Just North of Whoville

by Turiskylie, Joyce

  I don’t know why people open their mouths when they’re in total shock, but I think it’s because their mouths are poised to say something. And I had something to say.

  “Uh….ma’am,” I began formally and precisely. “He never has any shoes.”

  I don’t know what I expected in response, but it certainly wasn’t, “You people are sick!!!”

  She said this loudly as the train came to a halt and she stormed off at her stop. Commuters looked up at me over their morning papers, wondering what horrible, sickening thing I’d said to the nice lady as Shoeless Joe moved onto the next car of suckers.

  “I’m sorry,” I tried to meekly explain. “But he never has any shoes.”

  They looked at me like I was crazy for even caring what she thought. Or even giving two second’s thought to Shoeless Joe. Why did I care? Why should they care? They went back to reading their papers.

  My work day was no better. I’d recently noticed that a sighting of Shoeless Joe was always a bellwether for a bad day.

  After work, as I trudged up the five flights of stairs, my cell phone rang.

  “Yes!” I answered with all the optimism and good cheer left in me, “I called about the dog walking job!”

  It went downhill from there.

  “No. I have a cat. But I used to walk my roommate’s dog in college… Well, no. Not professionally. I didn’t realize it was a profession,” I said, trying not to sound like a sassy-pants.

  But apparently it was a profession. Who knew?

  “Oh sure, sure. Well, thanks anyway. Goodbye.”

  Oh well. Another dream bites the dust. Normally they died a slow, lingering death. But at least this one was quick and painless. I just wanted a cup of tea and a relaxing night in my newly cleaned apartment. As I walked in and shut the door, the vibrations must have travelled thru the walls.

  There was a crash. As if a meteorite smashed thru the ceiling. And then the screeching sound of a terrified cat.

  Enormous hunks of wet, moldy drywall hit my floor as bits of plaster, sand and cement rose up beneath the cloud of toxic dust forming in the air.

  “Oh my god! Heidi! Heidi?”

  I ran to the pile of rubble and, bare-handed, began tossing hunks of ceiling aside like a rabid search and rescue dog. It was the first time in my life I’d been too scared to cry. I dreaded seeing the mound of bloodied grey tabby fur as my hands got closer to the bottom of the pile. Just then, I saw it. Not under the collapse, but the flicker of a white-tipped tail as it crawled behind the sofa for safety.

  “Heidi?” I said as I jumped up and peered behind the dark crevice of the sofa. There she was. I guess. It was hard to tell. But there was definitely a cat back there and it seemed okay. Probably wouldn’t come out for days after this.

  I looked up and saw that a portion of the ceiling, abut the size of a twin bed, had finally succumbed to the rain and erosion. A few remaining hunks dangled precariously, held up only by a thin fragment of damp cardboard. Sand, plaster and cement were everywhere.

  Before it got dark, I decided to head up to the roof. The door was generally left open for cable men and phone guys to gain access. No alarm would go off this time as I pushed open the “Roof Access” door.

  There were only four units on every floor. I’d wondered why my apartment seemed to be the only one retaining water. The roof answered a lot of questions. First of all, the roof slanted. In my direction. Lucky me. Any water hitting the roof ran off from the other three corners of the building and into mine. I stepped carefully on the sheets of rotting roofing material that bubbled and squished under my feet.

  And then I discovered the hole. About the size of a bowling ball. I looked directly into the hole and was able to see the wooden rafters of my ceiling below. Well, here was the problem. Anyone could see that.

  I tried to call Alex, but got his voicemail and left a message. There was nothing else to do put on my rain boots, my rubber gloves, wrap a scarf around my face and begin the clean-up.

  Again.

  Four hours later, after I’d hauled at least ten bags of heavy, wet drywall down to the dumpster, things seemed at least somewhat back in order. As I began to make a cup of soothing herbal tea, I noticed there was a message on my phone. Thank god. Alex had come thru.

  “Dorrie, this is Melissa from Dr. Prince’s office. Just confirming your appointment for tomorrow at six o’clock. If you are unable to make your appointment, please call our office no later than 24 hours in advance or a missed appointment fee of fifty dollars will apply.”

  What?

  I looked at the clock. It was nine pm. And I didn’t recall making an appointment.

