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Authors: Miranda July
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yeasty feet. I was queasy, green. A scream came out as raspy whispers, stuck to my throat. My peak was nearing; if you don’t fight back by the time you hit peak fear then you won’t ever fight back. You’ll die—maybe not physically, but you’ll die.
It came from my bellows, the loudest noise I’d ever made. Not no , but the old Open Palm battle cry: Aiaiaiaiai! My thighs catapulted upward; I almost leapt into the air. Clee was still for a moment, and then she barreled into me, pulling me down and trying to pin me. It was too much weight. I can-canned with full force, kicking everything in sight, and popped with my hard fist when I could. She repeatedly tried to bring me to the floor until I tried the butterfly. It worked—I broke free. She stood up and walked out of the room. The bathroom door locked with a click. The sink taps blasted on.
I lay next to my bed, sucking down big pulls of air. Long loose thrums of pain were gently vibrating through my limbs. It was gone. Not just the globus but the whole structure around it, the tightness in my chest, my locked jaw. I rolled my head from side to side. Exquisite. A million tiny, delicate sensations. The skin was burning from something she had done but otherwise loose as a goose. I laughed and sent a ripple up one arm, across my shoulders to the other one. What was that called again? The electric slide? Who was this big goof? Señorita Sillypants. I saw myself flamenco dancing, something with castanets. The water was still running in the bathroom, a pathetic attempt at passive aggression. Waste all the water you want! If she moved out tomorrow I could have the house in order by the weekend. My new muscles shook wildly as I reached for my phone. I left my name and number and requested the same time next Tuesday. Dr. Tibbets’s receptionist was a fraud and a thief and a pretty good therapist.
CLEE DIDN’T LEAVE THE NEXT DAY. Or the day after that. She was still there on Tuesday but I went to therapy anyway. The receptionist smiled warmly as I placed myself on Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s couch.
“How are—”
I interrupted her. “Before I answer that, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Are you licensed?”
“I am, I have a degree in clinical psychology and social work from UC Davis.” She pointed to a framed piece of paper on the wall, Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s diploma. I was about to ask to see her driver’s license, but she continued. “I don’t want to violate your patient confidentiality with Dr. Broyard, but I remember scheduling your appointment with him. I am his receptionist, three times a year, when he uses this office. That might have caused some confusion.”
Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of this obvious and simple explanation? I apologized and she said there was no need and I apologized again. Her shoes. They were a fancy European kind. Did she really need the extra income?
“How much are you paid as a receptionist?”
“About a hundred dollars for the day.”
“That’s less than what I pay you for an hour.”
She nodded. “I don’t do it for the money. I enjoy it. Answering the phone and setting up appointments for Dr. Broyard is a wonderful respite from the responsibility of this job.”
Everything she said made perfect sense but only for a few seconds, then it expired. A wonderful respite? It didn’t sound very wonderful. She leaned back a little, waiting for me to launch into my private life. I waited too, for a feeling of trust to arise. The room was very quiet.
“I need to use the restroom,” I said finally, just to break the silence.
“Oh dear. You really have to go?”
I nodded.
“Okay. You have two options. There’s a key in the waiting room with a plastic duck on it. You can take that key and go to the bathroom on the ninth floor, which unfortunately you can only get to by taking the elevator down to the lobby and asking the doorman to use his key to unlock the service elevator. This option usually takes
It came from my bellows, the loudest noise I’d ever made. Not no , but the old Open Palm battle cry: Aiaiaiaiai! My thighs catapulted upward; I almost leapt into the air. Clee was still for a moment, and then she barreled into me, pulling me down and trying to pin me. It was too much weight. I can-canned with full force, kicking everything in sight, and popped with my hard fist when I could. She repeatedly tried to bring me to the floor until I tried the butterfly. It worked—I broke free. She stood up and walked out of the room. The bathroom door locked with a click. The sink taps blasted on.
I lay next to my bed, sucking down big pulls of air. Long loose thrums of pain were gently vibrating through my limbs. It was gone. Not just the globus but the whole structure around it, the tightness in my chest, my locked jaw. I rolled my head from side to side. Exquisite. A million tiny, delicate sensations. The skin was burning from something she had done but otherwise loose as a goose. I laughed and sent a ripple up one arm, across my shoulders to the other one. What was that called again? The electric slide? Who was this big goof? Señorita Sillypants. I saw myself flamenco dancing, something with castanets. The water was still running in the bathroom, a pathetic attempt at passive aggression. Waste all the water you want! If she moved out tomorrow I could have the house in order by the weekend. My new muscles shook wildly as I reached for my phone. I left my name and number and requested the same time next Tuesday. Dr. Tibbets’s receptionist was a fraud and a thief and a pretty good therapist.
CLEE DIDN’T LEAVE THE NEXT DAY. Or the day after that. She was still there on Tuesday but I went to therapy anyway. The receptionist smiled warmly as I placed myself on Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s couch.
“How are—”
I interrupted her. “Before I answer that, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Are you licensed?”
“I am, I have a degree in clinical psychology and social work from UC Davis.” She pointed to a framed piece of paper on the wall, Ruth-Anne Tibbets’s diploma. I was about to ask to see her driver’s license, but she continued. “I don’t want to violate your patient confidentiality with Dr. Broyard, but I remember scheduling your appointment with him. I am his receptionist, three times a year, when he uses this office. That might have caused some confusion.”
Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of this obvious and simple explanation? I apologized and she said there was no need and I apologized again. Her shoes. They were a fancy European kind. Did she really need the extra income?
“How much are you paid as a receptionist?”
“About a hundred dollars for the day.”
“That’s less than what I pay you for an hour.”
She nodded. “I don’t do it for the money. I enjoy it. Answering the phone and setting up appointments for Dr. Broyard is a wonderful respite from the responsibility of this job.”
Everything she said made perfect sense but only for a few seconds, then it expired. A wonderful respite? It didn’t sound very wonderful. She leaned back a little, waiting for me to launch into my private life. I waited too, for a feeling of trust to arise. The room was very quiet.
“I need to use the restroom,” I said finally, just to break the silence.
“Oh dear. You really have to go?”
I nodded.
“Okay. You have two options. There’s a key in the waiting room with a plastic duck on it. You can take that key and go to the bathroom on the ninth floor, which unfortunately you can only get to by taking the elevator down to the lobby and asking the doorman to use his key to unlock the service elevator. This option usually takes
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