Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy by Stephanie McAfee

Author:Stephanie McAfee [McAfee, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction, Contemporary Women, Contemporary Fiction
Amazon: B00C1N5W9S
Goodreads: 17828010
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

5

When I leave the house Wednesday morning, the sky is an ominous shade of gray. Instinctively, I generate a grocery list in my mind which begins with a jug of milk and a loaf of bread. The weather people were rabid to the max this morning, so I’m sure most grocery store shelves are empty by now. I could probably still score a gallon of blue Hawaiian Punch, some sugar free wafers, and maybe a can or two of sardines. On a whim, I call to make sure Dr. Carl’s office is open today. “We’re here for now,” the girl tells me. “But if it starts snowing, we’ll be leaving at lunch.”

“Well, my appointment is at nine thirty, so that won’t affect me, right?” I don’t want to drive all the way to Tupelo for nothing.

“I guess not, ma’am. Unless it starts snowing earlier.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”

“Thank you and have a nice day.” She’s not smart, but at least she’s polite. I wonder if she has a tip jar. If so, I might toss her a few cents.

Thirty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of what their Web site said was a medical center. Apparently someone had big plans for this property that didn’t pan out because a lone structure sits between two vacant lots, both of which are wildly overgrown. I can’t help but notice how well the three- story building blends in with the sky. I have to guess where the parking spaces are because the lines are worn off the pavement. There are four other cars in the parking lot. I step over the cracks in the sidewalk, pull open the standard-issue glass office door, and step into a lobby that has wall-to-wall industrial tile.

“Sign in, please,” the girl behind the glass says without looking up from her late-model computer. There is no tip jar. Nor is there a single soul in the waiting room. I pick up the pen and scribble my name on the very top line. She snatches the clipboard, highlights my name, and shoves another clipboard out the window. “Fill this out,” she says.

It takes me fifteen minutes to fill out the six-page questionnaire which asks the same basic questions a dozen different ways. When I finish, I take the clipboard to the window where I stand for several minutes while my pal behind the glass speed types on her crusty little keyboard. There is a television in the corner of the waiting room, and the volume is turned up to where the sound cannot be ignored. CNN also appears excited about this big weather system moving across the south. They start showing random pictures of blizzard-type conditions from different parts of the county, as if they don’t have everyone from Arkansas to Georgia worked up enough already. Finally, the non-jolly receptionist stops typing. She reaches for the clipboard, but I hold on to it. She looks up at me, clearly annoyed, and we make eye contact for the first time since I stepped into the office.

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