Breakfast at Sally's

by Richard LeMieux

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, bending over to kiss her. My father stood up. I could see the worry and fear in his eyes. Then he sat down again.

  I could tell she was in pain. “How are you feeling, Mom?” I asked.

  “Oh, not so good today,” she said. I pulled a small metal chair closer to the bed and sat down where I could hold her hand. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m supposed to cover a high-school basketball game in the city,” I said. “Two pretty good teams. But I don’t have to be there until seven, and I can stay longer if you need me.”

  Then my mother did what she always had done for me: She protected me, even from the sadness of her own passing. “Oh, I’m going to be okay,” she smiled, with as much brightness as she could muster. “I’ll be going home in a day or two. How is my grandson, Richie?”

  “He’s fine, Mom,” I replied, returning her smile. “You know what he did this morning? While I was in the bedroom making the bed, he got into the kitchen pantry and found the empty Pepsi bottles. Well, each one probably had a little sip left in it, and he was sitting on the floor with six pop bottles trying to get that last little bit out of them.” My mother laughed. We talked for about an hour or so before a silence came.

  “Well, you had better get to work, huh?” she finally asked.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I replied, looking at my watch. I stood up and leaned over the bed again and gave her another kiss. She reached out and clasped my hand, squeezing it tenderly. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and I walked out the door.

  It was just about eleven p.m. when I was sitting at my Underwood, putting the finishing touches on the story of the basketball game I had covered. One of the other reporters called out, “Richard, line three for you.” I picked up the receiver and pushed the blinking button. “LeMieux,” I said.

  “Richard,” my father’s voice said. “Your mother passed away just a little while ago.”

  Silence filled the air. I didn’t know what to say. Finally the simplest of words came. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I wish I could have been there.”

  “You know your mom,” he replied. “She wanted it this way.”

  I knew he was right. She would rather have had me off playing sportswriter than sitting beside her, watching her die, sharing her pain. Her name was Grace, and she lived up to it.

  “Well, I’m going home in a little bit to feed the dog and go to bed,” my father said. “Why don’t you stop by the house in the morning, okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.” I hung up the phone.

  I didn’t cry that night. Or later, at the funeral. And I didn’t cry when my father died ten years later.

  Now, here, sleeping in the back of my van in the parking garage of a hospital in Bremerton, tears welled up in my eyes for Marcia, for my mother, for the brothers and sisters I never got to know.

  I felt the presence of my sweet mother saying, “Don’t cry, Richard. There is nothing to cry about.”

  Chapter 8

  DR. Z

  With C as my tour guide to the many free meals in the city, my ache for sustenance over the next few weeks was largely appeased.

  But there were many other aches and pains that a large helping of tuna-noodle casserole could not soothe.

  A doctor at the Department of Health Services had diagnosed me as suffering clinical depression. He passed me on to other physicians to see if I was salvageable.

  The journey back, or forward, or sideways—I was not sure which direction it was going to be—was about to become more complicated and intriguing with each day. I felt I was adrift in the raging river of life. Occasionally I could grasp the branch of a fallen tree for a rest from the torrent, but the respite was always brief, and the churning waters would then carry me away again. I could never quite reach the shore.

  I had gone to the library to keep warm and dry and to read every book available on depression, only to find the process even more depressing.

  The state sent me to “Dr. Z” for a look-see. They called him Dr. Z because most of his patients could neither spell nor say his last name correctly.

  Dr. Z was my doc because he was the only physician in town at the time who would accept Medicaid, which paid considerably below the going rate other doctors wanted for each visit.

  Dr. Z’s office was just about filled with poor people when I arrived one morning in March for a ten a.m. appointment. Children who were sneezing, coughing, and obviously running fevers sat in their mothers’ laps. Four little old ladies were mostly staring off into space, though occasionally taking a peek at a middle-aged man rocking back and forth in his chair while mumbling some indistinguishable words.

