Golden Touch CRAPS

She was only 19 years old and they had just put her at the reception desk in the emergency room. She was cool and friendly; the staff liked her; the patients liked her. Of course, the really awful cases went around the side and she didn't really see those; the knifings, gunshots, and awful accidents.

A patient came up to the desk. He was the spitting image of "Mr. Clean," but dressed all in black.

"Yes," she smiled. "Can I help you?"

"I need to see the doctor," he said.

She took out the registration papers and wrote down his information. Then she asked him why he had come to the emergency room. She prepared to write.

"I have the drips," he said.

"The drips?"

"Coming from my cock; the drips, pus, crap like that; blood, a little," he said.

"Do you have insurance?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Do you have another name for the drips?" she asked.

"My cock is dripping some crap and that's what I call it. I don't have no other name."

"Okay," she smiled and wrote, "Venereal disease; he calls ‘the drips'"

The emergency room was almost empty.

"Sit there, you'll be seen shortly. It isn't too busy today," she smiled.

"It comes through my pants," he said. "I stuffed my crotch with a ton of toilet paper."

She paused. "Uh, the bathroom is over there," she pointed, "you can get more if you need it."

"Thanks," he said. He went over to the bathroom and came back shortly. She couldn't help but take a quick glance at his crotch. It was bulging.

The waiting room was now empty. He called over to her, "It hurts like hell when I piss. It burns."

"You'll be seen in a little while," she said. "Hang in there." She certainly had a nice way about her. She smiled sympathetically at him. The telephone operator was watching all this.

In a few minutes a nurse came out of the emergency room and called his name. He walked over to her and went inside.

An hour later he came out to settle his bill.

"They gave me some medicine; rubbed it in, I had a rash too, and a shot and they gave me a prescription too," he said.

"Oh, good, good," she said. The waiting room now had six people waiting to get in to see a doctor. The numbers would build up all day from this point. There could be upward of a six-hour wait during certain times.

He came over to give his credit card. She processed it. She could tell he was staring at her. She looked up and smiled. "I'm glad you are going to get better."

"Do you want to go out to dinner?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Dinner, dinner," he repeated. "No cheap place like White Castle or any of that shit; a good place, like Sizzler."

"Uh, thank you..."

"We'll have some fun if you get me," he said.

"I have a boyfriend," she said quickly, "a cop."

"Too bad," he said, taking back his credit card. "We could have had some fun." He winked.

For weeks, as the "Mr. Clean" story circulated, she would find bottles of the stuff on her desk or outside her locker. Over time, the event went into memory. But somewhere out there, a Mr. Clean was either getting or giving the drips.