CHAPTER 11
She’s been in confessionals larger than the change room she’s directed to, and as Roberta begins removing her clothes, she wonders if this paucity of space is the clinic’s way of preparing its patients for the MRI. She stuffs her socks into her running shoes, places them inside her chosen cubicle. Methodically, as if folding flags, she reduces the size of her jeans, her sweatshirt, her tee shirt, layers them on top of her sneakers.
Because the handout she was asked to read warned off all metal, she hasn’t bothered wearing a bra. Because her feet are cold, she dons first the plastic booties that remind her of shower caps before struggling to fit herself inside the lima bean green gown. It takes her two tries to tie the bow behind her neck, three to fasten the ties behind her waist. Roberta assumes the robe to be yet another male invention. She tosses her key ring that now sports the key to her new abode on top of her things, locks the cubicle then removes its key, emerges from her dressing room just as two technicians pass by.
Is she supposed to follow them? Or return to the waiting room? Roberta chooses the sign-in counter where the receptionist opts to answer two telephone calls before alerting Roberta that the attendants are running late, that she should have a seat, that someone will be out shortly.
Roberta plucks a magazine from the middle slant, oblivious to its title or contents. She is too angry to read, the nerve of these people, so she thumbs through, eyeing the models not the message in each ad, assured again, that she is better looking than most of these stick figures. She’s tempted to apply on her body every single cologne sample that gluts the magazine just to asphyxiate the technicians who have kept her waiting but realizes that once inside the imaging machine, she’d be the one to suffer. As soon as she trades this magazine for one on western living that contains an article on Nevadan running trails, an attendant, as if he’s been secretly waiting for the perfect moment of distraction, summons her. Holding out a clipboard like a steering wheel, he leads her down the other hallway.
“Have you had an MRI before?” the attendant asks over his shoulder.
“No,” Roberta says. “Have you?”
“Actually, I have,” he says. “They had each of us get one at school so we’d know what our patients go through.”
“And to think you chose this over the sperm bank.”
Her jibe misses its mark. “It’s okay to be nervous,” he says matter of factly.
Inside the oval shaped room, another attendant whom Roberta figures is a good five years younger than she, now waits for her. Roberta eyes the cylindrical imaging machine, the GE sticker on its side, the other two technicians who, behind the glass window seem like music studio directors, and realizes she is nervous. The thought of being encapsulated doesn’t bother her; she has never been claustrophobic. But the thought of technology run amuk does. Roberta feels the bowknot that’s supposed to be cinching the lower half of her gown loosening. She recalls the old company tag line: “GE: We bring good things to life.” And her dad’s habit of not singing but humming the melodies of commercials, a habit she would find ingratiating in anyone else, but in her dad, endearing.
“Let me explain to you the next ninety minutes of your life,” the attendant says. Though his explanation is decidedly rehearsed, Roberta finds comfort in his words. She assures him she has rid her person of all metal objects, that she is not the bearer of any surgical implant, that she will remain motionless once she is rolled inside, that there won’t be any need to let her out for air. The only thing that catches her off-guard is being asked what station she would like her headphones set to.
“Rap,” Roberta says. Might as well make everything a first-time event. Head aligned, arms folded comfortably across her uncinched waist, she allows herself to be rolled inside the machine. She feels like a torpedo being loaded, then a cocoon, then some dignitary, the pope, lying in state. She closes her eyes, listens to someone extremely angry with “the man” vow to settle the score, even if it means shooting this person, who is never specifically identified, in the face. Though every other line has a word bleeped out, it’s easy to tell what the lyrics are. She wonders if this is the sort of music Gary listens to, or if he monitors what music their son is allowed to hear. She exhales, deeply, remembers she isn’t supposed to move. She imagines the MRI machine to be a womb, herself a stillborn child.
#
A week on the street. For lax game security. And insubordination. That’s what AJ tells him from across the biggest and least cluttered of the three desks in the pit office. He holds out a folder containing Dennis’ complete work history in one hand, extends a pen in the other for Dennis to initial, which is to say, approve this latest entry, an official reprimand that will pick a week of pay from his pocket.
Dennis’ eyes race around as if they’ve just been hatched. As if they’re looking for something to glom onto. AJ, uncomfortable, waves the folder like an appliance salesman anxious to close a deal before the buyer’s cautious spouse returns. Dennis cares little for anyone’s comfort. His gaze has landed on another pit boss who sits at a desk that’s been shoved into the corner behind the door. Dennis desperately wants this pit boss to look his way and explain why he should have privy to the impending conversation.
“Why you?” Dennis asks. “You weren’t there.” For import, he turns his focus slowly on AJ who still holds out the pen he hopes Dennis will use to sign this latest work history entry.
“You weren’t there,” Dennis repeats, a claim AJ refuses to acknowledge let alone contend. “How can you expect me to verify something you can’t?” Nothing, so Dennis casts a new line. “This has Draper written all over it. Draper thinks I showed him up. That’s what this is about isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
AJ prefers to remove a thread from the sleeve of his newest suit to responding to Dennis.
“Why are you doing his dirty work?”
AJ examines one of his cuff links. “What does it matter who wrote it?” he asks. “It’s in your work history.”
Dennis sees that the other pit boss now makes no pretense of busying himself with work, that he is curious to hear Dennis’ reply. “Do you mind?” Dennis tells him. Then to AJ, “How do you expect me to respond to these accusations with a mole in the room?”
It’s AJ who understands his colleague isn’t about to be dictated by a dealer, AJ who asks, “Jimmy? Five minutes?”
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Jimmy says to no one, but the prison guard look on his face is meant exclusively for Dennis. He takes his sweet time walking out and purposely, Dennis thinks, leaves the door open for AJ to close.
“You’re welcome,” AJ says and tosses the pen he’s been clenching onto the folder in front of Dennis.
Now it’s Dennis who’s reluctant to speak.
“I’m not your enemy,” AJ says.
“No? Then what are you?”
“I’m not anything,” AJ says, though the look he gives himself in the mirror behind Dennis suggests otherwise. “I’m a working stiff like you and everyone else who works for assholes that make him do things he doesn’t particularly enjoy. So sign the damn thing and enjoy your week off.”
And though Dennis knows AJ isn’t cunning enough to wield logic as an argumentative weapon, the accuracy of his words, whether AJ understands their salience or not, still find their mark.
“Are Geoffrey and Lennox being reprimanded as well?”
“I don’t think so.”
Dennis bows his head. “You think I deserve this?”
“Yes and no,” AJ says. “Do I think you made the right call? Probably. Is it ultimately your call to make? Not if a suit says otherwise.”
Dennis picks up his folder, realizes his two most recent entries are forming a pattern of someone else’s design.
“Think of it as an unexpected vacation,” AJ tells Dennis who now accepts the pen as if he’s been handed a subpoena.
Michael Darcher 