Just North of Whoville

by Turiskylie, Joyce

  After much debate, we came to the conclusion that it was most likely a clerical error. Not only that, but Melinda herself remembered that Cindy’s father just happened to be a manager at Kendall’s. Hmmm. How convenient. Though none of us would ever suspect Santa of taking a bribe, we did consider the possibility that Mr. Harmon could somehow have gotten his hands on Santa’s List. Perhaps Mr. Harmon, with a father’s blind love for his spoiled brat of a daughter, could have snatched Santa’s List while he was busy feeding the reindeer and then simply moved Cindy’s name from the list of bad children and added her to the list of good children. Most likely, Santa, busy with the holiday preparations, as well as spending so much time away at his winter home in Milwaukee, didn’t notice, and had simply mailed his list to the elves, who, as we all knew, took over from there. Next thing you know, Kibbles is under the tree.

  A conspiracy of the highest order.

  However, I felt secure in the knowledge that I didn’t need this sort of evil plot to obtain my prize. I would succeed by hard-work, obedience, good deeds and the kind word put in for me by Rudolph himself. As I made my way down the hallway, I spotted a door, which clearly read, “Roof Access”. Now was my chance.

  I took a deep breath and pushed the door as hard as I could. At that very second, I felt the most overwhelming feeling of joy I’d ever known.

  And then, the security alarm went off.

  The siren blared all thru the ninth floor, causing a flood of adults to suddenly appear behind me. I stood paralyzed in the doorway and looked down at my patent leather shoes.

  Oh no. Santa would be sure to hear about this.

  One of the grown-ups, a thin lady with short, brown hair that smelled of a new permanent wave, came over and took my hand.

  “Sweetheart, are you lost?”

  I nodded my head. I could barely speak, knowing the police would soon be on their way. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d done, but I knew it was bad. After all, I’d set off an alarm. When a security guard appeared, I knew I was about to be handcuffed and sent to the slammer. I did the only thing a six year-old child could do at that point---I cried.

  Next thing I knew, they were asking questions. Where was my mother? What was my name? What was my mother’s name? Did I know my phone number? What was I doing up there? It was only after Permanent Wave offered me some juice and a candy cane, that I finally calmed down enough to answer their questions. I knew what was coming next, the moment every child in a department store dreads.

  The intercom.

  “Will Mrs. Helena Krakowski please come to the ninth floor reception desk. We’ve found your daughter. Mrs. Helena Krakowski please come to the ninth floor reception desk.”

  Moments later, my mother stepped out of the elevator with a look of both relief and annoyance. After thanking the permanent wave lady about fifteen times, she took me on her lap and asked why I had run off to the ninth floor?

  I wanted to see Santa. I wanted to see the reindeer. They were on the roof.

  Permanent Wave leaned in and explained, “Sweetheart, the reindeer aren’t on the roof. They’re in the park.”

  A bit of information Kendall’s Department Store might have shared.

  “That’s right, honey,” my Mom agreed. “Santa keeps them in the park.”

  I wiped the tears from my face and thought for a moment about this news flash.

  “Is that so they can play reindeer games?”

  Of course!---everyone agreed. Even the security guard, who’d obviously been intent on taking me away to the Big House, was sure of the location of the reindeer games. Within moments, I was sprung. I wasn’t sure what sort of bail money was paid, or how many lawyers it took to clear things up, but I’d learned a valuable lesson that day.

  The reindeer were in the park.

  As a child, I was ready to believe pretty much anything I was told about Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy---despite what a few bad kids at school seemed to say. In fact, not long after that, Jimmy Trumbo, who was certainly the worst boy in school, kept saying that there was no Santa Claus. That it was your parents who were Santa. It was your parents who brought all the toys.

  Well, I had a mountain of evidence to support my side of the case. Hadn’t he seen the television shows documenting the life of Santa and his elves? Hadn’t he heard the songs written in praise of Santa’s wondrous deeds? The pictures of Santa on Christmas cards? The famous poem written about The Night Before Christmas? Hadn’t he himself seen Santa at Kendall’s Department Store? And, the most damning piece of evidence of all---If there was no Santa then who’s getting his letters at the North Pole? Hmmm?

  Before Jimmy could even attempt to answer any of my penetrating questions, I ended my argument with best closing statement every made:

  “You’re just a jerk! Santa’s not going to bring you anything!”

