As 2006 wound down, and the office supplied fertile fields for the cold virus to grow, she showcased her supply of
Zicam©, a peddler beneath shady fedora, spreading her trench coat to sell her wares. She pressured us all as she stalked along the latticework of sleepy streets in our cubicle neighborhood. I heard the shaky, almost shy refusals as she continued along. She was persistent, but we stood strong, all of us, and someone eventually cried in desperation across the department, "NO MEANS NO!" She settled back with a neat pout on her lips and we breathed a sigh of relief. We heard no more on the subject.
Yet, days and weeks later, I, scheduled for surgery in fewer than seven days and sniffling mightily with a clot of crud sitting in the base of my throat, found myself stumbling blindly to her desk, pleading for a hit with an addict's desperation. I couldn't get sick—I would have sold my soul to the devil himself (or best offer) to prevent a delay in my scheduled procedure. Eyes dancing as though filled with fireflies, she dug in her purse for her makeup bag, in her makeup bag through her army of lipsticks, eyeliner, and vials of perfume to find the lone remaining medicated cotton swab.
The packaging was wrinkled, creased, and had seen its share of neglect. I wondered at its effectiveness at such a telling age, but marched bravely, nonetheless, to the privacy of my easily scrutinized plot of office space. As I walked past my comrades, they all asked quietly amongst themselves against the oppressive drone of a pirate's dirge, "Laura's going to try it?" Yes. It had come to this. With a hand so steady as to not betray my jumbled nerves, I inserted the swab in both nostrils and waited for it to kill my virus. My nearest neighbor leaned from her cubicle to mine to ask how it went. My eyes were teary and I think I stuck it too far up, but I gave a watery smile and a thumb's up.
And so began my abuse of zinc gluconate. Peer pressure and the weak-minded: the yin and yang of addiction. She won, and I never got sick. (Of course, I also followed the advice of my surgeon's staff and coaxed myself towards extra sleep when not consuming orange juice like it was the keystone to my very existence, but that's neither here nor there.) She will find an easier sell next time she seeks to traffic. I'm easy like that.
And, at Nick's request (we are watching a very close basketball game):
GO BADGERS!
