A Day At The Office

“I want to kill myself.”

I continue writing on my yellow legal pad.

“Did you hear me?”

I glance up at the young woman briefly and then return to composing my letter.

“I said, ‘I want to kill myself’.”

I look up at her again, sigh heavily, and then continue writing.

“You’re not even listening to me." I hear her leave the sofa, strike a match and light a cigarette. I typically don’t allow smoking in my office, but don’t possess the inclination to protest. The smoke is giving me a headache and I try to ignore it, and instead concentrate on her soft whispered steps as she paces across the Persian carpet. Ignoring her isn’t working, so I try a different method.

I sit back in my chair and loosen my tie. “So why don’t you?”

She stops, glares at me, then continues pacing. “What?” she asks.

“You say you want to kill yourself?”

“Yeah?”

I shrug. “So do it.” I return to my letter.

She looks stunned. I swear, reverse psychology works every time. “You can’t be serious.”

I slowly drop my pen and push away from the desk. I open the bottom drawer—it is never locked as it should be—and grab an orange prescription bottle. I place it in the center of the highly polished cherry wood desk and pick up my pen.

She stubs out the cancer stick on the corner of my desk and tosses the butt into the trashcan. I glance at the newly burned mark she’s put on my desk and then glare at her but she seems mesmerized by the bottle and asks, “What’s that?”

“Sleeping pills,” I say as I use a handkerchief to wipe the ash off the desk and onto the floor. “Well that’s not going away,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing the mark vigorously. I sigh and toss the handkerchief across the desk. The woman, or Miss Lonely Hearts as I like to call her, still has her gaze transfixed on the bottle.

Hesitantly she picks it up and reads the label. “What’s it do?”

Exasperated by her stupidity, I lean back from my desk and toss my hands up in the air. “It puts your ass to sleep, that’s what. Not once in your pathetic little life have you ever followed through with anything. Now seems like a good time as any to start.” She appears even more confused and nibbles on her bottom lip. I roll my eyes. “Alright, let me put this in layman’s terms, no scrap that. Let me dumb this down for you. As your doctor, I advise you to take one pill, then chase it with a shot of good hard liquor. Not that cheap shit that you like, but the good stuff. You like vodka, right?”

She nods slowly. “Then what?”

“Well, you take another pill, then another shot. Another pill, another shot. You keep doing that either until the bottle is empty or you can’t see straight. Whichever comes first.”

She nods again, her eyes still fixated on the bottle. “Okay. Got it. Then what?”

Then what? She really is a dumbass. I pick up my pen again. “You can say hello to Satan for me. Tell him I’m on my way."

She leaves soon after that.

The bottle is left untouched on my desk.

*** *** ***

As I go to put the unopened bottle back in the bottom drawer, a shiny glint catches my eye. I reach down and pull out a blue revolver. I check the chamber. Two .22’s wink back at me. I close it and spin the chamber three times. I love the click-click sound it makes when I do that. I put it down momentarily and sign my name to the bottom of the letter.

I pick up the gun and place it to my temple.

Ahh. Sweet absolution.

I pull firmly on the trigger.

Click.

The phone rings.

I ignore it. Close my eyes. Pull the trigger again.

Click.

The stupid ass phone rings again.

I pull the revolver back from my head and stare at it as if it’s defective.

Ring.

I glance at the phone and contemplate using the gun on it instead of myself. I shake my head and place it back to my temple.

Ring.

With my free hand I push the intercom button.

“Doctor?” That’s my secretary.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you. Were you in the middle of something?”

I use the revolver and absently scratch my temple. “Kind of.”

She clears her throat. “Well, again, I apologize for interrupting, but Michael Jeffries is on the phone again. He demands to speak to you at once. He says it’s urgent.”

I groan, recognizing the name. “It’s always ‘urgent’ with him.”

She hesitates. “Should I put the call through, then?”

I shake my head and sigh deeply.“I guess." Putting the revolver down, I hit the speakerphone button.

*** *** ***


“Doctor?”

“What is it Mike?” I unload the gun and run the two small bullets through my fingers.

He is panting heavily. “Christine is having an affair!”

I toss one of the bullets up in the air. “And Christine would be…?”

“My wife! My cheating slut of a wife!”

“Oops!” I mutter as I drop the bullet. “Your wife. That’s right. And why should I care again? I’m not doing her.”

He ignores my last comment. “Because I’m paying you an obscene amount of money to care and to fix my problems, that’s why!”

“Wait. I thought Christine divorced you.”

He hesitates for a moment. “She did.”

