Just North of Whoville (8 page)

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.

Suddenly, her cell phone rang. And not just any ring. It very clearly rang to the tune of “Deck the Halls”. I couldn’t stop myself from letting out an audible sigh.

“
Ay, coño!” she said as she reached into her bag and turned off her phone. “Sorry about that,” she apologized.

“
It’s okay.”

“
No it’s not. You’re upset. Be honest.”

“
Really. It’s okay.”

“
No. I can tell you thought it was unprofessional. You come here to have someone listen and…”

“
It’s okay. Everyone forgets to turn off their phone.”

“
You sighed. Be honest. I saw you sigh.”

“
Okay, um….” I decided to just get it out there. “The sigh was about the ring tone.”

“
And what about that upset you?”

“
It’s just… You do know that Christmas is seven week away.”

“
Right,” she said simply, expecting me to go on.

“
Do you really want to listen to that for seven weeks? I mean…Christmas is ONE DAY. One day almost two months away. And yet, everywhere I go it’s...”

I stopped. I knew if I got started…

“
There are no filters in this office, Dorrie. Spit it out.”

And then I lost it.

“
It’s a fucking Santaland out there! I just saw a woman wearing a snowflake sweater! It’s seventy degrees! And my coffee shop---one day it’s Pumpkin Spice and the next day it’s Peppermint Swirl! I just... I hate Christmas!”

She seemed shocked.

“
You hate the birth of the baby Jesus?” she said as she crossed herself.

“
There were no mochas at the birth of Jesus. I’m pretty sure.”

“
You can’t be hating on Christmas. That’s bad for your soul.”

“
A lot of people hate Christmas.”

“
No they don’t.”

“
What about all those people who get depressed over the holidays?”

“
Shorter daylight hours. Lack of Vitamin D and serotonin. Gets you down. But not Christmas.”

“
Then why does the suicide rate shoot up during the holidays?”

“
That’s just a myth.”

“
But people get depressed, right?”

“
Homesickness. Lack of a significant other. Not enough money to buy gifts. Or over-worked and not enough time to spend with family. But they don’t hate it.”

“
Let me guess. You love Christmas.”

“
I’m all about the love, boo,” she said as she thumped her hand over her heart and gave out the love.

“
Look, I don’t object to the day. Christmas DAY. But I don’t understand how you can listen to “Deck the Fucking Halls” every time your phone rings and how Little Miss Sunshine at the coffee shop can listen to sleigh bells ring-ting-ting-a-lin’ for the next two months and why everyone is so damn happy about it?”

She leaned back in her chair and surmised, “You’re a Scrooge.”

“
I am not a Scrooge! Are you…are you licensed?”

“
Dorrie,” she said firmly as she stood up from her folding chair. “I will not have no player haters in my office! We straight?”

She was scary.

“
Yeah. Sure. We straight.”

“
Ait,” she said simply as she sat back down. “And by the way, yes---do you have lousy insurance.”

“
Sorry.”

“
So,” she continued calmly as she picked up her yellow note pad. “You always hate Christmas?”

“
No. When I was a kid I loved it. It’s just different now.”

“
Why is it different?”

“
I don’t know. It’s just…” I tried to figure out why it was so different. And then it hit me. “Aw…” I laughed at my own thoughts. “This is stupid.”

“
It’s not stupid, Dorrie. What’s different?”

“
Well… There’s no Santa.”

“
Okay. You know there never was a Santa, right?”

“
Yeah. I’m not crazy.”

“
I’ll be the judge of that. So. No Santa. What does that mean?”

“
It’s just… There’s nothing special that’s going to happen. Nothing magical. Or anything. There’s no… There’s no great hope.”

“
Hope for what?”

“
I don’t know. Just…that special thing that’s supposed to happen. And everything Christmas-y tells you that something special and magical is going to happen. But it doesn’t. It never does. And it never did. For example, when I was a kid, I really wanted a horse. Every year I asked for a horse.”

“
And you never got one?”

“
No!” I just let it all out. “But there was no way I was ever going to get a horse. We lived in the suburbs with a tiny fenced-in yard. There was no room for a horse. But every year I asked Santa for a horse. And I knew you had to be a good kid to get a horse, so I was a REALLY good kid. I was the Golden Child. But there was no point, you see. It didn’t matter because we didn’t have acreage and a barn and a stable boy and chickens walking around….” I started to trail off into nonsense. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I could’ve been a shitty kid. But I wasn’t. I just…thought maybe I’d get a horse out of it. I just wanted a horse. That’s all.”