dull. Laura had talked about trying to lose her virginity. Her friend Danielle had told a story about how she’d let a disgusting fat guy whom she hated try to shove a can of root beer up her vagina because, he’d suggested, they might be able to fill cans with heroin and smuggle them.
Laura smiled a little. After the meeting, she’d asked Danielle, “Who tried to stick it in, you or him?”
"Oh,” said Danielle, “we both tried.” They laughed.
Such grotesque humility; such strange comfort. She remembered the paper plates of cookies, the pot of coffee at the low table in the back of the room at NA. She loved standing back there with Danielle, eating windmill cookies and smoking. Laura looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. “A stupid girl,” she said to her reflection.
Well, but who could blame her? When she was still a teenager, out of nowhere her mother asked Laura what it had been like to lose her virginity. She wanted to know if the experience had been “special.” It was late and the living room was dark. They had been watching TV together. Laura was startled by the question. “Was it someone you loved?” asked her mother.
“Yes,” replied Laura, lying. “Yes, it was.”
“I’m glad,” said her mother. She still looked straight ahead. "I wanted you to have that.”
What a revolting conversation, thought Laura. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why; her mother had only been expressing concern. But her concern seemed somehow connected with the nun in the water, and the dirtbag trying to set the little girl on fire.
She went back to the waiting room and got the grouchy middle-aged man. He didn’t bother to take off his shoes when he weighed himself. He was there, he said, only because his wife had made him come. He had taken off from work and shot the whole day. “My wife loves going to the doctor,” he said. "She had all those mammograms and she lost her breast anyway. Most of it.”
"Well, but it’s good to come in,” said Laura. "Even if it doesn’t always work. You know that. Your wife’s just caring about you.”
He gave a conciliatory snort. With his shirt off, he was big and flabby, but he carried it as if he liked it. His blood pressure was much too high. Laura let her touch linger on him as she worked because she wanted to soothe him.
When the man was gone, she asked Dr. Phillips if she could go outside on her break. He usually didn’t like her to do that because she was always a little late getting back when she went out, but he was trying to be extra nice since her father died. “Okay,” he said, “but watch the time.” He turned and strode down the hall, habitually bristling, like a small dog with a dominant nature.
Outside, the heat was horrible. She started sweating right away, probably ruining her uniform for the next day. Still, she was glad to be out of the building. The clinic was located between a busy main street and a run-down little street occupied by an old wig shop, a children’s karate gym, and a large ill-kept park where aging homeless men sat around. She decided to walk a few blocks down the park street. She liked the trees and she was friendly with a few of the men, who sometimes wished her good afternoon.
She walked and an old song played in her head. It was the kind of old song that sounded innocent and dirty at the same time. The music was simple and shallow except for one deep spot where it was like somebody’s pants were being pulled down. “You got nothin’ to hide and everybody knows it’s true. Too bad, little girl, it’s all over for you.” The singer laughed and the music laughed, too, and the laughter was spangled all over with sexiness.
Laura had loved the song; she had loved the thought of it being
all over and everybody knowing. A lot of other people must’ve loved it, too; it had been a very popular song. She remembered walking down the hall in high school wearing tight clothes; boys laughed and grabbed their crotches.
Laura smiled a little. After the meeting, she’d asked Danielle, “Who tried to stick it in, you or him?”
"Oh,” said Danielle, “we both tried.” They laughed.
Such grotesque humility; such strange comfort. She remembered the paper plates of cookies, the pot of coffee at the low table in the back of the room at NA. She loved standing back there with Danielle, eating windmill cookies and smoking. Laura looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. “A stupid girl,” she said to her reflection.
Well, but who could blame her? When she was still a teenager, out of nowhere her mother asked Laura what it had been like to lose her virginity. She wanted to know if the experience had been “special.” It was late and the living room was dark. They had been watching TV together. Laura was startled by the question. “Was it someone you loved?” asked her mother.
“Yes,” replied Laura, lying. “Yes, it was.”
“I’m glad,” said her mother. She still looked straight ahead. "I wanted you to have that.”
What a revolting conversation, thought Laura. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why; her mother had only been expressing concern. But her concern seemed somehow connected with the nun in the water, and the dirtbag trying to set the little girl on fire.
She went back to the waiting room and got the grouchy middle-aged man. He didn’t bother to take off his shoes when he weighed himself. He was there, he said, only because his wife had made him come. He had taken off from work and shot the whole day. “My wife loves going to the doctor,” he said. "She had all those mammograms and she lost her breast anyway. Most of it.”
"Well, but it’s good to come in,” said Laura. "Even if it doesn’t always work. You know that. Your wife’s just caring about you.”
He gave a conciliatory snort. With his shirt off, he was big and flabby, but he carried it as if he liked it. His blood pressure was much too high. Laura let her touch linger on him as she worked because she wanted to soothe him.
When the man was gone, she asked Dr. Phillips if she could go outside on her break. He usually didn’t like her to do that because she was always a little late getting back when she went out, but he was trying to be extra nice since her father died. “Okay,” he said, “but watch the time.” He turned and strode down the hall, habitually bristling, like a small dog with a dominant nature.
Outside, the heat was horrible. She started sweating right away, probably ruining her uniform for the next day. Still, she was glad to be out of the building. The clinic was located between a busy main street and a run-down little street occupied by an old wig shop, a children’s karate gym, and a large ill-kept park where aging homeless men sat around. She decided to walk a few blocks down the park street. She liked the trees and she was friendly with a few of the men, who sometimes wished her good afternoon.
She walked and an old song played in her head. It was the kind of old song that sounded innocent and dirty at the same time. The music was simple and shallow except for one deep spot where it was like somebody’s pants were being pulled down. “You got nothin’ to hide and everybody knows it’s true. Too bad, little girl, it’s all over for you.” The singer laughed and the music laughed, too, and the laughter was spangled all over with sexiness.
Laura had loved the song; she had loved the thought of it being
all over and everybody knowing. A lot of other people must’ve loved it, too; it had been a very popular song. She remembered walking down the hall in high school wearing tight clothes; boys laughed and grabbed their crotches.
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