Halle Butler - Jillian

Carrie sat on the couch, staring at the bay windows with her left hand held out absent-mindedly before her. Soon it would be 3:30, soon it would be 4:00, soon it would be 4:30, soon it would be 5:00, then 5:15, then 5:30, then 5:45, 46, 47, 48, 49.

“There I was in my storage unit. I had nothing, no job, no boyfriend, no place to live, and then BAM. Six weeks later I had my career, and six years later here I am,” said the drug rep, who was standing in the waiting room and leaning on the counter. She had a miniature dolly cart with a few crates and boxes on it, the sort of rig a homeless person would have, but new-looking, as if she wiped it down every night and got the wheels and buttons repaired from time to time. Megan thought the whole drug rep thing was disgusting, corporate, and transparently evil, but Jillian stood on the other side of the counter smiling at the rep with her mouth open.

“Wow,” said Jillian.

The drug rep looked like she took street fighting classes.

“Yeah,” said the drug rep.

“You know, I was trying to start my own business,” said Jillian.

“Oh, really, what’s that?”

“I was going to do coding. I found the software and everything, but things just didn’t quite work out.”

“Awwwww,” said the drug rep. “You know, honey, I could always hook you up with a job in my business.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Jillian.

Megan could not believe this. It was inappropriate to talk about wanting to quit or switch jobs when you were at your workplace and nine feet away from your employer.

“But I should warn you, it’s real fast-paced.”

“Well, maybe I’ll think about it,” said Jillian.

I mean, if Megan could resist it, everyone should be able to.

“Ok, sweetheart, I’m going to leave these samples with you, and you just give me a call whenever Dr. Billings is ready to meet with me.”

“Oh, ok,” said Jillian, taking the samples.

“Can I leave some literature out?” asked the rep.

“Sure,” said Jillian.

By “literature” the rep meant advertisements for bowel-emptying medication.

Jillian’s smile was like stuck or something. She almost started laughing, but she knew it would be a deep, woofing, slow laugh. Ridiculous. Thinking about laughing like that almost made her laugh again, a high-pitched rapid giggle. Ultimately she didn’t laugh, she just stood there and watched the drug rep wheel her little hobo cart out of the lobby.

Jillian walked back to her desk and said, “That woman is such a sweetheart.”

Megan didn’t respond, but Jillian was used to that.

Jillian could feel that her mouth was still open. The T3s were getting less and less effective, not that they were so super effective in the first place. She still felt a lot of pain, you know. But now there was a weird grating feeling inside. Not the inside of her body, because she couldn’t locate the grating feeling in any one of her organs. It was like the Tylenol or whatever was starting to grate at her soul.

When this occurred to her, her hands started darting around her desk. She picked up and set down her mouse, ran her fingers over the pens in her pen cup, and typed a few blurts of nonsense on her keyboard, which made the computer bonk-bonk with the error sound.

My soul is messed up now, she thought. She was terrified.

She reached for a Pop-Tart. It was the last Pop-Tart. Oh, that’s perfect. If that’s not perfect! It’s like I’m down to my last Pop-Tart! She tried to recall some mantras, but she felt like she always messed them up a little bit and then she became frightened that this feeling inside of her came from reciting a devotional incorrectly and now, because of that, she was in serious, terrible trouble.

She unwrapped the Pop-Tart with shaky hands and tried to let her mind wander.

There was something about the siding for the house of the soul . . . God, what was it? Something about if you smile at someone, their smile will shine back into you? God, what was it?

“I’m going to go get some coffee,” said Megan.

“Oh, sure,” said Jillian.

After Megan left, the phone rang.

“Good afternoon, doctor’s office,” said Jillian. “Oh, sure. Dr. Schraeder sees patients on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons. Her first available appointment is at one-thirty on the 26th.”

“Well, don’t you have anything sooner?” asked the man on the line.

“No, I’m sorry, that’s the earliest availability.”

“Well, I’m having some pretty severe symptoms over here, and I don’t think I can wait a week and a half to come see the doctor,” said the man.

“I’m sorry, sir, but if this is a medical emergency, I’d recommend going to the emergency room.”

“I’m not going to wait two hours in the emergency room just to have them refer me to my own doctor, ok?”

“Ok, I understand that, sir. I understand that this is frustrating, sir.”

“And I work on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I’m going to need to see the doctor on a Monday or a Saturday,” said the man.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s not possible.”

“Why is that not possible? Isn’t Dr. Schraeder a professional who cares about the well being of her patients?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure she cares about your well being.”

“Well, it really doesn’t seem that way, the way I’m being treated right now. This is just inconscionable, you know. It’s inconscionable.”

The man was starting to squawk a little and raise his voice.

Jillian didn’t know what inconsciousable meant, but she had a few guesses.

“Sir, ok, maybe if you could tell me some of your symptoms, I could pass them along to Dr. Schraeder, and then maybe she would be able to fit you in sooner.”

“Well, are you a nurse?”

“No, sir, I am the office manager.”

“Well, if you’re not a nurse or if you don’t have any medical training, I don’t know why I should tell you any personal information about my health life. Isn’t that illegal?”

“Sir, I assure you I signed a HIPAA confidentiality form when I was hired, and I take my job very seriously, and I would not betray your privacy, sir.”

“How do I know you’re not lying? Listen, missy, I want to talk to Dr. Schraeder right now, or I’m going to hang up.”

“Sir, please calm down. Dr. Schraeder is not in the office today. I promise you the best way to get in touch with her is to leave a detailed message with me.”

“Well, how are you going to relay the message to her? I want you to give me her cell phone number.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to give out any of her personal contact information.”

“If I hang up, I’m going to call back and get you fired.”

Jillian wished he would, and almost said, “Oh go ahead, whatever, please just do it.”

“Sir, could I please have your name and telephone number?”

“I already gave you my name. You should have my telephone number there in my chart.”

“Sir, I apologize, but I don’t recall your name.”

“You say you’re the manager? Well, this office is damned, then. What kind of a secretary doesn’t take notes during a phone call?”

“Sir, I am not a secretary, I am an office assistant, and the office manager.”

The man hung up.

That was it.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t remember talking to anyone like that. I’m sorry, I’m sure I would have let you know if I spoke with someone who got that upset.”

Or, “Sir, no, I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve spoken before. The office manager? I don’t think we even have an office manager.”

The mantra was something about keeping up appearances and believing that God would make things right again and that you shouldn’t be upset or act like anything is wrong because that might bring someone else down or make them upset. It was about acting like you were already in the place you wanted to be in or something. She couldn’t remember the exact line, but the sentiment of it came back to her, flooded her with the approximation of its meaning (vivid, this feeling, clear and strong, but impossible to pin down, you know, just like God was, so that was ok and was a comfort) and then suddenly she knew everything would be ok. She addressed the grating feeling in her soul and told it (her soul) that this feeling would not be around for long, or forever, and that things would be back and up and in working order in a jiff.