Jillian

by Halle Butler

  Amanda laughed and said “Gee whiz.” Megan shrugged and offered up a cheers.

  There was that kind of pause that happens when one person is trying to think of something interesting to say while the other person waits. Megan grimaced and said, “I’m not that interesting.”

  Amanda laughed again. Then she became serious and said, “Hey, are you going to look for something else? You seem pretty unhappy.”

  “Ehh, I don’t know. I’ve looked, and I usually end up feeling pretty overwhelmed and underqualified for all of the interesting jobs, and then I have a thought spiral, and then I feel like I made a bad move somewhere back in middle school, and then I feel like there’s no hope at all for me and then I contemplate suicide.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes in a friendly way and said, “I know what you mean, but it’s not that big of a deal. You just apply for stuff. And fake it.”

  “I’m just trying to live pure,” said Megan. “Ambition’s for the devil.”

  At that moment, Carrie walked up and gave Amanda a hug and said, “Oh my god, girl!” Megan opened another beer and put the empty back in her purse. “I’ve got to show you this llama my boss and I bought off a homeless guy.”

  “Ha ha ha,” said Amanda, taking Carrie’s phone. “It’s enormous! Megan, have you seen this?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

  “Hey, can I get a cigarette?” asked Carrie.

  “Oh, sure,” said Amanda. “You want one?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Megan.

  “I quit,” said Carrie. “I quit smoking and I quit coffee, and I feel so much better now.”

  “How long have you been not smoking?” asked Amanda, handing Carrie her lighter.

  “Like, three weeks. Have you ever quit before?”

  “I take breaks sometimes,” said Amanda.

  “It’s just this really clean feeling, like I can feel everything that’s dead inside of me coming to life again. I can feel life flowing through me.” Carrie held her hands out, palms up, and flexed her fingers like claws. The cigarette was between her right pointer and middle fingers. Megan raised her eyebrows at the floor.

  “Except when I’m drinking, then I can’t help it,” said Carrie.

  “You’re fine just as long as you don’t buy your own pack,” said Megan.

  “Exactly,” said Carrie, looking at Megan for the first time all evening. “Hey, do you have anything to drink?” she asked Amanda.

  “No, I got this beer from Megan.”

  Carrie looked at Megan with a dumb expression.

  “Take your pick,” said Megan, holding the bag out to her.

  “Oh my god, there are like twelve empty cans in here.”

  It was true. Megan smelled like beer and had been trailing a little dribble of lukewarm beer behind her all night.

  “I’m from Michigan,” said Megan. “I take them back across the border for the deposit money.”

  “Ha ha ha,” said Amanda.

  “That’s disgusting,” said Carrie, but she reached into the sack anyway. “So, what is that, like a dollar twenty in cans?”

  Megan shrugged.

  “So, how have you been?” asked Amanda.

  “Pretty good, pretty good,” said Carrie. “I have so many projects going on right now that my head is like,” she bugged her eyeballs and held her hands on either side of her head.

  While they were talking about having too many interesting things to do, Randy and two of his friends walked up to their circle.

  Randy whispered, “Can I have a beer?”

  “Can I have a cigarette?”

  They traded.

  “You should try some of David’s growler,” said Randy.

  Megan shook her head. “Never mix, never worry.”

  “They’re both beer,” he said.

  Megan turned to him and said very quietly, “This is killing me,” and then she walked out of the kitchen.

  When it was time to wind things down, Megan was sitting on the couch with the guy from the bathroom line. Megan spotted Carrie and said, “Hey, Carrie! Come over here. Hey, this is the girl I was telling you about with the llama. Hey, Carrie, come show this guy the picture of you with the llama.”

  “Um, I really have to go,” said Carrie.

  “She’s got this picture of herself with a llama the size of a young woman trapped inside of an enormous stuffed llama,” said Megan. “And she’s embracing it with one arm and she’s smiling at the camera.” Megan mimicked Carrie unfavorably. She made a peace sign.

  “That sounds cool,” said the guy.

  “She and her boss got it off of an untouchable.” She whisper-yelled the word “untouchable.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, bye, guys.” Megan said a few more things.

  “Time to go home,” said Randy, helping her up from the couch.

  “Why is everyone such a fucking asshole?” she asked.

  “What do you mean? Who’s an asshole?”

  “Why is everyone I said.” Megan’s knees buckled. She palmed the ground. “I hate Carrie. She repulses me.” Randy hoisted her up by the arm, the way people do with toddlers.

  “Come on, she’s not repulsive. I can see how she might be kind of intimidating. She used to intimidate me a little.”

  “I didn’t say intimidating, I said repulsive. Intimidating would imply that there was some reason I should feel inferior to her, but I don’t feel inferior because her life is a lie and she’s got no heart.”

  Randy laughed a little. “Okay.”

  “She’s got no heart!” she bellowed.

  “Okay,” said Randy.

  Megan straightened herself, rolled her eyes, chuckled, and said, “Soooo typical, sooo typical,” not knowing quite what she meant.

  4

  The next morning the alarm went off at seven-thirty. Randy pushed Megan to the edge of the bed with his foot.

