by Claire Adams
“We’re not losing, Grace,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting. We’ll discuss this later.”
“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know how my meeting with Mitch goes.”
“You will not.”
“Fine, I won’t tell you how-”
“You’re not going above my head, Grace,” he says. “I know this is your pet project, but I swear to God, if you go behind my back and defy me, you’re going to wish you never got that second interview.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.
“Grace,” he says again.
“It’s going to come up, John. That much is out of my hands now. I’ll pull my punches a bit, but I’m not just going to sit on this forever. I’ve been cultivating relationships in some of our more prominent potential markets, and we both know how long those relationships last without plenty of cash flow.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” he says. “For now, bring it up if you have to, but as far as anyone else knows, you’re just spitballing. Noncommittal is the word.”
“I’m not sure that it’s the proper word, but I get it, John,” I answer.
“You know what?” he asks. “I think maybe it’s time you go back to calling me Mr. Parker.”
I hang up the phone and smile.
To the untrained eye, it might appear that I just landed on my boss’s shit list. The truth, on the other hand, is that I’ve been on my boss’s shit list pretty much since I started working here, and it’s from that position that I’ve always been able to affect the greatest amount of change.
If nothing else, I have a feeling that I’m going to start getting phone calls again here really soon.
***
My meeting with Mitchell Young goes everywhere but anywhere, but the point was never progress. Mitchell Young and John Parker are, on most things, of the same mind, and I want it to be clear to anyone who’s paying attention, anyone that either of these men talk to on a day-to-day basis, that I’m not fucking around.
If nothing else, I’ve just saved my job, even if I will end up having to wait a little longer to get what I want from it.
Right now, though, I’m sitting on my couch at home, snuffing out my amateur attempt at a joint and wondering why I still have yet to figure out that I should just have a glass of water waiting on the table for me so I don’t have to make the arduous trek all the way into the next room to wet my mouth.
My next round of chemo starts before too long, and I’m already dreading it.
I’m not sure if I’m getting in a capsule the same stuff that others get in their veins, but what I do know is that if it weren’t for pot, something which I’ve never had the slightest inclination to even try before all of this, the hell of chemo would be a lot darker.
Even with my little green friend, though, I’m not looking forward to round two.
The nice thing is that, as a decently paid professional, I’ve been able to quite literally change my hair on a daily basis.
This is one of those times where it would be really nice to have a friend that I’m not employing, but I don’t have any of those. Working an average of 80 hours a week isn’t particularly conducive to interpersonal relationships.
So, I get up the courage to make my way into my kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water before realizing that I bought bottled water for just such an occasion, and I go back into the living room and gargle a moment before I pull out my phone and dial the number.
It’s a short phone call.
I sit and veg out to some old episodes of The Golden Girls for a while before there’s a knock on my door.
“Just a minute!” I call, and make sure all my smoking gear is put away, and I spray some air freshener just to cover any lingering smell. I’m not doing anything illegal; I am a patient with a valid prescription for a serious medical condition. Still, people can be so judgmental.
I open the door and Jace comes in, saying, “You know, we’ve got to stop meeting this way.”
I smile and close the door behind him.
He compliments me on my hair, which is shorter, lightly disheveled, yet still professional, and black with just a tinge of purple if the light catches it just right. This is one of my favorites.
“So, how was the traffic on your way over?” I ask.
“It was fine,” he says. “You know, you don’t have to call me through my agency.”
“I don’t have your home number, and this isn’t exactly a medical emergency, so it doesn’t seem right to have the hospital page you-”
“It’s just,” he starts and then hesitates, “I charge less for my time as a doctor than I do as an escort.”
“Well, since I’m both your patient and your client in your sex work-”
“I don’t have sex with my clients,” he protests, but I couldn’t care less.
“I’m just saying, I think maybe it’s time to discuss some kind of discount,” I snicker.
“Why me?” he asks. “You could have asked for someone else, you could have called a different service. I’m your doctor. That doesn’t bother you?”
“Does it bother me that you’re my doctor?” I ask, adding an extra touch of snark to the situation. “No,” I conclude. “It would bother me less if I didn’t have to have a doctor at all, but we are where we are. So, what got you into medicine? And, don’t give me the trite answer.”
“What’s the trite answer?” he asks stupidly.
“You know very well what the trite answer is,” I tell him.
“What if I did get into it to help people?”
“Then you’re more boring than I thought. Are you single?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, my secretary thinks there’s no way a doctor who could pass for a rent-a-cock wouldn’t be married, but I think you’re less predictable than that,” I answer.
“I would have thought that being a doctor and an escort would have told you that I’m not that predictable,” he answers.