  All the next day went by without a peep from Alex. At work, I went online and Googled, “How to repair a roof”.

  It looked pretty hard.

  As I left work that evening, it started to rain.

  But inside the coffee shop, Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters were singing “Mele Kalikimaka” because apparently that’s why you say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day.

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

  “No. Just coffee. Regular coffee.”

  ”We’re running a special today on plum pudding bars…”

  “No. Just coffee.”

  “…and our Crisp Snowflake Mints.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Look, I’m sorry…but Christmas is ONE DAY. And you and every other business stretch this one day out to one-sixth of the year to sell a bunch of Christmas stuff that nobody wants or needs. I’m sorry, but it’s November. I don’t want the Christmas Blend. It’s too early. I’m not in the mood yet. I’m not sure I’ll ever be. And how can you listen to this music? What are you so happy about? Why are you so happy about this?”

  I stood there just perplexed on the edge of my seat. Waiting for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” she said nervously. “I just am, I guess. I’m sorry.”

  She’s probably a nice young lady. But I couldn’t take it anymore. Someone had to point out that it was November. And since New Yorkers don’t like to get involved, I guess it had to be me.

  “Um….yeah. I got you scheduled today for six o’clock,” the receptionist said as she pointed at the computer screen with a two inch-long fingernail.

  “But I didn’t make an appointment.”

  “Oh yes you did,” she said, as her head began to weave in and out of her giant hooped earrings.

  “When I left last week,” I pointed out in perfect calm and clarity, “I came to you and paid my fifteen dollar co-pay and you said ‘thank you’ and that was the end of the exchange. I believe you were talking on your cell phone at the time.”

  “No. No. I gave you an appointment card.”

  “I never had a card,” I tried to remain calm. “And I never made an appointment.”

  “I always give people a card. You threw the card away,” she accused.

  “I did not throw the card away because I never had a card,” I said slowly, like Bruce Banner starting to go green.

  “Doctor!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, as if I were a psychopath about to attack.

  The door immediately opened and Dr. Prince stood ready to knock someone out.

  “Oh, Dorrie, it’s you,” she said, almost relieved.

  “Doctor…” Melissa began to whine in a tattle-tale voice, and then started rambling off something in Spanish. I clearly heard the word “loca”.

  But Dr. Prince cut her off and motioned me towards the door.

  “Dorrie, I’m sorry. Come in. Come in.”

  The moment I stepped inside, I knew I’d made a mistake.

  7

  If Liberace were hosting a Christmas party, I imagine it would look something like Dr. Prince’s office. What made the display even more disturbing was that it also included some flashy Hanukah and Kwanza decor, as well as several large statues of Buddha decorated with a Dominican flair. Christmas music was still playing as I stood there in
total shock. Finally, she turned off the Rappin’ Christmas CD and sat down in her folding chair.

  “Dorrie? Are you okay?”

  “Um….yeah,” I replied with certainty and confusion.

  “You don’t seem okay.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I shot right back.

  “You don’t seem sure.”

  “I’m sure. Stop psychoanalyzing me,” I said in the most dominant tone I had in me.

  “That’s what I do,” Alpha Dog snapped right back.

  “Well then, let me just have a seat on your futon.”

  Oh yeah. Who’s alpha dog now, bitch?

  I sat in silence. But my body language was ready for a fight. I was sick of being pushed around. Sick of being taken advantage of and lied to and scammed and swindled---and scared. I was so tired of being scared. And alone.

  “You seem upset about something,” she said with a level of sincerity that I had calmed down enough to judge to be at least moderately sincere. So I folded my sassy-pants and put them in a drawer.

  “Look,” I said as I gave her the best smile I could. Human being to human being. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Why not?” she said, more a question than an attitude.

  Okay---here we go.

  “You want me to be honest, right?” I began. She nodded her head, so my mouth kept moving. “The only reason I’m here is because your receptionist called and said that I had an appointment today and that if I didn’t show up I would have to pay fifty dollars. But I didn’t make an appointment. And I don’t have fifty dollars. I do, however, have fifteen dollars for my co-pay, which is what I pay if I actually show up. So I figured that I could get the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to yell at someone for a savings of thirty-five dollars.”

  We just sat there looking at each other. Two cars barreling down the Interstate fated for a crash.

  “So why ain’t you yelling?” she veered off into ditch on the side of the road.