  I checked in at the desk. “Do you have an insurance card?” the receptionist asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, pulling the Medicaid card from my pocket and handing it to her.

  “Please fill this out,” she said, handing me a clipboard that contained a patient information form. “Here’s a pen, too.” She held it out to me. “I need to make a copy of your card,” she added as I walked away.

  I settled in a chair along the wall, crossed my legs, and began filling out the form.

  Name: Richard LeMieux

  Address: none

  Phone: none

  Father and mother: deceased

  Children: none

  Relative or friend to contact in case of emergency: none

  Allergies, current, or past infections or illnesses that require

  treatment: none

  Current medications: none

  Current medications: none

  I got up and returned to the desk and handed the receptionist the clipboard. She handed my medical card back to me. “Someone will be with you shortly,” she said with a smile.

  I then went looking for some reading material on the racks. There was no Bon Appétit, Redbook, People, Golf, or Travel & Leisure. There were a few AARP magazines, but I didn’t want those. The book collection consisted mostly of Dr. Seuss classics. I grabbed The Cat in the Hat, took it back to my seat, opened the book, and started reading.

  I had just gotten past the “sit, sit, sit, sit” part and was moving on to the real excitement when the nurse interrupted my reading. “Richard? Richard LeMieux?” She was standing by the entrance to the chamber that would lead me to Dr. Z’s examining room. I got up and took Dr. Seuss with me, which drew a smile from two of the old ladies still sitting patiently in their chairs. “Hello. I’m Jane,” the nurse said, pushing the door open and revealing the long hallway of Dr. Z’s clinic. “Let’s go to room number two.” She briskly led the way.

  “Hop up on that examining table and please take off your shirt,” Nurse Jane said, reaching for a dressing gown and holding it up for me. “You may put this on.” She began going through her nursing routine of strapping a blood pressure apparatus around my arm and squeezing the ball. “So, why are you here today?” she asked.

  “I am here for depression,” I replied, as I felt the pressure on my arm increase with each pump of the ball in Nurse Jane’s hand.

  “Depression, huh?” she said. “Why do you feel you are depressed?”

  “Oh, well, I, uh... well, I tried to commit suicide a little while ago, and uh... well, it didn’t... well—”

  “That’s okay, dear,” Jane interrupted, and she put her hand on my shoulder. Then she turned and picked up a clipboard and wrote something down. “How do you feel today?” she asked.

  “Well, I have been sleeping in my car for a few months and I’m a little tired, but I—”

  “Here. Open up,” she interrupted again, pointing a thermometer toward my mouth. “Your blood pressure is just fine,” she said, grabbing the clipboard and writing again. “The doctor will be able to help you,” she assured me, taking the thermometer with her other hand and checking its reading. “Temperature is fine, too.”

  Then Nurse Jane wheeled around and opened the door. “The doctor will be with you soon,” she said. I went back
to reading Dr. Seuss.

  Juggling fish bowls, bottles of milk, and birthday cakes—I wondered if Seuss was “on the pipe” when he wrote this stuff. Was there a subliminal message being passed on, like “Let your soul out to play”? Or was he just messing with the minds of the parents who would be reading this book to their children, parents who might secretly want some chaos in an otherwise too-orderly universe?

  “C is just like the Cat in the Hat,” I thought. Entering a room, he could turn the boring and mundane into something bizarre, or at least exciting. He’d turn things upside down and make a mess with his words and deeds. He would even try to walk on water from time to time and move mountains with his faith—either of which could have earned him a room in the mental hospital if reported. He could turn even an uneventful shopping trip into an adventure.

  C had asked me one day to take him to the store to get some supplies for the Armadillo. We went to Wal-Mart, where we were greeted cordially at the door. C bowed at the waist and then went down on one knee before the greeter, saying “Greetings to you, too!”

  I should have run, right then.

