It could be a raise, you think. Maybe a promotion. Why else would Pamela be here? Some paperwork to sign. New business cards to be printed. That would be fantastic. It would be a great way to end the week, at any rate.
Something about the way they’re all discussing things, low tones and hands in front of mouths, makes you believe otherwise.
Finally, they face you, the three of them staring with no smiles, hands clasped in front of them, resting on the table.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why we called you in here,” Ben says.
You nod.
“This isn’t an easy thing to discuss. That’s why I’ve brought Pamela in here with us. And of course, I had to alert Mr. Godfrey.”
“What’s going on?” you ask.
Mr. Godfrey pulls his smart phone out of his pocket. He slides it over to you.
“Is this you?” he asks.
You look down at the phone. On the screen is a picture of a woman. The top of her head is cropped out, so you cannot see her eyes. In her mouth is an erect penis. The woman is naked, and there is another man, whose face cannot be seen, groping her breasts from behind.
You are incredulous. You look up at the trio in wonder.
“I’m sorry?” you ask.
“We became aware of this picture earlier this week. Some of the other employees were sharing it during their break time. Of course, they have been reprimanded appropriately, but the question still remains. Is this you?”
“You can’t even see her eyes,” you say. “What makes you even think this is me?”
“The chin is the same,” Ben says. “The general body shape is the same.”
“Oh, you’ve been looking, Ben?”
Pamela pipes up. “No one is accusing you of anything. We’re simply asking a question.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a question, Pamela.”
Mr. Godfrey retrieves the phone and swipes the screen.
“There is more than one picture.”
He holds it up to show you another faceless double penetration shot. He swipes it again. The girl’s face is clearer this time, although still no eyes. She has a cock in each hand and is smiling.
“This is unbelievable,” you murmur.
“You’ve become a rather high profile member of our team as of late. It won’t do for pictures like this to become common knowledge. However, there they are, right on the internet, for anyone to discover.”
“It’s not me,” you say flatly.
“You can see,” Mr. Godfrey says, “how the woman in this picture has a kidney-shaped mole on her throat. Just like yours.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s your evidence? You’re going on a fucking mole?”
“It is an identifying mark,” Ben says.
“We’re just trying to get to the root of the issue,” Pamela says.
“It seems more than coincidental,” Mr. Godfrey says.
“I had a cousin who had a birthmark that looked like a St. Christopher’s medal. It’s skin. Things happen. They can’t be helped, and everybody has them,” you reply.
“I will ask you again,” Mr. Godfrey says. “Is this you?”
“No,” you say.
Pamela speaks in a calm, soothing voice she must have learned in Psychology 101. “I understand this is a difficult position to be in.”
“Not for me,” you say. “I’d say the girl in those pictures was the one in difficult positions.”
Ben shrugs at you. He is sweating and avoiding eye contact.
“I know you’re probably worried about losing your job here with us,” Pamela says.
“We believe we have enough circumstantial evidence to prove that this is indeed you.”
“We’re prepared to offer you a nice severance package,” Pamela says.
Ben, the stooge, says, “We really don’t have any choice.”
You ball your hands into fists. You fight back the angry tears.
“Mr. Godfrey,” you say, “would you please go back to that second picture?”
“Why?”
“I just want to look at one thing.”
He slides you the phone.
“You still contend this isn’t you?” Ben asks.
“I’m pretty sure I would remember if I had been in a threesome with a photographer present, Ben.”
You look at the double penetration picture again, closely. Face down, ass up, you think.
“Well,” you say, “there are two problems here, Mr. Godfrey. First of all, there’s a timestamp on this picture. This was taken a good seven years ago. People change. Hell, all of our cells replace each other every seven years. Do you look the same as you did seven years ago?”
No answer from the penis gallery.
“Also, you see the dolphin tattoo on this girl’s ass?” You flip the phone around to show them, giving Pamela an extra long look. She seems more embarrassed by the whole thing than you do.
All three of them nod at the same time.
You put the phone down and stand up. It’s Casual Friday, and it takes a second for you to unbutton your jeans and shimmy them down around your ankles. You also wore your period panties, just for comfort’s sake, but who cares now? The elastic is poking out a little. So what? You drop your unders and turn around.
“Oh, please,” Mr. Godfrey says. “This is uncalled for.”
“Do you see a dolphin?” you ask. “Do you see a fucking dolphin, Mr. Godfrey?”
There is a pause, and then a softly uttered, “No.”
You smack yourself in the ass. “How about you, Benny? Do you see Flipper on my fanny?”
“No, no, no, I don’t. Please pull your pants up.”
You’re laughing now.
“How about you, Pammy? Have you ever even seen another woman’s ass?”
Pamela says nothing.
You pull up your panties. You pull up your jeans. Zip and button.
Your superiors are red-faced with embarrassment. The atmosphere in the room has changed drastically. Someone has fucked up badly, and it wasn’t you.
Mr. Godfrey clears his throat. “Obviously, there’s been a mistake made here.”
You place your hands flat on the table and glare intently at all three of them.