  I believe I also added something about Jimmy pooping his pants in Kindergarten, an incident Jimmy had just recently stopped getting teased about. Looking back, perhaps Jimmy had been a mean kid because he pooped his pants. After all, once you poop your pants, you’ve got to come up with some line of defense. But I felt no guilt over declaring Jimmy a jerk, or for reminding the rest of the class that he had indeed pooped his pants. A young man who had pooped his pants was not to be trusted. After all, if he didn’t know when he had to poop, how could he possibly know anything?

  I rest my case.

  Jimmy grew up to become a Public Defender for the city of Milwaukee. I ran into him a few years ago when I flew back home to visit my family for the holidays. He was tall, well-groomed and handsome with a very pregnant wife who was due any day. It was their second child. The first, a little girl named Megan, was almost five years old and was dressed up like a little Christmas doll in preparation for her visit to see Santa at the local mall. He was so nice.

  “We’re taking her to see Santa today. She’s so excited.”

  I hesitated to remind him that it was his words to me years earlier that had tried to steer me away from my belief in Santa. In fact, I have to admit to a sick temptation to bending down and telling the adorable little tot that there was no Santa. It was all just Mommy and Daddy.

  But I knew she wouldn’t believe me; any more than I had believed Jimmy’s blasphemous ranting. But the oddest part of the meeting was when the tall, dark and now extremely handsome Jimmy Trumbo introduced me to his pregnant wife with the words, “This is Dorrie Krakowski. I had a huge crush on her in grade school.”

  What? This came completely out of left field.

  “I would do anything to get her attention. I was such a dumb kid. I used to pull her pigtails. Anything.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” his wife chimed in, “when we first met, he pulled my pigtails, too. Just kidding,” she added, as if the joke needed pointing out.

  This was certainly a shock. I suddenly saw myself in his wife’s shoes. That could have been me. Standing there in a designer maternity dress, with my adorable little tyke and my blazingly handsome lawyer husband. That could have been me taking my daughter to see Santa while patiently waiting for the next miracle of life to shoot out of my vagina.

  But there I was: my hair all greasy and my eyes burning red from the lack of sleep the night before due to the late-night flight and (due to lost luggage) wearing my mother’s sweatpants and a sweatshirt that said “Golden Girls Mall Walkers”.

  This was a fork in the road of life I wasn’t even aware I’d screwed up.

  Until now.

  I took solace the only way I could. At least I wasn’t married to a man who’d pooped his pants.

  Thankfully, I was now on my way to see a psychiatrist.

  But first, I needed coffee.

  For some reason, I’d forgotten that while there was a warm November rainstorm outside----they were rockin’ around the Christmas tree inside.

  I folded up my umbrella as Little Miss Sunshine stepped up to the counter.

  “Would you like to try our special Christmas
Blend?”

  “No. Just coffee.”

  “How about one of our Cranberry Sleigh Ride Bars?”

  “No. Just regular coffee.”

  In line behind me, a fifty year-old woman wearing a snowflake sweatshirt waited her turn. I guess I looked too closely, because she gave me that typical New York “What are you looking at?” look.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I was just noticing your shirt,” I tried to laugh it off. “On a day like today, it should be raindrops.”

  She didn’t get it. I could tell. And she looked pissed.

  “I mean….it’s so nice outside,” I said as I pointed to the thunderstorm. “Warm, I mean. Little early for snowflakes, don’cha think?” I tried to chuckle it off.

  She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. She was not having me.

  “There you go,” Sunshine said as she handed over my coffee. “Merry Christmas!”

  A few minutes later, I was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Emily Prince. There were a lot of forms to fill out, and I happily checked the “no” box off the list of physical and mental illnesses suffered by myself or a family member. Us Poles are a healthy breed, I guess.

  But suddenly I felt nervous. I was about to lay myself bare to a trained professional. Well, not bare. I was really just looking for career advice. But it’s like the body---everything’s connected.

  I tried to assure myself that as a mental health professional, she’d probably heard it all. Schizophrenics, bi-polars, obsessive-compulsives, murderers, suicide attempts, people who liked eating their own feces----really wacky stuff. In all her years of therapy, surely someone like me with career difficulties would be a piece of cake. Easiest job of her day. Like a gynecologist explaining recent symptoms to a patient by uttering the words, “You’re pregnant.” In fact, easier---as I certainly wouldn’t need nine months of pre-natal care.

