Breakfast at Sally's

by Richard LeMieux

  And maybe if I took two or three of Dr. Z’s miracle pills, I could quickly move up in the world and become a Tony Robbins, with my own late-night TV infomercial, sharing the secrets of my success, explaining how I, Ricardo (of course I have changed my name), became a multibillionaire in just six months by buying up foreclosed bungalows with no money down and selling them for four times their worth, and how you can do it, too, with my step-by-step motivational books and CDs, only $19.99! They teach you how to foreclose, how to toss people in the street, and even how to sleep at night after doing it! If you get good enough, you might even be able to buy a brunette!

  Or maybe Dr. Z’s drugs could get me the whole enchilada! I could design and build my own city and name it after myself. I could give my subjects a pill each morning and they would race from one end of town to the other all day, gathering resources for me, which I would send from my own port to China, where men, women, and children would work twenty-one hours a day for ten cents an hour in my very own sweatshops, assembling plastic widgets to be sold at Wal-Mart.

  I felt like Huck Finn must have felt at the end of his story, when Aunt Sally was going to adopt him and “sivilize” him. Dr. Z’s pill was now melting in my body. Would it “sivilize” me?

  Like Huck, I had been there before.

  But as I said, I had read the books at the library and I knew my future: Realizing that I was broken, irreparable, the state would find some garret to store me away in once and for all, crossing their fingers that I would not hurt myself or anyone else. Sometimes I would visit the swamp of despair and be sarcastic, angry, and morose. Sometimes my pills would stir the chemicals in my brain so that I could still dream of becoming the next great comedian, quarterback, or author. But in the end, I would know that I had fallen too far behind in the race of life. The cheering crowds would have long gone home before I reached the finish line. My tombstone would appropriately read DNF (Did Not Finish).

  I looked down at the sample package Dr. Z had handed me. There was a picture of what looked like an egg on its side, with a smile (or maybe a smirk) on its face, eyeing a ladybug flying through the air. It read “ZOLOFT” in big letters, with “Sertraline HCL” in parentheses.

  When I looked up, Dr. Z stood before me, peering over his spectacles again. “Come back in one week to see me,” he said. “You will feel better.”

  “As you wish,” I said, and he smiled. Maybe he had seen The Princess Bride too.

  I quickly slipped off the dressing gown and put on my shirt, thinking Dr. Z sure seemed confident that I would get better. I knew I would come back in a week. I didn’t want to disappoint him. Hell, maybe I had found another angel!

  Nurse Jane had not yet returned to set up my next appointment, so I went back to reading The Cat in the Hat. Soon the door swung open again, and in she came, asking, “How do you feel?”

  “I guess I’m okay,” I responded.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Well, I made an appointment for you at Kitsap Mental Health at ten a.m. for counseling,” she informed me. “Can you make that okay?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “It’s up behind the Fred Meyer store on the East Side,” she continued. “Do you know where that is?”

  “I do,” I responded. “I’ll just have to try to find some gas money to get there.”

  Jane took my hand and placed several rolled-up bills in it, gently closing my hand around the money. “That should help you get a motel room for a night, and some gas.” She kept holding my hand. “Get a hot bath, some food that you pick out and like, and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I don’t know...” My words choked off.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupted me. “My husband is a doctor, and about seven years ago he became so depressed that one day he just left home. It took me three months to find him. He was in Colorado, living on the streets. If someone had not helped him, he would have died.” She paused. “Now, let’s get you out of here. Hop down off that table, and we’ll see you in one week, at eleven a.m.” She escorted me from the room with a reassuring smile on her face.

  I didn’t open my hand to look at the money until I closed the door of Dr. Z’s clinic. It held four twenties, a ten, and three ones. Nurse Jane must have emptied her purse to help me.