“And yet she’s cheating on you.”

“That is correct.”

I let out a low whistle. “Alrighty-then. And you think that her seeing someone else is a problem even though you’re now divoriced?” I ask as I get down on both knees beneath my desk to search for the rogue bullet.

“I’ll say.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what you want to do, Mike?”

“Rip her goddamn head off!”

I finally manage to retrieve the bullet and settle comfortably back in my chair. “Well, that seems counterproductive in the whole ‘closure process’ we talked about the other day, but it’s your life.”

“I’ve got to do something, Doc!” he whined. “I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna rip her goddamn head off!”

“Alright. Well, why don’t you try that, tell me how it goes, and call me back from prison with all the juicy details, okay? Does that work for you?”

“What?”

“Nice talking with you, Mike.” I disconnect the call and hit the intercom button. I ask my secretary to alert the police about the latest of many "red flag" calls from Michael Jeffries and to hold the rest of my calls until further notice.

“Very well, Doctor,” she replies.

“’Very well, Doctor,’” I mimic. Carefully I reload the revolver—a Bearcat Single Action with a shiny walnut grip and fixed sights. Fixed sights—I don’t know what the hell that means, but it sure sounded pretty good when I bought it. I admire its beauty as I spin the chamber four times. I place the gun in my mouth and aim towards the sky.

I count back slowly from three in my head and pull the trigger.

Click.

Ring.

Shit. “Damnit!” I swear as I bite down on the steel barrel. I think I’ve cracked my tooth.

My finger slams down on the red intercom button. “You’re fired!”

“Uh, that’s all well and good, Doctor, but your two o’clock is here.”

I gently wiggle my front tooth to check for any damage. “Well, what the hell do they want?”

She hesitates and I hear a slight chuckle. “I believe that they have a problem or two that they would like to discuss with you.”

I suck my teeth and sigh heavily. “Don’t you think that I have more important things to do than to sit around and listen to other people bitch and moan about their problems?”

“I’m not quite clear on this, Doctor, but isn’t that your job?”

I hate it when she’s right. “Aw, fuck it.” I open my top drawer and slide the revolver inside. “Send them in.”

*** *** ***

For the next twenty minutes I sit and listen to Avery Dixon, this ridiculously wealthy 25-year old self-absorbed boring dick blame everyone from his mother to ever bitch he fucks—his words, mind you—for being so disenchanted with his life. I toss my notepad aside and interrupt him, because frankly he's boring me to death and I can’t stand it anymore.

“You’re gay.”

He stops rambling. “What?”

“That’s my final diagnosis. You're cured. You, Avery are gay. A homosexual. A fairy. A flying, flaming—“

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not queer!”

“Oh, come on, Avery. You see. That’s what I’m talking about. Overt homophobia is generally one of the key signs of homosexuality. Coupled with your apparent aversion to becoming like your father—. I mean think about it. We’ll start with your mother. You think you hate her, but in actuality you just blame her because daddy left you both for “Auntie Charlie”. In reality, he never really wanted you from the start and can’t stand to see the spoiled selfish man-child you’ve grown into. And it’s not just because you turned out to be a complete and utter disappointment, either. Nu uh. It’s because you’re a constant reminder of his torrid heterosexual past. I know this for a fact because he’s my 3:30 on Thursdays. And finally—“

He springs from his seat. “I don’t have to listen to this shit. I’m not a fag, you—“

“Tsk, tsk, Avery. Someone's protesting too much," I mutter under my breath in a sing-song voice.

“Fuck you!”

“No, no, no. You need to find another homosexual person—like yourself—to engage in those types of activities with you. Don’t worry. Gay is really ‘in’ right now thanks to those Queer Eye guys and Showtime. I learned from another patient--no, well, your father actually-- that there’s this nice little club downtown called—“

“I didn’t come here to be insulted!” He charges towards the door, his nose flaring. “I don’t have to take this shit from you! Don’t you know who I am?”

“Come on, Avery. Look at the way you’re dressed. You can discredit everything else I said earlier as complete bullshit, but the clothes don’t lie. And believe me, I’m straight. I would know.”

His hand freezes on the doorknob and he turns around. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

I shake my head and settle back in my chair. “The fact that you even asked that question further goes to validate my diagnosis.” I gesture towards his chest. “It’s sad, really. I mean, does your shirt really need to be two sizes too small? And an earring—in both ears? Come on Avery, that’s not rebellious. It jumps past metrosexual and goes straight to homosexual. And if you don’t mind me saying, no man—gay or otherwise—should be allowed to wear pants that tight. I haven’t seen that shit since the Gibb Brothers.” I pick up my pen and twirl it between my fingers. “And please, don’t even get me started on those shoes.”

