Gerald Cohen watched his shit from across the room lying in a clear plastic fecal sample container. The cold stainless steel seat on his bare backside, Gerald thought about how he had fished out his own turd earlier that day.
The Doctor was washing his hands. Recently divorced, he still wore the ring and put it back on after meticulously drying his hands.
Nurse Susan gum chewing, reading Cosmo. Eating a fat-free yogurt, daydreaming of the good doc's tongue licking her pussy.
Wrinkly old white man leaning on a cane in the waiting room. Born in St. Louis in 26, a veteran—WW2 , saw the battle of the bulge, brains and guts, young men screaming, "Johnnny!"…A machinist working nights making automobile parts putting two kids through college. Seen some of the best jazz performers—Miles, Monk. He's wearing diapers now.
In a warehouse, stacked on pallets, shrink-wrapped, a large box of stool specimen kits.
Tommy works the forklift and sells needles to junkies on the side.
Enriqué sits in the front cab of his tractor-trailer waiting to be unloaded. Above his head are pictures of a young girl, his daughter, back home in Mexico. Hasn't seen her in four years.
On the highway a Greyhound bus carries a Christian Community group. Some members are sleeping; others are reading the good book.
A station wagon weaves between lanes. The vehicle's cabin smoky, two longhaired men stoned.
Roadkill. A deer.
A satellite above connects a cell phone call from a Ms. Janet Kluwkinski to her health insurance provider.
In India, Manoj or Mike, answers in a fake American accent.
Somewhere in Michigan, Bill is pressing the mold that forms part of the stool sample kit. He hates his job and wishes he could do it all over again.
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