I'll Be Here

exception.
    “My lips,” Aaron says dramatically wiping his fingers across his lips the way that he’s seen mom do it, “are sealed.”
     

 
     
     
    Clothes make the man.  Naked people have little or no influence on society.
    ~Mark Twain

 
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    No one wants to enter a shrink’s office.
    I learned that on day one of this job.
    On day two I learned to let them wrestle their demons in the hallway by themselves.  It’s better that way. 
    On day three I learned how to make a pot of coffee.
    That was more than a year ago and it never gets old.  Well, the coffee-making does, but not the people. 
    Today Mr. Blomberg has come in and out of the door five times at least.  He is wearing a loose-fitted polo shirt that’s been through the wash too many times and still has the remnants of some old stain down the front.  His pants are too short and when he sits down in the upholstered chair over by the east window jiggling his leg and mumbling things under his breath, the pant legs rise up to almost mid-calf exposing one blue sock and one grey sock.  After about a minute of this he abruptly storms out of the office to the outer hallway where he paces back and forth for a minute or two.  Then the cycle begins all over again. 
    Poor Mr. Blomberg.  Rough divorce.  The wife cheated on him.
    I think about my own appearance and I’m starting to have a lot more sympathy for Mr. Blomberg and his weirdness. 
    This morning I didn’t even bother trying.  I’m wearing my glasses, which are a startlingly bright shade of purple.  The outer corners tilt up in thick points like those old fashioned cat sunglasses you see on Rockabilly posters.  They seemed like a good idea three years ago. 
    Make-up: zero. 
    Fashionable clothes: definitely not. 
    Hair: I won’t even talk about it. 
    With a heavy sigh I turn back to the referrals on my desk and tap the blue pen in my hand lightly against the pile. 
    Office worker. 
    Administrative Assistant. 
    Those are my titles within these walls on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from three o’clock to six o’clock.  And—like today—one Saturday morning a month for the people that can’t make a priority of their mental health during the week.
    The embossed black and gold plaque by the main door says “Dr. Patricia Snyder, Licensed Psychiatrist” in a thank-you-very-much cursive font.  There are two robust desks near the entry and a small seating area kept well-stocked with generic magazines and crossword puzzles.  And, to keep with the doctor’s office cliché, there’s a freshwater fish tank containing a variety of oversized goldfish against the far wall. 
    Dr. Snyder (Patty) is a friend of Jake’s and she hired me last year to cover some of the overflow paperwork at her psychiatric practice.  Business is booming.   
    Smirna’s hair tickles my shoulder as she leans over me and rests her finger on the file splayed on my desk. 
    “We’ll need to make a copy of this one and can you call over to that Pharmacy over by Brickel’s?  I called in Mrs. Vaughn’s prescription an hour ago but she says that they are giving her the run around and I need to make sure she gets it before she leaves town to visit her daughter.  You know how she is.” 
    She rolls her eyes and chuckles.  Ellen Vaughn is one of Patty’s more “delicate” patients.
    After two more walk-ins and walk-outs, Mr. Blomberg has made it into Patty’s interior office.  Smirna rustles around on her desk and comes up with an oversized zippered pouch.  She positively hates when patients pay in cash and informs me that Susan Ferris paid for her earlier session with two crisp one hundred dollar bills. 
    Smirna grimaces and repeats what she always says about it making her feel nervous to have that much money sitting around the office.  She asks me if I want her to get me anything while she runs across the street to the bank to make the deposit before they close at noon.  She reiterates the fact that she also doesn’t like ATM machines.  And she says this like she’s actually been offended by an ATM machine in the past. 
    I laugh but I shake my head and wave her away.  Smirna frowns and gives me a long and overly sympathetic look which sort of confirms what I’d already guessed.   Either Jake or mom must have called the office early this morning to inform Smirna and Patty of my break-up with Dustin.  Just perfect.
    Smirna is Indian—as in from India, not Native