It Becomes Necessary
By Beth Green
Part 2
*****
Now in my idea of a perfect world, my story would have ended with my little walk with Catherine. "And he lived happily ever after is his nice new lab." Unfortunately, this is my currently shitty life. And the "nice new lab" is so far from being that that it keeps adding to my misery.
Take my current frustration, for example. The particular reagent for the test that I need to run has always been kept on the first shelf of the right-hand side cabinet. However, it's not there. Not only is the reagent not there, the goddamn cabinet isn't there anymore, either. Nothing is where it should be. The DNA/Chem Lab has been sandwiched in with the Bio lab. The equipment is mostly second-hand stuff that we begged and borrowed from elsewhere until the new replacements come in. Some of the equipment is special order and won't be available yet for weeks.
I've gone from being the king of my own domain to floundering around like a rookie his first week on the job. I cannot find words to express how totally this sucks. It's no wonder my hands shake like some old wino with the DTs. And, to make my day complete, I lied to my boss.
Let me tell you about Gil Grissom. As a criminalist, his skills are second to none. His insights and observations and leaps of logic are a beautiful thing to behold. Put him on a witness stand and the case is over, 'cause there's no way anyone can doubt that he's telling anying but the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. However, when it comes to reading people, he tends to be totally clueless.
It was my bad luck that today he decided to start noticing the people around him. Or, to be more specific, the person, being myself. While making one of his "I want my evidence processed yesterday" visits to the lab, he noticed my hand shaking. As soon as he commented on it, I gave a mental sigh of defeat. *Busted.* He made me demonstrate that both of my hands are affected. Then, he asked if I'd seen a doctor about it.
This is where the lie comes in. I have seen enough doctors in the past week to last a lifetime, thank you very much. The only doctor I haven't seen is a psychologist, and that's where I'd end up if I sought medical help for my nervous twitch. Come on, how hard is it to diagnose a problem that only occurs when you're at work? Despite everything, I'm not looking to find another job. And I'm shit-scared that a doctor would tell me that that's the only solution to my problem. He might even insist on it. I don't intend to find out. So, it was surprisingly easy to lie right to Grissom's face and tell him that the doctor already knew about my tremors.
Now that I think about it, he was very un-Grissom-like. The man actually tried to make me feel better about the whole thing by offering verbal reassurance. He thinks it's only a temporary condition. God, I hope he's right. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. Maybe it's time to make use of the get well present I received from my friend, Freddie.
Oh, didn't I mention him before? The man is a major hypochondriac. He's got about a dozen different doctors he sees on a rotating basis. Most of 'em don't know he's been seen by anyone else. Anyway, he's got enough prescription medications on hand to open up his own drug store. When I complained about the shakes, he kindly offered to share his unused stash of sedatives with me. Feeling a bit desperate at the time, I took him up on his offer.
I haven't taken any. . .
. . . yet.
*****
~end