The Five-Letter Word
Grace
“It was your doctor?” Margaret asks in a loud voice.
“Be cool, Mags, damn,” I respond. “Yeah, it was my doctor. Nothing happened. If anything, I’d say he was more freaked out by the situation than I was.”
“So, you two didn’t end up, you know…”
“Did I permit him to storm the gates of my Bastille?” I ask.
“I have no idea what that means, but the way you ask makes me think I want to say yes,” she answers.
“No,” I tell her. “We just talked for a while.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “I’ve got an appointment at his office this Thursday.”
“You’re not keeping him as your doctor,” she protests.
“Why not?” I ask. “Neither of us planned for what happened, and what he does in his personal time is really none of my business.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, “you like him!”
“Will you stop?” I ask. “What the hell are we, teenagers?”
“Isn’t he married?”
“How would you know if he was?”
“I wouldn’t,” she says, “but it stands to reason that a handsome doctor would have to be married.”
“It’s not like when we were younger,” I tell her. “Doctors aren’t the pinnacle of the quest for dick anymore.”
“You talk like a sailor, you know that?”
“Have you ever heard a sailor talk?” I return.
“No,” she answers.
“Trust me, they don’t talk like that,” I tell her. “Besides, doctors get paid shit nowadays with all the malpractice insurance and all that shit. If you’re looking for someone in the medical field, go with someone who works for a drug company or an insurance company. Sure, they’re generally scum, but they’re the ones with all the money and power.”
“My father works for a drug company,” Mags says, missing the point.
“Whatever. But yeah, thanks for setting me up with the one male escort that not only didn’t, but never, would turn my one into a zero.”
“If that’s some new kind of dirty talk,” she says, “you’re really going to have to let me borrow the dictionary because I don’t have a clue-”
“Never mind,” I interrupt. “So, John’s really staying on?”
Along with being my friend, Mags is also my secretary. She likes to be called a personal assistant, but the way her face goes that shade of you-bastard-pink every time I use the “s” word, I find it difficult to refer to her as anything else.
“Yeah,” she says. “At least, until we know how the new fall lineup’s going to pan out.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “Wasn’t he being forced out because of something or another?”
“That’s the scuttlebutt,” she says, “but it looks like he’s not too worried about it anymore.”
“Scuttlebutt?” I ask. “And you’re telling me that my terminology is opaque.”
Really, I just said that last part in hopes that she doesn’t know the word and would give her classic fake grin and wide-eyed expression that she thinks, for some reason, isn’t a billboard every time she doesn’t know a word.
There it is.
“Opaque means that something is difficult or impossible to see through. In this case, it could be said to mean that it’s simply unclear,” I explain, and wait for the series of too-quick head nods and assertions that she does, in fact, know what the word means.
“I know what it means,” she says, and I’m wondering how she’s managed to stave off whiplash this long.
“What do I have after lunch?” I ask.
She pulls her planner from her purse and looks through it.
“It looks like you’ve got a teeth cleaning at 4,” she says.
I’m waiting to hear what else I have, but it’s been a growing trend that there’s not much what else to have.
“Seriously?” I ask. “We were moving forward with Ainsley and the board. Are you really telling me that there’s nothing else on the schedule?”
“Oh, you’re right,” she says, tapping the page of her planner with her finger. “Your mother called and wanted to make sure that you haven’t quit your job and started doing porn. She told me that she’d call back around 2 o’clock.”
“Ah, Mom,” I yawn. “I really do have to figure out a way to get her to lose my number.”
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Mitch, one of my boss’s bosses says, approaching our table.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Mags says, and I don’t hide the rolling of my eyes.
Mags, my dear sweet Margaret, secretary extraordinaire of mine, has a thing for old money. By old, I don’t mean that the money’s been in the family for generations. I mean that she loves the idea of marrying some rich bastard and having him die just after he puts her in his will.
So far, it hasn’t worked, but she has had a lot of disgusting nights that I’ve had the displeasure of hearing about over the last year or so.
“Mr. Young,” I say, as always, making a conscious effort to avoid cringing at the irony of a man of his rather advanced age having a surname like that, “we were just talking about what our next step should be in approaching our expansion.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trouble yourself about that too much, dear,” he says. “We’ve got some of the best people working on it as we speak.”
You son of a bitch, I am the best people — person, and this whole thing was my idea, you wrinkled, old fuck.
“That’s good to hear,” I smile. “You know, I’ve got some great ideas that I’d like to run by you sometime when you’re not too busy. In fact, I think we might be able to increase our presence in the Midwest for less than we’ve got budgeted for-”
“That’d be great,” Mr. Dickhead answers. “Margaret, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something in my office.”
I’m thinking about puppies and unicorns and trains crashing into orphanages to fight the urge to vomit at the thought of what’s about to happen between the two of them.
“I’ll be right there,” she tells him.
“You know,” I say, “Mags and I have a lot of work to do this afternoon, but I’m sure we could get Daniel from accounting to give you a hand.”
“You know,” Mr. Young says, “as I think about it, I think I might have a few minutes this afternoon to discuss your ideas. You always do have the best insights into these things, after all.”
“Have Mags put you in my book when you’re done with her,” I tell him.
Yeah, that’s right, you old leech. I know what’s going on here, and I’m not above light blackmail to make sure I benefit from it.
“Will do,” he agrees nervously.
Mags gets up from her chair, and I could swear that the front of her blouse just got a little tighter from her nipples hardening at what, to anyone else, would be a thoroughly scarring experience.
I’m starting to think she’s just into guys that look like her grandfather.
In her defense, though, I’ve seen her grandfather and he made me forget that Sean Connery ever existed.
Ah, Mr. Young, if only I were 50 years older…
When I get back to my office, I pop a couple of ibuprofen and look over my personal schedule. It’s grim.
I don’t know if people aren’t calling because they’re trying to be respectful of my recovery, or whether they think me unfit. Either way, this can’t keep happening.
Sooner or later, people are going to start asking why Grace Miller hasn’t been pulling her weight, and I don’t think telling them that I’m being shut out is going to be an excuse that changes anything for the better.
Even if my coworkers and my bosses are trying to do the nice thing, if this doesn’t change, it’s going to cost me my job.
I pick up the phone.
“John Parker.”
“Hey, John, it’s Grace Miller. I was hoping you had a minute,” I say.
“Sure thing, Grace. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to inform you that I’m going to go ahead and pull the trigger with Mitch this afternoon, and I wanted to give you another chance to come on board,” I tell him.
What I’m doing right now is picking a fight, but it’s a fight that needs to happen. If I’m not stirring the pot, I’m getting lost in the background, and there’s no quicker, more effective way of marking my territory than directly challenging my own boss.
“I really think you’ll want to reconsider that,” John says. “I know you’ve been going through a bit of a time recently, but that’s no reason to roll out a scorched earth policy.”
“This has nothing to do with what happened,” I tell him. “You know what my position is and what it has been for a long time, and frankly, I don’t see the point in waiting when we’re losing every single day.”
“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.