  Nevertheless, I was about to completely hand over my life to an experienced, well-trained professional who would be my comfort, my support, my guide, and my everything for as long as I needed----or until my insurance ran out.

  “Yo!---you gotta tell me when I have a six o’clock. Damn!” a small Dominican woman who didn’t look a day over twenty-five yelled down the hall.

  “Eugh!” she groaned as she took off her red leather coat to reveal a flashy, purple dress, fishnet stockings and black fuck-me pumps.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, whipping her leather coat over her tattooed arm. “I’m Dr. Prince. I’ll be right with you.”

  5

  “So, just have a seat on the couch,” Dr. Prince said in a thick Bronx accent.

  I looked around for the couch. But all I saw was a futon.

  “Here?” I asked, hoping she would point me towards a nicer couch.

  “Yeah, yeah. Have a seat.”

  “Oh…” I said uncomfortably; trying to make conversation. “It’s a futon. Wow. I had one of these in college.”

  “I’ve had that one since my freshman year. Good times. Good times.”

  Being a creative person, my head immediately began visualizing “good times”.

  “Maybe that chair would be more comfortable,” I offered.

  “Yo!---it’s not like I didn’t wash it,” she snapped. “Oh, sorry---are you here for like some O.C.D. shit or something?”

  “No. I guess not.” So I sat back down on the futon.

  According to astrologers, those born under the sign of Sagittarius are supposed to be gifted with tremendous luck. It’s considered the luckiest sign of the zodiac.

  I’m a Sagittarian. I’ve never won the lottery. Never won a prize in a raffle or at a county fair. I’ve never even opened a soda bottle, looked under the lid, and won another bottle of soda.

  As I watched Dr. Prince reading over my information on the clipboard, I became firmly convinced that my parents had lied about my date of birth.

  This would never happen to Celia.

  And as I looked at the clock on the wall, I was suddenly keenly aware that I would have to spend the next hour with this woman. She’d want to get to know me. Hear my problems. Want me to trust and confide in her.

  I began hoping for a fire drill.

  “So, um…Dorota?”

  “Dorrie.”

  She made a note on her yellow legal pad as she said out loud, “Patient calls herself ‘Dorrie’”.

  “I don’t ‘call myself Dorrie’,” I corrected her. “It’s short for Dorota. Everyone calls me Dorrie.”

  “What is that like Italian?”

  “Polish. It’s Polish,” I said as I began to squirm in my seat.

  “You seem uncomfortable. Relax.”

  “Oh, it’s the futon. I was never comfortable on these things.”

  I had a couple of choices. I could leave. Make up something about deciding that therapy wasn’t right for me and politely exit. Or I could come up with a phobia.

  No---she’d probably want to cure that. Then I’d have to spend the next hour letting her cure me of something I never had.

  I could try to stall. Spend an hour rattling off some basic facts about my life. Where I was born. What my parents were like. I have one brother and no sisters. Studied theatre at the University of Wisconsin. I’m a Sagittarius. I enjoy reading and walks in the park.

  Like a bad blind date without the beer and mozzarella sticks.

  Or I could take the offensive. Before I tell you anything about me----why don’t you tell me about you? Hmmm? But that wasn’t my personality. And besides, she was kind of scary.

  In any case, I knew that this would be the one and only hour I would ever spend with this woman in her office filled with leftover dorm furniture and a shag carpet.

  “Okay---don’t think. Just answer. Honestly. What are you thinking about right now?”

  I didn’t think. I just answered.

  “I think I have pretty lousy insurance.”

  As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt bad.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “No. It’s okay. That’s good. Don’t deny your feelings. It’s honest. And that’s what I asked for,” she said as if she’d asked for a punch in the face. “It’s good that you feel comfortable enough with me already to share that.”

  I didn’t feel comfortable. But nice spin job.

  Most likely, she was already aware of the fact that I wouldn’t be coming back. Surely this had happened before. I couldn’t imagine too many people getting comfortable on that futon.

  “I’m sorry. It’s…. You just seem so young. I guess I was expecting someone a little older. In the movies, you guys are all middle-aged with elbow patches.”

  “Therapists aren’t born middle-aged. We all have to start somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess it’s just a life experience thing.”

  “Yo!” she suddenly snapped. “I’m from The Bronx. That’s mad hood up in there. Badass motherfuckin’ shit goes down and you gotta deal, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Right. Oh sure.”

  Because white girls from suburban Milwaukee know all about badass motherfuckin’ shit goin’ down.