  I walked to the van, opened the door, and told Willow the good news. “Willow, we are going to a motel for the night!” I attempted to calculate in my mind just how far Nurse Jane’s gift would carry us: fifty dollars for a motel, ten for dinner, ten for gas, fifty cents for a Zagnut bar, one for a hamburger for Willow, eighty-nine cents for a Classic Coke for later—and that left us twenty dollars for the next day.

  So, we headed out—first to Denny’s for a chicken-fried steak dinner with extra gravy, fries, a coke, and a piece of coconut cream pie, then on to McDonald’s for a Willowburger, and finally to the store before searching for a motel room.

  Chapter 9

  OH, GOD!

  I pulled into the Driftwood Motel parking lot about four p.m. It appeared to be in my price range—just off the highway, a little shabby, with an outdoor pool that obviously had not been used for years.

  I parked the van and walked in. There was no one at the front desk, but I heard a woman’s voice, apparently talking on the phone in the back. “You know I don’t like calling the police,” I heard her say. Then there was silence for a moment. “Well, then you come down here and call the cops, and you get them out of the room!” Silence again. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell them that they have to be out by ten in the morning or we will call the cops. See you in the morning.” Then I heard her hang up the phone and walk around the corner of the office.

  She looked a little surprised when she saw me. “Oh, hello. I didn’t hear you come in. Do you want a room?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “What is your rate?”

  “Forty-eight dollars a night, fifty-four with tax,” she answered.

  “Okay,” I said, reaching for the money in my pocket.

  “Just one night?”

  “Just tonight,” I replied, beginning to fill out the check-in card she handed me.

  “We have a continental breakfast in the morning,” she said, pointing to a small table along the wall. It held a coffee pot on a hot plate and what appeared to be two stale glazed donuts lying on a serving tray. “Checkout time is ten a.m.” She glanced at the card I handed her. “Cash or credit card?”

  “Cash,” I said, counting out the bills from the money Nurse Jane had given me.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask,” continued the desk clerk. “Do you have any pets? There’s a twenty-five dollar charge for pets.”

  “Ah, no, I don’t,” I lied, hoping Willow wasn’t barking in the van.

  She stuffed the cash in a drawer and then handed me a key. “Room 203,” she said. “It’s at the end of the parking lot.”

  I quickly moved to the van and jumped in, hoping to get out of sight before she got a glimpse of Willow. We succeeded. There were only three other cars in the parking lot, and we drove toward our room.

  I parked the van and put Willow inside my coat to hide her from view, stepped spryly up to the second-floor room, turned the key in the lock, stepped inside, and closed the door quickly. “No barking tonight!” I told Willow, as I placed her on the bed. “Or we will get kicked out.”

  It was a nice little room. Two double beds with bedspreads that were not too badly stained, and only a small rip in one of them. Willow cocked her head as she sat in the middle of the bed and looked at me. “We are going to have a bed tonight,” I said, “and you are going to get a bath!” Willow’s white coat had turned gray. It’d been months since she’d had a real bath.

  I turned on the TV and was greeted by the Jerry Springer Show. “Let’s bring June’s husband Randy out now,” Jerry said, as a man walked onstage to the whistles and applause of the audience. The man sat down in a chair next to his w
ife. Jerry sauntered toward the couple with a microphone in one hand and a piece of white paper in the other. “June, do you have something to tell Randy?” he asked, leaning forward.

  “Randy,” she began in a trembling voice. “I need to tell you that—well, I slept with your brother Buddy, and your—your father Sam.”

  Randy jumped up. “You bi—!” I turned the TV off.

  “Willow, it’s time for a bath,” I said, heading for the bathroom. “Come on.” She followed right behind.

  I found small bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom and ran water in the tub. Then I lifted Willow into her bath and lathered her up.

  As the grime began to wash away from the little dog’s coat, I could see the sores from the fleabites she had endured during our travels. Her fur was so stained that I was sure she would never be the pure white snowball she had been. But Willow never complained. I thought once again that it would be best for her if I tried to find her a good home. Maybe someplace where she could stay warm, get a bath every couple of weeks, go to the vet, get better food, and be brushed every day. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

  It was about eight p.m. or so when it began.