  As we cruised down aisle 2B, C spotted a young, blond sales associate with a red vest approaching us, her ill-fitting half heels slapping the tiled floor. Her nametag read “Victoria.” “Pardon me, darlin’,” C said, stopping her in her tracks. “Can you tell me where to find the campstove gas canisters?”

  “Sporting Goods. Follow me!” Victoria commanded and turned to lead the parade, her heels rhythmically clicking on the tiles. She led us past Bed and Bath, through Pet Supplies, and then breezed by Automotive to Sporting Goods. “Here they are!” She pointed to the canisters. “And you’re lucky. They’re on sale for $1.09,” she added, pointing to the happyface sign.

  “Wow,” C responded. “$1.09? I pay $2.60 apiece for these at the hardware store.”

  “Our everyday low price at Wal-Mart is only $1.99,” Victoria boasted.

  “Well, it’s no wonder, darlin’, that you people can’t afford to have health insurance and can barely afford to live,” replied C. Well, that comment took the perk right out of the sales associate. Victoria’s green eyes opened wide and she stiffened. Without comment, she turned and stomped away, her shoes clapping even more loudly on the floor. “Gosh, I hope she wasn’t offended,” he said to me as he picked up the gas canisters. “Next, some Palmolive dish soap.”

  We set off on the next part of the journey unguided.

  As we were leaving that department, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that we were under surveillance by a middle-aged man in a white shirt and tie. I instinctively recognized him as a management type and suspected that’s C’s comment had been duly reported. My only hope was to get C out the door as quickly as possible.

  “Do they have caramel corn here?” C asked. “I like caramel corn late at night.”

  “Probably,” I said, looking over my shoulder for the man in the white shirt and tie.

  Just as we were closing in on the caramel corn, I saw another man in a white shirt and tie at the end of the aisle. This one was wearing a bright red vest and was watching us. He stepped out of sight after I made eye contact. Now I knew we were in trouble. After all, C had a case of gas canisters in his arms. We could be terrorists, or worse yet, communists. I suspected cameras were recording our every move, and I feared our profiles were being scanned and sent by satellite to Homeland Security.

  Having finally reached our objective, C grabbed a bag of caramel corn off the shelf. “I also need some of those long kitchen matches,” he muttered. I took a deep breath, and he stopped. “On second thought,” he said, “I think I have enough matches to get by. Let’s get out of here. I actually feel bad shopping here; I feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I hoped we would escape this institution without further incident. Unfortunately, as we rounded the corner of aisle 27A, I saw the long line at checkout stand 5—the only line open in the middle of a shift change.

  We got in line. The lady in front of us had a cart full of grape- and lime-juice boxes, three cases of Pampers, six packages of Lunchables bologna-and-cheese snacks, and eight cans of dog food. Another woman slipped into line behind us with a twenty-four-pack of chocolate chip cookies. And behind her, an elderly lady pulled in with a cart filled with Spam, boxes of Velveeta, cat food, a bag of cat litter, and a cat scratching post.

  It was in that line, just as I placed the plastic divider bar on the conveyor belt so he could put his goods down, that C’s conscience got to him. “No. No. I can’t do this,” he began, berating himself. “I’ve got to put this stuff back! Buying here is destroying the very fabric of man, enslaving people in low-wage jobs.” His voice began to grow louder. “These people can’t afford to live on what they are making here,” he continued, pointing to the sales associates. He glanced down, took a deep breath, and let forth a yell:

  “ATTENTION! ATTENTION, WAL-MART SHOPPERS! We have a special on conscience today, and it’s FREE! It will make you feel good! It will make you smile! Please join me in putting our stuff back and agreeing NOT to shop here until they get their employees HEALTH INSURANCE and a LIVING WAGE!”

  I looked around. Beneath all the smiley-face price-rollback signs was a sea of snarls on Wal-Mart shoppers’ faces. They were not about to put back their $5.99 slippers, or any of their other newly found treasures.

  The greeters had all gathered at the end of checkout stand 5 with a chorus of frowns, and the white-shirt-and-tie brigade converged on C.

