You Gotta Aim High

Waiting is a terrible thing. You're always anxious, nervous, easily angered. The most minute annoyance rapidly escalates into a raging mass of frustration and hysteria until you snatch a blunt instrument and bludgeon the person standing next to you blue and black until they resemble a tattooed Smurf. And this is just when waiting in line for a movie ticket or at an atm. Waiting for test results...another level. Waiting for medical test results...well, that's a whole new game.

A few weeks had passed since my sticky incident and we were sitting, once again in the hospital waiting room. I hated this room. Hated the grey lino floors, the grey plastic seats, the grey particle ceilings and the grey dispositions of the staff. I even hated the magazines that lay strewn about. Not one of them was recent. You'd be lucky to find one less outdated than the 'other magazine' I recently came into contact with. And every damn one of them had Nicole Kidman on the cover.

"Nicole gets married." Good for her. "Nicole's husband is a drunk." Boo hoo! "Does Nicole's Bump Mean She's Pregnant?" Who freakin' cares? Everyone. That's who. Even my delightful wife started talking about Nicole and her bump as we sat there waiting for the results.

"Do you think it's true?" she asked, genuinely excited. How the hell should I know and why should I care?

"Nope, she probably just ate an apple or something," I replied, only half thinking about the possibilities. The results weighed heavily on my mind. What if they weren't...what if they couldn't...what if I was...bloody hell.

"Mr Vuck-oh-dick?" an agitated voice called from the distance, plucking my thoughts away like an old woman does stray nostril hairs. I looked up and noted that my wife had dropped Nicole and was already getting to her feet. A small, squinty eyed receptionist stood glaring at us and holding a manilla folder covered in stickers. That must be it. The future rested between those beige cardboard coverings.

She escorted us to the same consulting room we visited last time and motioned for us to sit down, her eyes impossibly narrowing further.

"Dr Lawson will be with you shortly," she said curtly and hurried out. I looked up at the wall, scanned the familiar posters and flyers and began waiting again. I hated this. Why do they call you in, only to make you wait again? What's the point of the bloody waiting room? My wife sat expectantly, cheerfully humming some stupid jingle that was playing on the radio in the car.

"The blind factoreee, the blind factoreee, the blind, the blind, the blind, the blind, the blind factoreeeee!" I hated that song. To be fair, there wasn't much that I was liking at this point.

"Misterand and Missussss Vuch-o-litch?" asked Dr Lawson as he stumble stepped into the room, his pants nestled tightly under his chin. How anyone can wear pants that high is beyond me. How does he pee when his zipper sits between his nipples? Neither of us responded and he nodded, his hair somersaulting into the air, twisting and landing back on his scalp. He sat down on the patched vinyl chair with a sigh and flicked through the file, quietly humming to himself, occasionally licking at his thumb as if it was made of stamps. For Christ's sake're supposed to read the damn file before you see us...BEFORE!

With an exasperated sigh and a cluck of his tongue, he looked us both up and down before fixating on me.

"So," he began, the wispy hairs on his chin almost touching his belt buckle, his eyes stabbing me wildly with pity, "Mrs Vook-ah-snitch, it seems your tests results were all perfect. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you." Eh? Why the hell are you talking to her you crusty old git?

"Wow, that is good news," sighed my wife, clearly relieved, about what, I don't know. Not like she has dodgy swimmers or something is it.

"And as for you Mr Fuk-a-bich..." What's with the pausing??? Spit it out man! "There was an irregularity with the volume of the sample provided," he continued, the cat on his head doing a little lap, before making itself more comfortable.

"Oh yeah. see, the thing with that is...the whole in the container is really small and I'm not used to aiming...ummm." Dr Hair blinked silently, his lips displaying the faintest hint of a cruel smile.

"I see," he half muttered, half chuckled. Prick. "So taking your inaccuracy into consideration (which may or may not be one of your pregnancy problems) the strength of your sperm is, surprisingly high." Surprisingly? What do you mean surprisingly?

"Uhhh ok. That's great," I responded not really triumphantly. Dr Hair studied me closely, then shrugged his shoulders into his pant pockets and mumbled something about timing and practicalities and how something should affect something else. I kind of lost track a little bit, because, well, my boys were ok. Better than ok. Ok so they didn't swim too straight, but they could swim man, they could swim!

Again, he ushered us out of the room in double quick time, his hair bouncing about his head like a plague of mice, his pants creeping unbelievably higher still. He wished us good luck and extended his hand for me to shake and as I reached out to take it, he retracted it, shoving it deep into his shoulder high pocket, pleased he had psyched me out. Incredulous, my wife guided me back down the hallway and towards the lift well. We stood there silently for a moment, the two of us resting on our heels, when my wife turned to me and asked me if I really thought Nicole wasn't pregnant.

"I dunno, maybe. She could be, does it matter?" I said distracted.

"I guess not," she sighed disappointedly. That's right.