  Crash averted. I got out of the car and pulled my insurance papers out of the glove compartment.

  “I guess I’m just not the yelling type, I admitted. “Anyway, I’m here. I showed up. So let me just give you the fifteen dollars and…”

  “Dorrie, if you didn’t make an appointment, why didn’t you just call and say, ‘Yo bitch!---I did not make no appointment with you’?”

  “Because that’s not really me. That more…well….you. And that’s okay. Nothing wrong with that. But what that tells me… And not being judgmental but….we’re all different people and personalities…”

  “Dorrie, spit it out.”

  So I did.

  “Could I see your diploma?”

  Just then, her cell phone rang. She raced to turn it off.

  “Ay diablo! Coño fucking cell phone!”

  I figured it was my chance to leave.

  “Dorrie! I’m sorry,” she pleaded as I headed for the door. “My mother, she broke her foot yesterday and she’s fine, but I promised I’d stop by and I forgot and left my phone on…”

  “No. Really. And I’m sorry about your Mom. But it’s not the phone. And it’s not you. Not totally, but…”

  No. I couldn’t blame this woman for my problems. Things had been going like this for years before I ever laid eyes on her. I can’t say I wanted her for a shrink. But I couldn’t blame her. I held a strong belief in personal responsibility.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not you at all. It’s me. And I really don’t want to talk about it, because unless you can get me an apartment or a job or even some roofing materials---you can’t help me. I shouldn’t have to be here,” I started to feel my eyes welling up. “I’m the sanest person I know. But I spent my whole life thinking that if I worked hard and was a nice person that good things would happen to me. But they don’t! Ever! I have a shitty job and a shitty apartment and I’m single and alone and now it’s apparently Christmas and...I can’t even get a therapist without screwing it up. I’m just a big screw-up, screwball mess.”

  By this time, the only thing soggier than me was my living room floor.

  “It seems to me you’re focusing a lot on what you don’t have.”

  “Well, there’s not a lot I DO have,” I said as I wiped the tears out of my eyes.

  “Okay Dorrie. Sit down. Sit.”

  I don’t know why, but I instantly collapsed into the Good Time Futon. She handed me a yellow legal pad and a pen.

  “Let’s do a little exercise. Make a list of the things that you DO have in your life. What do you have that’s good? Sit. Write.”

  So I thought about it. I thought really hard.

  “Take your time,” she said calmly.

  I strained to come up with something. Finally---

  “Well…I have my health,” I said with a sigh and a puff.

  “That’s good!” she encouraged. “Write that down. Your health is important. You don’t have anything if you don’t have your health.”

  “Now you’re just patronizing me.”

  “A little. But this is good. Keep going.”

  So I sat there. On a futon. Really thinking about this question. And then I started to sniffle again.

  “That’s it,” I could feel the tears starting to come again. “I already scraped the bottom of the barrel with the health thing.”

  “Okay,” she said as she crossed her fishnets the other way, getting down to business. “Let’s try something else. Did you ever go to the pound to pick out a dog?”

  “I never had a dog. I couldn’t even get a dog walking job. No dog. No horse.”

  “You gotta let the horse thing go,” she begged.

  “I have a cat,” I tried to be helpful. “But she hides a lot. Her name is Heidi. I didn’t name her that because she hides. It’s just...I named her and then she never came out. But I know she’s there. She eats the food and drinks the water. And I clean the poop out of the litter box.”

  “Oh Dorrie, you’re killing me,” she sighed. “Focus. You’re in a pound. You’re looking in the cages. Which dog do you pick?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

  “You pick the dog that comes to you. The one wagging his tail all happy to see you. You don’t pick the angry dog growling at you. And you don’t pick the sad one with the hangdog face lying in the corner.”

  “See, now that’s the one I’d probably pick.”

  “And that’s why you’re not in a relationship right now. But we’ll get to that later. Dorrie, most people pick the happy, tail-wagging dog. The one with the hangdog face--he gets put to sleep. You need to be that happy dog. Wag your tail, meera.”

  “I… I wag my tail. I mean….not in the dirty sense.”

  “Ay vieja. Listen to me---Starting right now, I want you to have The Best Christmas Ever. Now is the perfect time of year to get rid of that hangdog face and get into the Christmas spirit.”