  “We must ask you to leave, sir!” said one, followed quickly by the other adding, “Or we will have to call the police!”

  “I will be more than happy to accommodate you, sirs,” said C, producing a Cheshire-cat grin. He turned and strode toward the door, leaving his gas canisters, Palmolive soap, and caramel corn lying on the conveyor belt. I could tell by his stride that he was pleased with himself. He had made his point.

  I heard the sound of the door handle in the small examining room turn, and the door opened slowly. Dr. Z peeked in to make sure someone was in the room. He looked at me over his glasses. “Hello.” He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and started reading the chart Nurse Jane had given him.

  “Depression... suicide attempt...” Dr. Z looked up at me. “Not good,” he observed. I nodded in agreement. “Well, we can fix that,” he said, matter-of-factly, and he took a small flashlight out of his coat pocket and pointed it in my eyes, placing his left hand on the side of my face. “Eyes left.” I noticed the frayed collar of his white shirt and the missing button. “Eyes right.” I complied. “Look down.” Then I noticed the tassel was missing from his well-worn right brown oxford shoe.

  I thought to myself, “Poor Dr. Z chose the wrong specialty for making money in the new millennium. He should have gone for breasts. 300,000 women, including 18,000 girls under the age of eighteen, had bought—mostly charged—breast implants in 2002. At $4,000 to $6,000 per job, it added up to $2.4 billion. If Dr. Z had gone that route, he would have been able to buy a new pair of loafers and a new smock.”

  My mind was wandering. I wondered what Madame Curie would say about all of those breast implants.

  Dr. Z scribbled something on my chart again and then laid it down. He searched through his smock pockets—first the top, then the lower right. I thought he looked depressed. The sole of his left shoe was beginning to separate from the uppers. His maroon tie was spotted. He found what he was searching for—a prescription pad—in the same pocket where his pen had been. He then quickly wrote out the scrip and handed it to me. I lowered my head, looking at the small piece of paper.

  “I’m going to give you Zoloft,” he said. “Take it twice a day and get lots of sleep.” He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder as he spoke reassuringly. “We are going to make you feel better.” He turned around, pulled a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall and filled it at the sink. He set the cup down saying, “I’ll be right back.”

&nbs
p; He dashed out the door and was back in seconds. “I’ve got some samples to get you started today,” said Dr. Z, tearing open a box and then pressing a small, pastel-green pill out of its plastic holder into the palm of his hand. He handed me the pill and the water. I put the pill in my mouth and washed it down.

  “Well, just about everybody is on some drug nowadays,” I thought to myself. “Rush Limbaugh is on pain pills, Barry Bonds is hitting recordbreaking home runs on steroids, half the NFL is on something, and who knows what the NBA players are using, or what Michael Jackson is taking at his Neverland Ranch.”

  I knew the next step from my readings at the library. Dr. Z and I both knew that many suicide suitors who have failed try again as soon as they get a little boost from the pills.

  I wondered if maybe Dr. Z could concoct a capsule so powerful that I could be changed into “The Millennium Man,” a modern-day Wyatt Earp, with a cell phone strapped to one hip and a beeper attached to the other, armed for battle. I would wear a radio headset tuned in to Rush Limbaugh and have my laptop in one hand and my compass set in the other, so I could find my way home at night; with all batteries fully charged, I would be plugged in to the world. I would be pumped up with 1,000 milligrams of vitamin C, 500 of B, 200 of E, and two aspirin for my heart, and I would carry Viagra in my pocket, just in case. My wife would be a real-estate baroness, off closing a house deal. She would have all the toothbrushes charging, the house alarm on, and the OnStar System set in the car. Her pillbox would be full of pain pills and other supplements, marked for every day of the week. She would have the TiVo set to record Dr. Phil at two and the microwave set to start dinner at five. The windows would all be duct-taped and our guns loaded. The kids would be safe at school or on the way to their bowling class. Everything would be perfect.