  “You know, I think it’s probably okay for me to get a few more hours of sleep. It might even be dangerous or unethical for me to go to work like this,” she said.

  “Get up,” said Randy.

  “The cruelty, the inhumanity,” Megan mumbled.

  She swung her torso upright and pushed herself off the bed and walked to the bathroom, placed towels around the base of the claw-foot tub (all original!) to absorb the leaks, and then turned on the faucet.

  In the shower, as soon as her muscles began to relax and as soon as she started to feel fresh and as if the bearing of the day might be fractionally possible, she heard that old familiar voice—possibly her own voice, it was so familiar—whisper something awful. This morning it whispered “llama” and she burst into tears as her amnesia was lifted. Megan groan-screamed and sputtered something about wishing to be put out of her misery, all while scrubbing her armpits with a teal-colored shower poof. The last mild dignity of her wailing was interrupted by a diarrhea feeling that usually followed a long night of drinking canned, watery beer.

  “Oh, great.”

  She scrubbed all of her dark, fetid cracks—ass, snatch, and toes—blew her nose in the direction of the drain, and then rinsed herself with cold water. She almost fell as she got out of the tub and was not surprised by this, in the same way she was not surprised by the bawling and the indigestion. She dried herself, flossed, put on lotion, and took the obligatory five minutes to comb through her hair (a new habit), then wrapped her hair in the towel. There were few more vulnerable feelings to Megan than taking a nasty shit while wet, cold, slimy, and naked. Under ideal conditions she would have put her pajamas back on before unleashing, but she had slept in her clothes.

  It was always the smell of burning tires that rose from the bowl beneath her on these kinds of mornings. Better than vomiting, always, always better than vomiting, though. At least while shitting she had a chance to daydr
eam. She flushed, rewashed her ass and crotch (also a new habit, preceded by a three-year yeast infection), washed her hands, put some Neosporin on the thick scab on her ass, shook her hair out of the towel, then wrapped the towel around her body.

  “Hey, baby, you look cute,” said Randy.

  “Yeah I feel fucking adorable, where are my tights?” He doesn’t know where my tights are, where the fuck are my fucking tights? she thought. She found them. She put them on with a skirt and a sweater because if she dressed well they might not notice. She blow-dried her hair.

  The cigarette and the coffee and the bagel were carrots to lure her out of her apartment. Yeah, I’m like a little horsey, she thought. The cigarette went in her mouth as soon as she left her apartment building, and its smoke made her sick and almost made her swoon. She had smoked too many last night, but she had also not had a cigarette in about five hours. After a cup of coffee, she knew all of her body would clench and her mind would feel elevated (ah, yesyesyesyes, elevated) and her midday cigarette would nicely diffuse the caffeine tension. She knew that cigarette would be the best of the day.

  She rinsed her mouth with the coffee on the nauseating bus ride. She’d eaten the bagel at the bus stop. She knew, later, she would have to secretly pocket the public restroom key and then make up some excuse to leave the office. Better they think I’m slacking off than taking a dump, she thought and then laughed.

  Llama.

  * * *

  • • •

  Morning came, as usual, at 0600 hours for Jillian. She felt good and hungry (some mornings she woke up feeling full, and those were not usually good days) and her bed was warm. For the first two minutes of each day, she felt like an actual normal living thing with manageable tasks. But then her brain would whisper the words “every morning is an opportunity waiting to happen,” and, behind that phrase, she would know there were things she had done wrong, there were people who were against her, and there was generally a lot of disappointment in her life. She would sit on the edge of her bed and look at the window, which faced another window of an apartment across the courtyard. Sometimes she had time to shower, but it wasn’t always important.

  She poured Adam some Apple Jacks and picked him up out of his bed, set him down in the kitchen, and then watched him eat. He didn’t even open his eyes. He was hilarious.

  Since black coffee was disgusting, Jillian liked to get a Starbucks on her drive to work. She knew she could save money if she made her own, but there was a drive-through right past Adam’s day care, and it was good to have a treat, so she treated herself. The downside was it gave her heartburn.

  When she got to work, Jillian microwaved the remainder of her Starbucks and opened her email.

  “Oh, this is cute,” she said.

  On the computer screen there was an email from Sister Grace about how dogs were better people than people. Enjoy this, I know I did !!!!!!!!!! it said.

  “This is real cute.” Jillian hit forward and selected twenty of her contacts.

  The door opened.

  “Hey, Megan!” said Jillian.

  “Hi,” said Megan.

  “I just sent you an email.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s nothing serious, but it’s real cute, okay?”

  “Okay, let me turn on my computer.”

  She’s going to like this, thought Jillian.

  “Do I have any messages so far?” asked Megan.

  “Nope, phones haven’t started ringing just yet,” said Jillian. “So, what’s new with you?”

  “Nothing.” Megan felt awkward for saying it that way. “I mean, nothing’s really changed since yesterday. How was your night?”

  “It was good. I think I’m going to hold off on getting that dog.”

  Megan opened her email and saw the thing from Jillian.

  “Two hundred dollars is too much for an adoption fee. I just don’t think I feel okay paying it,” said Jillian.

