The Check-Up - A short story from the 'Images from the life of a social sputum' collection
He couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that someone could stink at 7 AM. He came up with two explanations – either the man had been working for hours already, or he hadn’t showered in at least a day. Disgusted, he eliminated the first option and, stealthily looking over a book (he always carried one around) continued to watch those abominations.
A physical examination for professionals, in a state-owned hospital no less. Horrid business. Professionals – truckers, construction workers and the rest of the partially sunburnt gang. Pale tattoos, dirt under their nails, a tooth here and there. They’re not bad people, far from it, nor are they all the same. On the contrary – people say dirty hands make for clean money. Still, not necessarily his choice of company.
He remembered reading the law on guns, and how everyone who wanted a holding permit had to go through an assessment, among other things. He planned on getting a license to carry a gun – people are, at the end of the day, animals, and sooner or later, the time will come when your life will depend on who fucks over the other guy first. The procedure was too long, though, so he gave up. He bought the strongest legal crossbow instead. The point was that it’s highly likely that at least a few of these men are there for exactly that reason. Some among them will, in a few months, legally possess an object that can instantly end a person’s life. A discouraging thought, to say the least.
The gang, with him in the back, slowly crawls from office to office and from specialist to fucking specialist. The doctors swiftly fuck them off without even a glance. Do you get chest pain, no. you’re healthy bye bye. Can you hear this sound? Great, go operate heavy machinery. You filled a mental health questionnaire, all answers no, you could even sign your name? Nothing’s bothering you? Perfect. Next!
It’s fascinating how every single person present knows exactly who came at what point and whose turn it is. Flawless memory of a sequence of dozens of strangers. They all get up as one as soon as a door opens, as if the doctor will hand-pick them over everyone else. They couldn’t care less, they don’t even yell the wonderful ‘’NEXT!’’ at the top of their lungs. Everyone got there half an hour ahead of opening time, to fuck the system, but if everyone fucks the system then a new system is created and no one fucked it. The Earth could use a culling.
More out of curiosity than actual need, he answers the questions honestly. That means he triggers the indicators for depression, apathy, suicidal thoughts, OCD. It’s his turn just before the break, he’s surprised they even saw him. The doctor briefly explains that she’s a psychologist. She starts writing. Without looking up at him, she asks for the questionnaire. She immediately turns it to the evaluation page. They lock eyes for a few seconds, she asks whether he got tired from waiting. His answer, as if he spent the morning digging. She laughs at the quip, stamps and signs her name. All’s well, she says. Goodbye.
He stops outside the door to see what she wrote down. No signs of this and that, indications such and such none. Conclusion – inconspicuous.