A Day in the Life of a Human Lab Rat

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"°No me gusta leche, por nada!"

"What is Jesus saying?"

"He's saying he doesn't like milk. That's all. He just doesn't like it. And please don't shave my chest."

The electrodes are attached to my nipples, my stomach, my shins. I'm staring up at the ceiling, listening to a room full of mumbling men and Beethoven and Jesus and an impatient nurse. There are four more days of this, 24 more blood draws, 18 more EKGs, countless more movies, urine samples, pills, glasses of milk. I tell myself to think of the money.

Instead, I think of a real job—one where you dig the earth, or lift big boxes, or cook food, or save people from drowning. I think of the men in the other room. Benoit is an actor and a security guard, but he can't make enough to feed his kids. Enrique was a lawyer in Mexico and has applied to every Mexican restaurant in the city. As companies like Phoenix expand, I can see men in cities all over the world moving into clinics, closing the blinds, turning on the TV, sipping their milk.

I tell myself this isn't it, this isn't all. I'm still young; I can still be whatever I want to be. I just need some money right now. I just have to pay the rent, curb my student loans. That's all.

I think of the setting sun, of waterfalls and road trips, of open-air concerts and the desert and stars and swimming in the ocean. Then I think of the money, and how Jesus and I should go out for drinks when all this is over.

From Saturday Night (Sept. 1999). Subscriptions: $31.45 (10 issues) from 184 Front St. E., Suite 400, Toronto, ON M5A 4N3.

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