“By the way, you’re taking me out tonight,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks. “Why?”
“Well, you said that I could have called another agency or simply asked for someone else, but at the same time, when you got the call, you could have said that you couldn’t make it. You could have given any number of excuses that would have gotten you out of coming here without imperiling your job as a hired gun, if you’ll forgive the expression, but here you are in my living room once again.”
I’m not going to lie: I’m having fun with this.
“I guess I just thought that maybe — I don’t know,” he answers.
“You thought what?” I ask.
“I came here tonight to tell you that we can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I’m your doctor and-”
“Yeah, that’s boring,” I interrupt. “So, why did you become a doctor?” I ask again as I get out of my seat and collect my purse. “You can tell me on the way.”
“I can’t go out with you,” he protests.
“The charge on my card would suggest differently,” I answer. “Come on. We’re going to get you drunk, and maybe, if you’re a gentleman, I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”
“It’s stuff like that,” he says. “There are rules against this sort of thing. We can’t-”
“Oh, calm down,” I tell him. “I’m not looking to cost you your license. I’d just like to go out on the town with an attractive man, if for no other reason than to get other attractive men to notice just how fuckable I am.”
“You know, you talk like a sailor,” he says.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I ask. “I suspect that a lot of people are claiming a connection to maritime sociology that they don’t actually possess.”
“It’s an expression. Anyway, I told my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be gone long.”
“Oh, so you’ve got a girlfriend,” I tease. “Isn’t it funny that you never mentioned that before?”
“Grace,” he
says, putting his hands together like he’s about to tell me that he ran over the dog that I don’t have, “one of the common symptoms of oligodendroglioma is personality change. I think it might be time for us to revisit your treatment protocol.”
“Oh, relax,” I tell him. “I’ve been this kind of charming for as long as I can remember. If that’s not enough for you, I have an office full of people that’ll tell you that I’m no different than I ever was.”
“Have you had any other symptoms?”
“Like what?” I return.
“Anything out of the ordinary,” he says. “Blurry vision, difficulty speaking or writing, headaches-”
“This conversation is giving me a headache,” I tell him. “Does that count?”
“I’m worried about you,”
“Well, aren’t you sweet? You know what you can do to help me?”
“What’s that?”
“You can take me somewhere nice and graciously step aside if I start flinging the fuck-me eyes at someone else,” I tell him. “If it’ll make you feel better about going out with a patient as her date-for-hire, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks.”
At least he’s smiling now.
It takes a bit more convincing, but finally, I get him out of my apartment and into a cab.
I ask the driver where I might find a bar where I can make attractive men jealous with my date. She doesn’t give me a clear answer, but we’re driving now, so I can only assume she knows just the place.
Once we’re out of the cab, the driver is paid, and we’re in the bar, however, it becomes painfully clear that I should have specified that I wasn’t looking for a dive.
Oh well, if anyone tries to get fresh without my permission, I’ve got my own personal sex worker to jump in and save the day.
“You never answered my question,” I tell him.
“What question’s that?” he asks.
“Why did you become a doctor?”
“Well,” he says, “my dad was a doctor, my grandfather was a doctor. To be perfectly honest with you, though, I don’t know that that had as much to do with it as you might think.”
“What did? I mean, what convinced you to rebel by doing the same thing that generations of non-British Churchills have done before you?”
“It was my mother,” he explains. “She was sick a lot when I was growing up, and I was always the one that ended up taking care of her while my dad was out with a revolving cast of nurses.”
I sip my orange juice. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“It is what it is,” he says. “You know, I don’t even know that it was necessarily that. I mean, it was, but I think it was more that I wanted to prove, if only to myself, that a person could be a doctor without being a lowlife.”
“And here you are selling yourself for money,” I giggle.
“How many times do I have to tell you-”
“Oh, come on,” I interrupt. “You may not swing your thing for cash, but from what I hear, you’re in the minority.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “Sure, I’ve heard the same stories that you have, but I think there are plenty of people like me who just enjoy going out and making a little money in the process.”
“What does the old ball and chain have to say about it?” I ask. “Or does she not know?”
“She knows,” he says. “It was her idea.”
“Oh,” I say wincing, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me,” a burly man with a handlebar mustache and a yellow bandanna on his head says, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I ask.
“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink,” the man says.
I look at my reluctant date and smile.
“You can,” I tell him, “but I’ve got to warn you. My friend here can get pretty jealous.”
The man looks Jace up and down, and, cracking his knuckles, the man scoffs and says, “I’m really not that worried about it.”
“Do you hear that?” I ask. “He says he’s not worried about it.”
“What are you doing?” Jace asks, rightfully irritated.