  Willow and I had both had our baths, and we were fortunate to find a movie on TV—The Natural. It was one of my favorites. Robert Redford had just been shot in a hotel room by some lady, and the scene where he begins his comeback as a baseball great was just beginning.

  I thought I had heard a champagne cork pop a little earlier and some giggling from the room next door. Now I could hear a woman’s husky voice. “Oh God, oh God, oh God... Oh God, GOD, GOD,” came the cries. Then there was silence, but not for long. “GOD, GOD, GOD, OH GOD, GOD, OH GOD!”

  “Is she in trouble?” I wondered. I got out of bed and hesitantly put my ear to the wall. Nothing. So I got back in bed.

  A minute or so later, it began again. “GOD, please God, PLEASE GOD, PLEEEAASE. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  I got out of bed again and put my ear to the wall. “God, God, Goddamn God,” she moaned, and this time I could hear the squeak of the bedsprings. The voice was getting louder and louder, and more and more insistent.

  Willow the Wonder Dog jumped out of bed and went to the door and barked, as if to come to the woman’s rescue. “Shush, Willow!” I plucked her up and brought her back to bed in a single motion.

  Damn. Here I am, having not had sex for, hell, I couldn’t remember how long, and I get a motel for the first time in six months, and I have to be right next door to what sounded like God having sex with a human. This can’t last long, I told myself, turning up the television and climbing back into bed.

  But it did.

  It went on for hours. Every time Robert Redford hit one of his booming homeruns on the screen, the yelling seemed to resume next door. When Redford was in one of his blue-eyed, reflective moments, all I could hear was, “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”

  Was this possibly God, the Creator himself, in the very act of creation in the room next door? Or was it evangelistic sex? Or was it, more likely, a Viagra copulation, guaranteed to last five hours before deflation?

  At the very least, I thought, she needed to expand her vocabulary! Perhaps she could add some adjectives, adverbs, and superlatives: “You drive me crazy!” “Honey, you’re so powerful!” “You’re so big!” “Don’t stop!” or even “Yes, yes, yes, darling! Drown me in your passionate seed!”

  I considered slipping a note under the door with my suggestions, but thought better of it.

  It was about eleven-thirty when the action subsided. I guessed they had stopped to watch Nightline.

  I was tired and drifted off to sleep.

  It was a good, deep sleep, in a real bed. No dreams. But I remember my subconscious checking in sometime during the night, asking why I wasn’t dreaming, or if I wanted to dream.

  The “Oh GOD” nightmare returned around seven forty-five the next morning. I wanted so badly to just pull the covers back over my head and enjoy the warmth and softness of the bed, and maybe sleep till noon. But I knew I didn’t have enough money to stay another night, and soon the maid would come and discover Willow’s presence, and then the innkeeper would want another twenty-five dollars for our deception.

  I looked around the little motel room and then out the slit in the curtains and saw the rain falling from the gray sky.

  Dr. Z’s pills and Jane’s gift of a night in a bed had given me a ray of hope. I had an appointment at the local mental health clinic, and I wondered what the shrinks would have to say. Some magic words? Something from Freud or Jung?

  I pushed myself out of bed, took a shower, and dressed. I hid Willow under my coat again and we snuck out of the room, heading for whatever this day had in store.

  Chapter 10

  OFF TO THE MENTAL INSTITUTION

  To the rhythmic beat of the wipers on the windshield of the van, my mind began to explore its expectations of the mental institution to which I was heading.

  Would the doctors wear white coats? Would they have beards like Freud and want to talk about my childhood? Would they attach wires to my skull and chest? Was there a nurse like Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Would Jack Nicholson be there to entertain the crazies?

