Tested

"What can I do for you sir?" came the question as the young man approached the front desk where I stood.

"I'd like to get tested," I replied.

"Sure." He hands me a clipboard, and gives instructions as to filling out the forms on it. The small line of people in back of me jostle; we'd been waiting about 15 minutes already.

"Certainly," I said, and moved away towards the sitting area of the clinic.

"What can I do for you?" I hear from behind me.

"I want to get tested, too," comes a woman's resigned but irritated voice. The young man goes through the explanation for her.

I glance over at the woman when she settles into her seat.

She's my age. Petite, short white hair, but my age.

Holy shit--women do this, too? In the past, other than one crack whore, there's never been a woman getting tested in this place downtown, this anonymous, free clinic in the basement of a religious place.

She gets through, returns the clipboard, and sits back down. She pulls out a wad of knitting and proceeds to sit there like someone's grandmother, contentedly making an afghan.

The two guys after her are a couple, getting jointly tested. And the 40-something black guy behind them.

I never thought of a woman actually going through this.

But she was.

As was apparently the young black woman in the room next to mine when I was getting my results from the oral swab. She must have had a different result: her cries and hysteria reverberated through the floor of small meeting rooms. My technician calmly reached up and turned on a loud fan on his filing cabinet, without missing a beat as he talked to me.

All in a days work, I guess.