ever noticed how once you feel yourself blink you can’t stop feeling yourself blink and everything gets all strobed out like a light is going on and off in front of your face? I think I counted about a hundred blinks before the Phil-bot finally said:
“Ahem, Sprout?”
I shook my head, smiled brightly.
“That’s me!”
This made him gasp, which I thought was a bit of an extreme reaction. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, but instead of walking away like you usually do when you say “Excuse me,” all he did was open a drawer, pull out a pad with the word FLOMAX® written on it, and pick up a VAGISIL® ballpoint pen. He clicked the pen, which was already open (thus closing it), started to write something on the pad, stopped to actually click the VAGISIL® pen open, then wrote “Daniel Bradford ( Sprout )” on the top of the pad and clicked the pen closed. When he looked up at me, he seemed surprised I was still in the room. Tell you the truth, so was I.
“I’m sorry, where were we?”
I blinked.
The Phil-bot spent about forty-five minutes asking me if my dad’s “recent apprehension” (which made it sound as if he’d been frightened, not arrested) made me feel
confused?
scared?
sad?
ashamed?
angry?
suicidal?
homicidal?
like having a drink?
isolated and alone? (about which: redundant)
exposed and vulnerable? (about which: ditto)
etc., etc. These questions had to be answered on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is “reaction not present” and 10 is “reaction felt most intensely,” which scale I asked the Phil-bot to repeat at the end of every single question, only to respond 5.5 each time, because there is no middle number on a 1-to-10 scale, which is just, you know, stupid .
“Okay then,” the Phil-bot said when he’d completed his suicidality checklist. He tore the top sheet off the pad, which had nothing written on it besides my name, and put it in an empty manila folder, which also had my name on it, although in this case it had been typed onto a label and stuck to the folder’s tab, which made it seem more official. He handed me a bumper sticker that said “MY SON IS ON THE HONOR ROLL,” which is kind of ironic if you think about it, since the whole reason I’d been called into his office was because my dad had gotten a DUI and lost his license.
“If you ever need to talk …”
“I need to talk every day,” I said, which put a bright, eager smile in the middle of the Phil-bot’s pudgy face. “Just like anyone else who wants to, you know, say something .”
The Phil-bot’s jowls fell so far he looked like a basset hound in a bowtie. I almost felt sorry for him, but I told myself that’s how they get you. As he pulled open his door, he glanced at his watch and said, “I’m afraid I’ve kept you past your bus. Do you have a way to get home?”
And there was Ian Abernathy, flirting with Mrs. Helicopter, the 125-year-old front secretary whose real name was Heliocopulate or something like that, but who had long since given up on getting anyone to say it right.
“Don’t worry,” Ian flashed Mrs. Helicopter his best James Dean, then turned to the Phil-bot. “My mom’s coming to pick me up. We’d be honored to drive Sprout
“Sprout? What are you writing?”
I looked up to see Mrs. M. in the doorway with a fresh pitcher of margaritas, and I flipped the page quickly. I pantomimed jogging in place, like a runner stopped at a red light.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just keeping my muscles warm.”
Mrs. Miller’s time trials often involved leaving something out, like that exercise with the sunset she’d had me do the first day, where I couldn’t mention why the husband was sad. “Less is more,” she said. “Necessity is the mother of invention.” One week I wasn’t allowed to use any form of the verb to be , which was bad enough, but the next week I wasn’t allowed to use the letter e . Let me tell you, I came pretty close to having a drink that day. Then sometimes I
“Ahem, Sprout?”
I shook my head, smiled brightly.
“That’s me!”
This made him gasp, which I thought was a bit of an extreme reaction. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, but instead of walking away like you usually do when you say “Excuse me,” all he did was open a drawer, pull out a pad with the word FLOMAX® written on it, and pick up a VAGISIL® ballpoint pen. He clicked the pen, which was already open (thus closing it), started to write something on the pad, stopped to actually click the VAGISIL® pen open, then wrote “Daniel Bradford ( Sprout )” on the top of the pad and clicked the pen closed. When he looked up at me, he seemed surprised I was still in the room. Tell you the truth, so was I.
“I’m sorry, where were we?”
I blinked.
The Phil-bot spent about forty-five minutes asking me if my dad’s “recent apprehension” (which made it sound as if he’d been frightened, not arrested) made me feel
confused?
scared?
sad?
ashamed?
angry?
suicidal?
homicidal?
like having a drink?
isolated and alone? (about which: redundant)
exposed and vulnerable? (about which: ditto)
etc., etc. These questions had to be answered on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is “reaction not present” and 10 is “reaction felt most intensely,” which scale I asked the Phil-bot to repeat at the end of every single question, only to respond 5.5 each time, because there is no middle number on a 1-to-10 scale, which is just, you know, stupid .
“Okay then,” the Phil-bot said when he’d completed his suicidality checklist. He tore the top sheet off the pad, which had nothing written on it besides my name, and put it in an empty manila folder, which also had my name on it, although in this case it had been typed onto a label and stuck to the folder’s tab, which made it seem more official. He handed me a bumper sticker that said “MY SON IS ON THE HONOR ROLL,” which is kind of ironic if you think about it, since the whole reason I’d been called into his office was because my dad had gotten a DUI and lost his license.
“If you ever need to talk …”
“I need to talk every day,” I said, which put a bright, eager smile in the middle of the Phil-bot’s pudgy face. “Just like anyone else who wants to, you know, say something .”
The Phil-bot’s jowls fell so far he looked like a basset hound in a bowtie. I almost felt sorry for him, but I told myself that’s how they get you. As he pulled open his door, he glanced at his watch and said, “I’m afraid I’ve kept you past your bus. Do you have a way to get home?”
And there was Ian Abernathy, flirting with Mrs. Helicopter, the 125-year-old front secretary whose real name was Heliocopulate or something like that, but who had long since given up on getting anyone to say it right.
“Don’t worry,” Ian flashed Mrs. Helicopter his best James Dean, then turned to the Phil-bot. “My mom’s coming to pick me up. We’d be honored to drive Sprout
“Sprout? What are you writing?”
I looked up to see Mrs. M. in the doorway with a fresh pitcher of margaritas, and I flipped the page quickly. I pantomimed jogging in place, like a runner stopped at a red light.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just keeping my muscles warm.”
Mrs. Miller’s time trials often involved leaving something out, like that exercise with the sunset she’d had me do the first day, where I couldn’t mention why the husband was sad. “Less is more,” she said. “Necessity is the mother of invention.” One week I wasn’t allowed to use any form of the verb to be , which was bad enough, but the next week I wasn’t allowed to use the letter e . Let me tell you, I came pretty close to having a drink that day. Then sometimes I
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