BEERMAN´S ODE TO JOY

Then his girlfriend moved in. Turned out she was an avid piano player too. Back in the good old days, I would wait until he wore himself out on repeated attempts to get the dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dahdahdah´s just right, and then when he finally passed out I´d be able to get some shuteye. Now they took turns. His girlfriend was also a medical student. Must have had that romantic moment when you look into each others eyes when you´ve just dissected your first frog. Don´t know when they had time to study in between their piano practicing. They barely even seemed to stop for sex. That´s going from dedicated to deranged.
Finally the Ode to Joy came to an end and I heard him going out to work. Now that school is out for the summer he´s working, getting practical experience. I rarely say this of people, but I can´t wait for him to graduate and be happy and make a lot of money. Money changes people. More importantly, it changes where they live.
I didn´t even look at the clock. As I heard him carefully closing the door, I knew it was 8.00 sharp. I also knew it was time to call the clinic. The clinic is open from 8.00 to 16.00, but you can only make an appointment between the hours of 8.00 and 9.00. As if pissing razor blades wasn´t bad enough, you also have to get up at a time when only madmen and medical students are about.
I reached for the phone and dialled the number. Visits to the clinic are a regular feature of an irresponsible sex life. Sometimes I have been glad I didn´t get lucky more often, but mostly I count my stars that my rare winning streaks haven´t yet resulted in offspring.
The number, of course, was busy. It was Monday, and a lot of lonely people who had finally had their one good evening were getting nervous. How come people who have sex with strangers all the time never seem to catch anything, but those who only rarely do seem to catch something every time? The law of averages never seems to work when it comes to sex.
At least medical science has improved. When I was younger, a checkup meant having rods inserted into your dick by an elderly nurse who probably had no conception of the pain you were going through and if she did wanted to punish you for your sins. Thankfully, the University had been trying to get more guys into nursing lately, as well as getting more girls into engineering. I´d rather have chicks build my bridges, as I usually seem to be burning them where they are concerned, and have strange men poke objects into my penis than the other way around. At least with the guys you get sympathy.
But as I said, medical science has improved. Now all you have to do was pee in a glass. This is not quite as simple as it at first may seem. The urine sample has to be the first stream of the day. So before you can actually relieve yourself, you need to get through to them on the phone. And then you need to make an appointment. And then, if you´re lucky enough to get one on the same day, you need to get your ass down there at a pace only a man who hadn´t been able to go to the bathroom all day would maintain.
For the second time that month, I got lucky. I was told to come in right away. Even the wait wasn´t all that long. My regular doctor was away for his summer holiday, but they had someone to fill in for him. A medical student, they told me. Something inside me told me to turn around and leave, but I was not in the habit of listening to it. The intro to Beethoven´s 5th played in my mind as the door opened, and inside stood my first floor medical student, wearing a white frock and that great big smile he always put on when I met him and must be the first thing they teach you in med school after how to swing a golf club.
“What´s the problem,” he said. I told him. He handed me a glass. I counted my stars that medical science, at least, has improved.