I turn back to the man and say, “I appreciate the offer, but I think I should pass.”
“He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?” the man asks, referring to Jace.
Ah, the male quest for dominance. If they had any perspicacity, they would have figured out a long time ago that no matter what they do, women are always going to be the ones running the show.
“I think I’ll be fine,” I tell the man. “Thank you again for the offer, though.”
“Yeah,” the man says, giving a death stare to Jace. “You have a good night.”
The man walks away, and I’m not sure if the look in Jace’s eyes is relief or just more irritation.
“You seem to enjoy messing with people,” he says.
“It’s a hobby of mine,” I agree. “So, doc, where were we?”
“You were saying sorry for the fact that my girlfriend is the one that-”
“Oh,” I laugh, “right. Yeah, that’s got to be hard for you.”
“What’s that?” he asks. “I think it’s a testament to her trust in me that she’d be-”
“She’s got someone on the side. Do you really think anyone would be so willing to have you go out on dates with an endless string of at least occasionally attractive women that they’d actually tell a good-looking doctor like yourself to take up whoring?”
“I’m not a-”
“Whatever,” I tell him. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but that chicky poo of yours, she’s looking to ease her own guilt by telling herself that whatever you’re doing when you go out on these dates has to be worse than anything she’s doing.”
“It’s not like that,” he protests.
“All right,” I smile. “Just don’t be pissed at me if you go home one night to find some other guy playing ‘just the tip’ with your old lady.”
The expression on his face is much clearer now. He’s pissed.
“You know,” he says, “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I think you’re lashing out because you’re scared or upset, and I really don’t think that we should be doing this.”
“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “You can’t tell me you didn’t think it was a little strange that she just comes up to you one day and tells you that escorting really gets a bad rap and you should check it out as a fallback position in case the whole oncology thing doesn’t work out.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He drops a 20 on the bar and says, “Goodnight.”
“Hold on,” I tell him, grabbing his arm.
“What?” he asks impatiently.
“I didn’t bring any money,” I tell him. “Would you mind spotting me cab fare?”
He shakes his head and walks out of the bar, leaving me to figure out how to get home. Luckily, I think I know just the guy, and he’s already making his way back over to my stool.
“You all right?” the man with the ridiculous facial hair asks.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, “but I’m wondering if I could impose upon you.”
“You what?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”
“Sure,” he says. “What do you need?”
I smile.
Before long, we’re back at my apartment, and I’m trying to figure out whether I want to offer the man a drink or whether I’m in the mood to offer him something else.
“You know,” I tell him, “I’m in a bit of a conundrum.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
Luckily, I’ve always been pretty good at thinking on my feet.
“Well,” I start, “I’ve got another favor to ask, and I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about it.”
“I brought you home, didn’t I?” he asks, having gotten the exact wrong impression of what I’m about to ask him.
“I’m wondering if you might be willing to help me wash something,” I tell him and coyly run my fingers through not-my-real-hair.
He licks his lips and says, “I bet I could help you out with that.”
“Great,” I tell him, and give my wig a tug, handing it to him.
Now, all I can do is hope that the guy doesn’t have a fetish for bald chicks. If that’s the case, I might just have to let him throw me a bone. After all, he would be breaking a whole lot of stereotypes, and I think that kind of chivalry is worth rewarding, even if he looks like a barrel-chested Doc Holliday.
Fortunately, his eyes having become nearer to perfect circles than one would think possible, I think I’ve made the right move.
“You know,” he says, “I should really get back to the bar. My buddies are waiting for me, and I’m supposed to be the designated driver.”
I fake dejection and say, “I can smell the alcohol on your breath.”
“Yeah,” he says, “it’s not a hard and fast rule, but I am the driver.” As he’s making his way out the door, he turns back to look at me standing here, wig in hand, and he says, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “I understand.”
With that, he opens the door and walks out.
I laugh a little as I toss today’s hair on the arm of my couch, and I sit back, flipping on the television.
I’ll be honest, though; as impressed as I am with my own quick thinking and the masterful way I was able to scam a ride home with absolutely no payout, the reality hits me that that man with the stupid curling tufts on his face decided I wasn’t up to his standards.
Sure, my various pieces work well enough, but they’re not who I am.
Who I am right now is a woman who’s about to start another round of treatment, and whatever hair I would have left right now, if I didn’t bother shaving it all, would probably be gone not too long after it.
This is who I am, and even the dirtbag from the dive bar was put off by the fact.
Chapter Four
Round Two
Jace
It’s already been a long day, and it’s about to get even longer. Today is the day that Grace comes in for a checkup, and assuming all is well, to get her next round of chemo.