walks through, holding the paperwork I tried my best to fill out earlier.

He could’ve knocked...

“Miss Elizabeth, please take a seat.”

I skip the acrobatics of trying to jump my five foot frame onto the exam table and settle into a nearby chair. He sits on a stool across from me.

“Doc said you had some trouble with the forms he gave you,” he says, and places the clipboard on the counter.

“I know what he said, and I know it looks kinda bad, but I don’t need a literacy specialist. I read all of the questions, I just couldn’t answer them,” I explain.

“That’s fine. I’m not a literacy specialist, I’m just here to get the answers out of you.”

“Like by torture?” I say, gripping the chair.

He laughs.

“No, of course not. Actually, I’ve already completed the assessment,” he says and stands up.

“Whoa, really?” On no. It was all a test. Maybe I was supposed to sit on the exam table after all. Or maybe I said something bad. I’ve been screwed by those “just write your name at the top” exams before, was this something similar? Am I now fated to go to a Lower circle of hell? How could it get any worse than Walmart?

“I’ll talk it over with Doc, when I’m finished I’ll take you to the academy to finish the admissions process. We’ll get your dorm assignment and that’ll come with any assorted personal care items you’ll need.”

He grasps the door handle.

Wow. It’s like he read my mind.

“Yeah,” he says.” It’s exactly like that.” And he shuts the door behind him.