Just North of Whoville Turiskylie, Joyce (smart books to read .TXT) 📖

mio, I will stick the fucking needle in your ass myself if you say the word ‘meat thermometer’ again.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do therapy.”

“Look---let me put this into perspective for you. One of my patients is on a suicide watch. One actually IS dying. Two are going thru divorces. Three alcoholics. A heroin addict. And a guy who thinks he’s Ted Nugent. And you come in here whining because you were in a parade?”

“I figured I’d be in and out in a couple of sessions. All fixed.”

“But you’re not broken, mama. Let me explain how this works. I can steer you in the right direction; but only you can solve your problems.”

“What IS my problem? Am I depressed? Should I be on medication?”

“You haven’t complained of any of the usual symptoms of depression. I think you’re just afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Everything. But mostly, of being happy.”

“Who doesn’t want to be happy?”

“Happiness isn’t just the absence of problems; it’s a state of being. That dog we talked about----the one at the pound wagging his tail. Is he happy or sad?”

“He seems happy. I mean, he’s at the pound, but he’s happy.”

“How do you know he’s happy?”

“Because he’s wagging his tail.”

“Exactly. A dog doesn’t fake being happy. He just is. And he has way less control over his life than you do. You think it sucks that your oven broke down? A dog can’t even control what you put in his dish or when you let him outside to take a shit. But he’s happy.”

“He also has a smaller brain,” I tried to sneak in.

“You’re missing the point!” she practically screamed at me. “Stop trying to control everything in your life, and then getting disappointed when you don’t get what you want. The universe is constantly handing you good stuff and you’re pushing it away because it’s not exactly what you wanted. Turkey pizza? Damn! That’s funny! You could have had fun with that. But no, you sat there bitching because it wasn’t turkey. If you say to a dog, ‘You wanna go for a ride?’ and you open a car door---that dog will jump right in. He don’t know where he’s going. It could be to the vet or it could be to the park. He don’t care. He just wants to go for a ride. Let life take you for a ride, Dorrie.”

“Well….okay. I guess can do that.”

“That ain’t good enough. Let’s try it right now,” she said as she stood up and began patting her calves and smiling as she dog-called me, “Come on, girl! Wanna go for a ride? Come on! Let’s go for a ride!”

“Okay!” I let myself sound silly and replied, “Let’s go!”

But I made sure to take a second glance at that diploma as I walked out the door.

The next day at work, Jamie called me into her office.

“How would you like to be an agent?”

I knew it was a car door opening, but this one sounded like The Godfather asking me to “go for a little ride”.

“We’re thinking about expanding. Models AND actors. Twice the money. Surely you have actor friends who would want to sign with an agency?”

She said the word “agency” as if she were handing me a prank can and asking if I wanted some “peanut brittle”.

“Well,” I tried to at least look inside the car, “I’d have to think about it. I don’t know how comfortable I’d be with being their friend and their agent. It’s just really important to me to be professional…”

“Dorrie, what’s your back-up plan? I mean, I know you want to be a writer…”

“Director.”

“But what if that doesn’t work out? What are you going to do? Go to trade school and become a refrigerator repairman? You’re too young to retire and too old for porn.”

“Porn is not in my game plan…”

“Do you even have a game plan?”

“Well…yeah. It’s to work really hard and keep getting better at what I do…”

“Oh, Dorrie…” she sighed. “I know you and your friends are all trying to be professional, but the truth is---most of you are not going to make it. Those are the odds. I know you think it’s a career, but it’s a hobby. That’s how the IRS sees and, trust me, that’s how all your parents see it, too. You know what you do with a hobby? You enjoy it. And you spend money on it. Let me show you something,” she said as she rummaged thru stacks of photos on her desk. “The elf kid,” she said accusingly as she shoved photos from Timmy’s latest photo shoot in my face. “Do you really think he’s going to be a model?”

“He’s a sweet kid. With character. And he wants it so badly. You never know,” I offered hopefully.

“Dorrie, trust me, this kid is going nowhere. But it makes him happy pretending, doesn’t it? Look, I know how you feel about this place. You think we’re just scamming people out of their money. But we’re like a golf store. Our customers will never be pros. But they love the game. So if they want to fantasize about being pro golfers, we sell them the clubs.”

“But you encourage them so much…”

“And in a golf store they’ll tell you you’ve got a great swing. Look, you enjoy doing your little plays, don’t you? You’re not getting paid, but you’d probably do it till the day you died for absolutely nothing, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, it’s what I do.”

“Exactly. So just how are you going to pay the bills to support your hobby? I mean, “career”.

Call me crazy, but I don’t think is how agents are offered their jobs at William Morris.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Dorrie? I’ll pay you for the whole