“I haven’t even begun to think of how many ways I can sue you. Shall I bring in the ACLU? How about some local news media? How about some national news media? That should put a nice dent in your plans to expand into Canada. Congratulations, motherfuckers. You just made me rich.”
Mr. Godfrey stands. “Now, hold on. You have to understand…”
“I understand nothing. Except that you horny bunch of perverts tried to embarrass me, defame my character and fire me for something I didn’t even do. And you, Pamela! You let them do it. So much for sisterhood, huh?”
“Perhaps we can come to an arrangement,” Mr. Godfrey says.
You smile. “Sure,” you say. “I can arrange for you to kiss my dolphin-free ass.”
You slam the door as you leave the meeting room. They do not follow you. They are panicking, for sure. They are shitting their pants.
You go back to your desk and quickly gather up a few personal effects. You leave without saying a word.
Driving home, your fury is unabated. You pound the steering wheel. You scream curses to the sky. How dare he! The absolute nerve of that guy!
He promised he would never post those pictures and what does he do? Waits five years. Like you wouldn’t find out. Good thing you used the money he and his skeezy partner paid you to remove that stupid tattoo.
All things work out for the best, though, you figure. You’ll own the company by the time all is said and done. Yes, maybe everything does work out in the end.
The Light Pours Out of M e
All that time in medical school and yet nothing prepared you for this. The walls in this place. The goddamned eggshell white walls. Every hallway here is the same color. It’s depressing, which is ironic for a psychiatric hospital.
You
weren’t quite ready for the drudgery of it all, either. There’s a lot of walking about and checking on people who don’t quite know you’re there. You make a note, usually consisting of the single word, “unresponsive,” and a nurse hands them a small paper cup with some pretty pills in it. A sip of water, swallow the pills, sip more water, then go back to staring at nothing. Or maybe it is something, just something no one else can see.
This has been going on for a month. It’s an awful routine. You went to medical school with the hope of being able to help others, not numb them further into their own madness with sedatives. There are people in a different ward that could benefit from contact with someone with your training. Cognitive therapy, word association, something besides happy pills and sleepy syrup.
It’s ballsy, for someone who has only held a position for six weeks, but you talk to the Chief of Psychiatry. You tell him you feel under-utilized. That you can do so much more than sling anti-depressants around. That you have a heart to cure, not leave patients in some kind of hazy purgatory.
“You haven’t paid your dues yet, Doctor,” the Chief says. “You need to work your way up the ranks, like the rest of the doctors on the floor.”
“Can you not move me to a different ward?” you ask.
“I don’t dare,” the Chief replies. He is crumpling a piece of paper in his hands. You don’t think he’s aware he’s doing it.
The other doctors on the floor are okay, if you like drones. They’ve fallen into the pattern, the routine. Talking with them is like trying to talk to an on-hold message. You hang out more with the orderlies. The orderlies are still real people, unafraid to state opinions, even if it is under their breath.
Tony is your buddy. He’s a big guy, strong, more of a bouncer than an orderly. He loves his wife, Kendra. They’re hoping to have kids soon. He’s pretty even-keeled, still has a sense of humor about the whole gig. He also has a sense of kindness about him, which he tries, unsuccessfully, to hide.
You’re bitching about the meeting with the Chief over lunch. Tony nods while he eats. He’s heard you say all of these things before. He mumbles some non-committal agreements.
“I feel you,” he says. “I feel you.”
He takes a giant drink of coffee and sets his cup back down on the table. “I’ve seen shit,” he says. “Some of the patients here, good goddamn. I’ve seen some shit.”
“Like what?” you ask.
“I saw a woman eat her own finger,” he says. “Snapped it off with her teeth and gnawed on it like a corn cob.”
“Jesus,” you mutter.
Tony laughs. “Jesus? We haven’t seen that motherfucker at all. He don’t come around here.”
He finishes the tuna sandwich he brought from home and rolls the plastic wrap up into a tiny ball. He stares at the table for a moment, then sighs.
“I’m gonna regret saying this.”
“Go on,” you say.
“I could get you in.”
“Where? D Ward?”
He nods. “It’s a bad place, Doc. Some of the craziest motherfuckers I’ve ever seen are living out their days in there. The world is safer with them in here.”
“But I can help them,” you say. “I can work with them; make them able to get back into society again. Make them whole.”
“I know you think that,” Tony says. “And I ain’t trying to sound cynical. But I think some people are way beyond beyond.”
“I don’t think anyone is unreachable.”
“I know,” Tony says, not even bothering to mask the sadness in his voice.
The next night, you stay late. You sit in the common room, watching old sit-coms with the patients. They don’t even realize you’re there. You find yourself getting lost in the single-girl problems of Mary Tyler Moore when Tony taps you on the shoulder. You stand up.
“Let’s go,” Tony says.
You walk out of the common room, out of the ward itself, out of your safety zone. You follow Tony through the hub where the nurses’ station sits. Slowly, and with some trepidation, you follow Tony down to D Ward.
“I’ve never done this before,” Tony says. “I’m fairly well convinced it’s a terrible idea.”
