This Scientific Age

To earn a college degree in hotel administration, I had to complete three summer internships in the hospitality industry during the course of my studies. With no industry connections, the best job I could land after my freshman year was as a waitress working third shift at a local diner. After withstanding three consecutive ten-hour shifts being mocked by my coworkers, a barrel-chested waitress wearing a state-issued ankle bracelet took me under her wing.

Judy explained that diner waitresses made the circuit, meaning they stayed at one establishment for a time, then left voluntarily or otherwise, only to return again after a while. Our manager confirmed that her current gig at the restaurant we represented was Judy’s fifth time being employed there. Judy continued by telling me to fight back the next time the chef threatened me with his butchering knife. She said watching me run out of the restaurant had been funny, but weakened my presence in the diner. She told me to throw a plate at him, being sure of my aim, the next time he threatened me.

I was so grateful for her tutelage, it never occurred to me to ask Judy why she wanted me to tinkle in a plastic cup at the end of my fourth shift. I was glad to oblige her request, thinking she was applying for health insurance or, possibly, life insurance. Having now won over the staff thanks to Judy’s mentoring, I again didn’t question her motives when she asked me to potty in a plastic cup exactly one week later.

After the third week of tinkling with curious accuracy, I asked Judy to split a taxi ride home with me, hoping she would tell me why she was collecting my bodily fluids. Piling into the taxi, possible motives including cloning and my DNA being planted at various crime scenes ran through my mind. Our taxi driver stopped at a red light as I popped the big question. A second later, Judy’s leg was slung over the console separating her from our driver and her foot was atop his, pressing the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

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I was so shocked, I couldn’t even scream when our speed reached 90. The taxi driver yelled something about his insurance not covering this sort of thing. Judy laughed hysterically. Thirty seconds later, the vehicle came to a screeching stop in front of her run-down apartment building.

Shaking in the back seat, I listened as Judy answered my question. She could have collected more pee as she spoke since I had wet myself for the first time in 17 years. She needed my potty to pass mandatory drug screens. Getting out of the taxi, she continued, pointing to her ankle accessory, by apologizing to the taxi driver for putting his insurance and his life at risk with her stunt. Then, Judy handed me the knife our chef had threatened me with during my first week at the diner, assuring me I would need it more than she would. I never saw her again.

Copyright scientificcage.com 2008