That sends him packing.

*** *** ***

I lean over and press the intercom button.

“Yes, Doctor?”

I clear my throat. “First things first. Call my cable company and cancel my subscription. Then, cancel all of my wife’s magazine subscriptions. She always puts them in the bathroom and now I know more about some things than I should.”

I hear her chuckle. “Very well, Doctor. Anything else?”

“Um, one more thing. I’d just like to say that if you interrupt me one more time, I’ll personally see to it that your children and your children’s children all fail miserably in life. When I’m through with them, they’ll be selling themselves on street corners giving blowjobs to crack whores and pimps for the rest of eternity. Got that?”

“Very well, Doctor. You missed lunch. Did you want the tuna today or the turkey salad?”

I chew on my bottom lip. “Does either option require you to leave your desk?”

“Well, the tuna can be delivered, but I’d have to pick up the salad.”

I press the button again. “Get me the salad.”

*** *** ***

Finally, I’m alone.

The revolver is placed between framed portraits of my wife and my mistress. I read over the letter once more:


”To Whomever Gives a Damn:

My life was pretty much a waste of time and energy. I’m almost positive that if I were born a rock or a parakeet or something, that my time on this planet could have been much more worthwhile.

To my darling wife—I hope you and the good Deacon are as happy together as you were last night when I found you “praying” together. I wish you both all the venereal diseases in the world. I played golf with his doctor and I hear he’s got some good ones.

To my lovely Serena—I always said that you would be the death of me. I’m glad you found religion in the arms of both my wife and her lover. I sincerely wish you three the best.

To my patients, colleagues, and anyone else who has crossed my path and assisted in the misery that was my life—I’ll see you all in hell.

I’ll keep the couch warm for you…”

I absently pick up the revolver and trace the curves of my signature with the barrel. I spin the chamber one more time. Maybe I should say a prayer or something. It seems fitting.

I smile to myself and begin to recite to only one I know.

“Now I lay me down to sleep—“

Knock knock.

I stare at the door in disbelief. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The door opens slightly and a blond head pops in. “Hey, Doc! Can I talk to you for a bit?”

I put the gun down slowly on the desk but I don’t bother to hide it. “Who are you and what do you want?”

A woman walks in and plops down in the chair across from my desk. She’s young. In fact, I doubt she’s even out of high school. I’d like to say that I made that assumption do to my keen insight and detective skill, but the cheerleading uniform and backpack sort of give it away.

“I know I don’t have an appointment or anything, but I met with you last week for the first time. You said if I ever needed to chat to just drop on by anytime.” She sticks out her hand across the desk . “If you don’t remember me, my name is Lizzie Baker. This will be billed to my daddy, right?”

I ignore both her question and her outstretched hand and watch her as she warily eyes the gun on the desk. She pulls her hand back and slumps uncomfortably into the seat. “O-kay,” she says slowly. “Anyway, you said that if I was ever having a crisis or a breakdown or something that I could stop by. Wait—I already said that. Anyway, so I’m here. With a crisis.”

Still, I say nothing.

“Okay, so should I just start?”

Silence.

“Alright. So, like, listen. Like I was saying last week, my Daddy like really wants me to go to this, like, all-girl goody-goody Christian college to become like a nun or something, but I don’t think that’s what I want to do. I’d much rather go to NYU with my boyfriend. Did you know Mary-Kate and Ashley are going to be there? I bet we'll be the best of friends. Anyway, my boyfriend and I, we’re going to get married after graduation and he’s going to go to law school and we’re going to have lots and lots of babies and kittens and an iguana. At least, that’s the plan. He wants the iguana, though. I just want the babies and the kittens. And a career, too. Maybe like modeling or acting or I could be an architect. I like to draw houses and horses and stuff.”

So this is now what constitutes as an emergency now? And what the hell does a horse have to do with architecture? I look down at my desk in disbelief and shake my head. My eyes drift to the revolver and I momentarily contemplate using it on the blond mass of stupidity that sits across from me.

“I think the biggest problem is my faith. I mean, like I was saying last week how I couldn’t go to a religious school when I don’t even think I believe in God. That’s crazy, right? I mean, I’m not saying that he doesn’t exist, but who’s to say that he does, right? And what’s with all the omnipotent and omnipresence stuff anyway? I mean, do you really believe that some ‘higher power’ knows where you are and what you’re doing at all hours of the day?” She laughs. “Kind of sounds like Santa Claus, right?”