“This is going to be a good thing,” you reply. “Once the Chief realizes I really can help people, he’ll see what an asset I am and move me out of the ‘Psychiatrics for Dummies’ Ward.”
Tony shakes his head, then gestures down the hallway with his hand. “Well, this is it,” he says. “Pick a door. Doesn’t matter which one. Don’t reckon it really matters.”
Tony stays behind as you walk down the long white corridor. This must be an organic choice, a random decision. You do not look through the tiny reinforced glass windows in each door. You do not listen for noises or cries. You close your eyes, hold your arms out to your sides and walk.
You wait for that little nudge, that internal subconscious signal that tells you to stop. When it comes, you cock your head to each side, deciding and not deciding at the same time. You lower your right arm and point at the door on your left.
“This one,” you say.
Tony comes lumbering down the hallway with his giant key ring. He flips through until he finds the key that unlocks the door. Your door.
“Room eighteen,” he says. “Remember it. Milestones and such.”
You nod. He slides the key into the lock. You hear the bolt turn.
“Let me go in first,” Tony says. “Just to check things out. Wait here.”
You hear some muffled conversation, the squeaking of a chair being scooted across the floor. Tony pushes the door open from inside and holds it for you.
“Clear,” he says.
You pluck the patient’s file folder from the plastic holder on the front of the door. You straighten your posture, adjust your glasses and walk into the room. You are a professional. You can do this.
“Tony,” you say, ignoring the patient on purpose for the moment, “could you bring me a chair?”
“Yes, Doctor,” he says, nodding. He leaves, and the door shuts heavily behind him, locking automatically.
The man before you sits in a straight-backed chair. His hair sticks out at odd angles. Permanent bed head. He seems calm and relaxed, or as calm and relaxed as one can be while wrapped up in a straitjacket. Tony refers to those devices as “Coats of Self-Esteem,” because you have to hug yourself. Ward humor.
You tell the patient your name. He nods.
“Hello, Doctor,” he says, his voice flat and even.
You look down at his chart and do a quick read-up. Schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder, past family trauma. Good job. You picked a doozy for your first time out. This could take more secret sessions than you had anticipated.
The door unlocks, and Tony enters with a comfortable looking leather swivel chair. He must have borrowed it from someone’s office. You look at him questioningly.
“Here’s your chair, Doctor,” he says. He winks, and you understand suddenly that Tony really is on your side. This is a power chair. Even sitting down, you’ll be able to establish dominance, keep control over the session.
You take the chair and sit down, staying on the very edge, your spine straight and tight. Body language is key in the establishment of any doctor/patient relationship, regardless of how surreptitious that relationship may be.
“I’ll be right outside,” Tony says, and he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
You look at the patient’s case file again. You can hear the humming of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. They pulse, louder and softer. There is a fly somewhere in the corner, buzzing frantically. It must be on its back, trying frantically to flip back over. Anything to keep from dying.
You lock eyes with the patient. His eyes are clear bright blue.
“Your name is…”
“No,” he interrupts. “I know what the file says. The file is wrong.”
You fold your hands on your lap. The serious face is needed right now. This will help pier
ce his delusion. You’re not going to fall for his little tricks.
“So, when they brought you here, they intentionally put incorrect information in the file? I find that hard to believe.”
“Your belief in the truth is not required for the truth to be the truth.”
Clever man.
“All right, then,” you say. “Then who are you?”
“I don’t have a name.”
“Come on. Everyone has a name.”
“I am not everyone. I have no name.”
You look at the paperwork again, then lean forward just slightly.
“You’ve been in this hospital for twelve years,” you say, in a voice that hovers just above pity.
“There have been many days and nights. There have been many doctors.” He isn’t really talking to you right now. He is staring at the ceiling. He sounds far away, like he is trying to remember a time when he wasn’t trapped in this room, but he can’t.
“Don’t you want to get out of here? Don’t you want to be back in the world? Go to restaurants? Have a girlfriend? Get your life back on the outside?”
He lowers his head quickly and stares at you. He is searching for something in your expression, a sign of weakness, perhaps. A clue as to where you’re coming from.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asks.
You nod. “This is my first position out of med school.” Give him some truth. Establish that doctor/patient rapport. Let him feel he can trust you.
He smirks. “I can tell,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “How can you tell?”
“You still smell like compassion. Idealism. You smell like fresh meat.”
Why this makes you blush, you’re not sure. You ignore it, rush past it, and return to the previous conversation.
“Come on,” you coo. “Tell me who you are.”
“I am no one,” the man says. “This body was taken over years ago. The person you think I am, the person your precious file says I am, left this shell long ago.”
You shake your head slightly. “I don’t believe that,” you say. “I think maybe you did some things, some things you’re ashamed of. It’s okay. We’ve all done things we wish we could take back. But you’re trying to forget those things by making yourself disappear somehow. And I understand why you would do that. I really do. But you don’t have to do react like that. We can work through those things. We can’t make them go away, but we can accept them and move on. We can do it together, you and me.”
Short Stories About You Page 4
