Dora: A Headcase by Lidia Yuknavitch Page B

random jumping jacks.
    He goes, “Ida, wouldn’t you like to have a seat?”
    “Thanks Siggy, I’m kinda fond of the ass I have already,” I say patting my girl butt.
    He scratches something invisible on his chest.
    Keep it moving. They hate that. They like you best on the couch.
    I kid skip over to the window and pull back the curtain and look down at the street. If only I had a lollipop.
    “Is there something out there that interests you?” he asks.
    “No,” I go, looking down at the street, “But I bet you get a big fat boner when you see the tops of your patient’s heads from here.”
    He does the church and steeple thing with his hands. “Ida, I really don’t see where you are going with this,” he grumbles in the I’m the doctor voice with his chin down.
    I don’t know either, but I am willing to wait for it.
    I saunter over to the bookshelf and run my hand over the spines of his books.
    He sits upright. His eyebrows knitting. “Is there a title there of interest to you?” he asks a little too hopefully. Talk about nerdoid.
    “Yeah,” I say, pulling out a bright yellow one, “Wasn’t this Magnus Hirschfeld dude known as ‘The Einstein of Sex?’ That so rocks. Didn’t he do dudes?” I turn to face him, waving the book in the air between us. “Do you do dudes? Siggy?”
    Eyebrow drop. Hands between legs. Heavy exhale of
irritation. More coughing. Score. Bought myself a speechless on that one.
    Next I walk casually over to his desk and turn on the desk light and let him talk to my back for a bit. Blah blah blahbiddy blah repression repression repression. Blah Blah consciousness-subconsciousunconscious. Broken record.
    That, my friends, is how I find the blow.
    While he blathers on, I drag my finger dramatically across the surface of his desk. You know, that ol’ check for dirt number. Too bad I didn’t wear a little maid outfit. It’s just a gag. But when I look at my finger, it isn’t dirt. It’s white. Powder white. Very faint, but true. If you know what you are looking at. When I suck my finger, I smile the smile of a girl who knows things. Siggy. You old dirty dog.
    Uh huh, I’m saying the Sigster is into booger sugar.
    Well all righty then. He knows things about me, but two can play at that game. I turn slowly around, and in the middle of his gloriously wordy smarty guy sentences, I notice something he has not. With my finger still in my mouth, I say, looking at the clock on the wall just behind his head with its stuck cuckoo, “Um, Sig? I’m afraid our time is up.”
    That’s right. Knockout walking out the door.

8.
    OCCASIONALLY AVE MARIA’S RICH AS FUCK MOTHER “treats us to lunch.”
    On the top floor of some mega-lame high-rise downtown. About once a month. I’m pretty sure that’s how often Ave Maria sees her moneyspawner. But I don’t care. Rich people food is fun to photograph with your iPhone and you can steal drinks off of peoples’ tables when they get up to relieve themselves.
    But check it: lo and behold, just on the other side of the faux indoor garden in the center of the restaurant … like a mini Eden but without the snake … through the shitty ass ficus leaves, is Sig. He’s with some slick-looking business joker with ferret hair, ferret eyes. Because their backs are mostly facing us, I can see him, but he can’t see me, so I do exactly what any self-respecting girl patient in my predicament would do. I pretend I have to go pee while Ave Maria’s mother sucks down her third Pomegranate Tini. I stealthily remove my Zoom H4n from my Dora purse and nonchalantly embed it in the river rocks at the base of the fake Eden. With a 32 Gb SD card, it can record for days. Or when the batteries give out, whichever comes first.
    Nobody watches girls like me in restaurants like that. We’re somebody’s daughter they pay to leave home. Whatever it is Sig and the Ferret are talking about, I’m gonna get the sound.
    Lunch proceeds retardedly as usual … Ave Maria