  “Yeah, well, I know I wouldn’t want a dog. Seems like it would be really inhibiting if you wanted to go on vacation or have friends, or inhibiting financially at least, if you want to be able to pay your bills. That’s what the adoption fee is for. To weed people out.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I just thought my son would like having a dog.”

  “Right,” said Megan.

  “Anyway, nothing new with you, then?”

  “Nope. Nothing at all.” Megan’s hangover was critical.

  “You get your email?” asked Jillian.

  “Yeah, I got it. Cute dogs.”

  “I know, I just thought that was so funny.”

  I just want to get my work done so I can go home, thought Megan. And then what?

  Things are going to get better after a while, after I get a few more things in order and out of the way, things are going to start getting better, I promise, thought Jillian. I promise.

  Dr. Billings poked his head out of his office. “Uh, Jillian,” he said. “Did you get a chance to order those gowns?”

  “Yeah, I ordered them last week when you asked me to.”

  “They haven’t come yet. Usually it only takes a few days. They’re in town. If you haven’t ordered them yet, I could always drive by after work.”

  “No, I ordered them. I don’t know why they haven’t come yet, but I ordered them.”

  “Okay. If they don’t come tomorrow, why don’t you give them a call. They might not have the right address, but they should have our address.”

  “No problem,” said Jillian. Megan rolled her eyes. “I’ll give ’em a call tomorrow,” said Jillian.

  “Okay. I don’t have patients until one, right?” asked Dr. Billings.

  “Nope, that’s right,” said Jillian.

  “Okay,” said Dr. Billings. “I’ll be back.” He left the office. Jillian picked up the phone and in a moment whispered, “Hi, my name is Jillian and I’m calling from Dr. Billings’ office. Yeah. Hi. I’d like to place an order for some surgical gowns. You got it.”

  Megan paused from her work and shook her head. I’m shaking my head with disbelief, she thought. But then she realized an opportunity had been presented to her, and she slipped the public restroom key into the waistband of her skirt and went outside for a smoke break.

  The cigarette undid her tension from the top down, liquefying her brain, lungs, fingers, bowels, spirit, etc.

  In the locked single-toilet public restroom, between spasms, she leaned back on the flush pipe and thought.

  “Do you have a name for that llama yet?”

  “No, I don’t have a name yet.”

  “Why don’t you name it Megan?”

  “Uuuhhmmm?”

  “Yeah, you can name it Megan and then you can take a knife and stab it in the ass or the face or wherever you want. Whatever you want, really, but if you name it Megan it’ll be like I’m close to you while you work.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “Not that I want to be near you. You know I don’t like you, right?”

  “Uh, what?”

  “I just think it would be pleasant to have some kind of non-sentient representation of myself floating out there in the world.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know, not sentient? Like it doesn’t have any self-awareness or consciousness? The llama?”

  “Yeah, I know what the word means.”

  “Oh, right, you went to grad school. I forgot you went to grad school.”

  Megan wiped and flushed and tried to use the flush sound to symbolically rid herself of the fantasy of saying something to Carrie about the llama.

  “Show this guy a picture of your llama,” she said while she washed her hands. “Show this guy that picture of your llama.” Since it would make her feel better, she let herself cry whenever she wanted to. She put her head in her arms and her arms
on the bathroom wall. When she finished, she washed her face and shook her fist at her reflection.

  “I’ll get YOU!” said Megan.

  God, I’m hilarious, she thought.

  She walked back down the hallway and the hallway didn’t exist.

  Everything about her life was so much the same from day to day that it almost didn’t exist.

  * * *

  • • •

  Randy didn’t get what the big deal was about Jillian. He didn’t think she sounded like a liar, and he thought Megan was blowing things out of proportion. He’d suggested this once.

  “Megan, do you think you’re redirecting your dissatisfaction with your job onto Jillian?”

  She’d said, “Fuck you.”

  Randy was sitting at his computer desk at home. He was confident that Megan’s Carrie thing was fleeting, despite her display last night, and he decided not to edit himself to accommodate her.

  Megan opened the door.

  “Hey,” said Randy.

  Megan slipped out of her bag, coat, and shoes and then took off her skirt, tights, underpants, sweater, and bra on her walk to the bedroom. She got into pajamas, put her hair in a stupid-looking ponytail, and said “Hey” as she sat down at the kitchen table.

  Randy started by mentioning some design work of Carrie’s that he’d seen.

  “Hmm,” said Megan.

  He had the magazine he’d seen it in, and he brought it to her, opened to the correct page. He took a seat.

  “Oh, wow,” said Megan. She picked up the magazine and dropped it back down on the table.

  “I think it’s really cool,” said Randy.

  “Sure. It looks like everything else, if that’s what you mean by cool.”

  “No, I mean, this is really professional work. It’s cool that it’s done by someone we know.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just a formula. I don’t feel honored to know a formula. Only one in, I don’t know, ten thousand designers is a real artist. I don’t know any designers who’ve been artists since Bauhaus, and they were fighting Nazis with their designs, not . . . imported produce or whatever.”