  As I pulled into the parking lot, it was easy to see this was a resort for the id. Patients were roaming peacefully around the grounds, drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting. There was a small pond just off the parking lot, giving Willow a chance to get out of the van, take a pee, and chase after a couple of ducks. The patients warmed to Willow quickly, calling her over for a quick pet and asking me the usual questions: “What’s her name?” “Is it a boy or a girl?” “How old is she?”

  “I used to have a dog that looked exactly like her,” one lady said, bending over to scratch Willow’s back. “Her name was Muffin. I had to give her up,” she said wistfully. “I couldn’t take care of her. I didn’t have the money for vets, food, or medicine.” Then she turned her attention to me. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if it was that obvious that I was crazy.

  “You know, you can take dogs in there,” she said, pointing at the building. “They like them.”

  That made me feel a little better—a little more relaxed and at home, with the possibility of entering into a happy family. I picked Willow up and carried her into the building to find psychologists and psychiatrists bustling about with notepads and folders, attempting to be as calm and normal as possible with a lineup of neurotics waiting to be cured.

  This was a portal, I thought to myself. Maybe it was a black hole. I could enter it and find a new life, a new existence, a new focus. Or I could careen through time until I earned a room at Western State Hospital, where they had bars and locked everyone up at night.

  This was not the country-club scene, where the doctors arrive in their BMWs and Henry Grethel suits and, to the tune of two hundred dollars an hour, talk to their clients about how to get along with their bosses or how to get over finding their husbands in bed with other women.

  Some of the patients here had scars where they had slashed their wrists, or had gunshot wounds, broken arms, or black eyes. Some had jumped from the bridge but somehow didn’t drown. Hell, I wasn’t sure I qualified for help here—I hadn’t even gotten wet yet. Dr. Z and Jane must have some pull here, I thought, to get me in so quickly.

  The best-dressed people entering the building were the two pharmaceutical reps, who checked in with their gleaming, starched white shirts and blazing ties. One was from Pfizer and the other from Glaxo, and they were whisked through the locked room that led to the inner sanctum of the clinic, carrying their sample cases. I knew the doctors inside used pills in their practice, of course. And it was these guys who brought them—some pills to bring you up, some to level you off, and some to bring you down.

  But I knew, and I was sure the doctors also knew, that they didn’t have enough pills to cover every need. Wa
s there a pill for loneliness? Or one for regret? A pill to help you forget? Or one to bring you love? Kindness? Grace? Understanding? How about a money pill? A family pill? A pill to restore the nectar of life that had soured or had never been tasted? Was there some magic elixir that could be drunk or splashed on for happiness?

  I wished I could capture that “joy smell” that Willow discovers as she rolls in the grass, all four legs flailing in the air, wiggling and rubbing the essence into every possible inch of her body. If I could put that joy in an aerosol can, I would just start spraying

  As I sat there with Willow in my lap, waiting for my appointment, I looked out the window at the patients roaming outside the clinic. They appeared to have found a spirit of camaraderie in this place where they came to receive guidance—along with doses of kindness and dignity (and pills). It was a sanctuary of acceptance. In the outside world, they were often treated with disdain, by people who—three blocks away—were paying $4.75 for mocha lattes and rushing home to watch men dunking basketballs for $12 million a year and contestants eating live lizards and animal excrement for chance to win $100,000.

  I had been waiting for about an hour now and was getting thirsty. I spotted a water cooler in the hall and went for a drink. Just as I was bending over to slurp some H2O, I heard a voice behind me. “Don’t drink the water.” I turned to see a tall, slender man, with an enormous beard reaching halfway down his chest, peering at me. “They put chemicals in the water to keep us calm,” he whispered before walking off. I went back to my seat.

  A few minutes later, a young man in his early thirties came bursting through the door. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he was dripping wet. He walked straight up to the counter and unbuckled his pants and dropped them to the floor. “Help me!” he yelled to the receptionist. “I’m all wet and they are crawling all over me. Get them off! Get them off me!” Two men came rushing from behind the locked door to usher this flailing soul into another room, dragging pants and all.