Did she really just compare God to Santa Claus? That does it. I can’t take anymore of this insipid innocuous rambling. “Get the hell out of my office.”

She looks confused. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Do I look like a fucking priest to you? Religion is a whole ‘nother fucking department. This ain’t it. Get the hell out of my office.”

Poor little Lizzie’s jaw drops. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

"Well that’s a hell of a surprise. You’ve been rambling on like a drunken idiot for the last ten minutes, and now you don’t know what to say?”

Tears begin to well up in here yes. “I—I—I—“

“’I—I—I’,” I mimic. “Get the hell out. Go find a priest, a minister, a rabbi—matter of fact, why don’t you find your own damn father and talk his damn ear off. He’ll probably send you to the moon if you want if you’d just shut the hell up for a minute! Now get out!”

She runs out, sobbing hysterically.

*** *** ***

I unplug the phone and lock the door.

I completely unknot my tie and settle comfortably in my leather chair. I snatch up the revolver from the desk and aim it to my left temple.

Time to say my prayers.

“Now I lay me down to sleep.”

Click.

“Some poor pathetic fool has my soul to keep.”

Click.

“If I should die before I wake.”

Click.

I forget the rest.

Aw, to hell with it.

Click.

Bang.

*** *** ***

I jump slightly as a thick wave of ecru plaster and debris fall onto my head and desk. I cough slightly, wiping the dust from my eyes.

I missed.

Dropping the gun onto the desk, I begin to rub my ears furiously. The damn ringing just won’t go away.

As I reach for a handkerchief from my top desk drawer, I notice the doorknob move up and down. I can hardly hear anything besides the ringing in my ears, so I don’t bother to call out and invite whoever it is in.

The door opens. That surprises the hell out of me. I thought I’d locked it.

“You busy, Doc?”

“How the hell did you get in, Serena?” I say more to myself than to my surprisingly non-flustered secretary.

She waves a brass key in the air and waltzes in with a half-crushed brown paper bag. She glances up at the latest hole that’s graced the ceiling and shrugs her shoulders before planting herself in the chair across from my desk. “I got a key.” She gestures to the ceiling. “Bad day?”

I rub my ear absently and fall back into my chair. “I’ve had worse.” I open the brown lunch bag and pull out half of a turkey sandwich and a half-bitten pickle. “Where’s my salad?”

She shrugs again, leans across the desk and snatches up the yellow legal pad. “I didn’t feel like getting up.”

While she reads over the letter, I shove the sandwich back into the bag. I keep out the pickle, however, and begin to munch away.

Serena taps on the notepad but doesn’t look up at me. “This reminds me: your wife called. She’s gonna be here in about a half hour. You’re supposed to go to some dinner or benefit or gala or ball or something. It’s black-tie. She called earlier today and told me to remind you about that. I probably should have told you.”

I glance down at my soiled attire and nod. “Probably.”

She smiles, nodding her head. “Yeah, probably.” She chuckles. “So I’m back to having an affair with your wife and minister again, huh? I thought you were getting more creative than that.”

“It’s the deacon this time,” I correct her.

She shakes her head and stands up. “Anyway, I just came in to let you know that I’m leaving early today and I’ll probably be late tomorrow.”

I toss the rest of my pickle into the trashcan and rip the letter from the legal pad. “Hot date tonight?”

Serena laughs and walks to the door. “Uh huh. Got me a priest, rabbi and a deacon all greased up and waiting for me.”

I pull a stuffed worn leather folder from my top desk drawer and open it. I place the letter on top of all the others, mostly identical in content, and shut it slowly. “Don’t be too late, tomorrow. We’ve got a long day. Can't wait to find out what Jeffries did to his wife.”

"Probably sat outside her house and cried like a baby like last time. He called back and upped his appointments to twice a week. The same goes for Miss Lonely Hearts and that gay dude…Dixon something or other. You must have been on your game today, Doc." She raises an eyebrow and points to the hole in the ceiling. “You get pretty close this time?”

I shrug. “No more than usual. Hurt my ear pretty badly, though. Think I busted an eardrum.”

“You keep this up, Doc, and they’re gonna kick us out of this building.”

I shake my head. “Not as long as no one’s on the floor above us.”

She backs out of the room, a concerned look on her face. “I’m really starting to worry about you, Doc. I hope this wasn’t too stressful a day for you.”

After she leaves I put the revolver back in its drawer and lean back in my chair. I glance up at the hole in the ceiling. “Nope. It was just like any old day at the office.”