ask if the appointment worked with Chase's schedule. Instead, she wrote the time and date on the card and handed it to her.
"Great," Chase said, studying the card. She smiled, gritted her teeth and walked out.
Once in the car, she called Lacey.
"How did it go?" Lacey asked.
"Great."
"When you say, 'great' it means it sucked. What happened?"
"My therapist talks like Dr. Ruth and has the sensitivity of Nurse Diesel."
"In the film High Anxiety." Lacey loved movies and trivia. It seems she knew stuff that no one in their right mind would bother with. Chase attributed this to Lacey's lack of a full-time job and the need for very little sleep.
During sleep, Chase had read, the brain dumps files, ridding itself of daily clutter. Lacey didn't sleep much, so she didn't dump useless information. Whenever Chase was in need of some particular piece of oddness for a book, she called Lacey, who was happy to help.
"Well, you can always see someone else. The network is huge." Then, Lacey changed tactics. "Shopping will make you feel better."
"You're right." Chase backed out of a parking space and turned onto Wyoming Street.
"You want me to get you a Chai to go?" Lacey asked.
"Sure." She was picking her up at Starbucks—Lacey's second-home. "We'll have to go to the Parker clinic first to get my drug sample pack."
"A sample pack? To see if you like it or not?"
"How the hell do I know?" She stopped at the light. "I'll see you in five." She clicked off and got on the freeway. She really didn't want to be a lunatic on her way to get a sample pack, but she couldn't live on a roller coaster either.
Chase wondered if extending herself in the writing department had anything to do with it. Perhaps all the subdivision of self that her many imaginary worlds demanded was getting the best of her, stretching the limits of her mind and it was starting to crack.
Perhaps, she should consider telling her people to keep an eye out. They could watch her. She would choose Gitana and Lacey for starters. She felt as if she were electing a bipartisan committee to keep her normal.
She got off the freeway and drove into the mall parking lot. Lacey was waiting outside holding a Chai and looking benevolent and understanding. She flounced into the car seat, glanced at Chase and said, "You look the same."
"What? Psychiatric evaluations alter your physical appearance?"
"Who knows?" She scrutinized Chase, who didn't move the car an inch.
"I'm supposed to have people watch me."
"And you picked me?" Lacey reached over and squeezed Chase's shoulder, almost spilling her Chai.
Chase watched her. Lacey acted like she never got picked for basketball in PE class and her moment of glory had just arrived. "You've known me for a long time."
"So, I'd be a great observer. Look what I found at Borders." She pulled the book out of her enormous purse and handed it to Chase. "It's Kate Millet's The Looney-Bin Trip. She was crazy too—only she took lithium."
Chase exited the parking lot and pulled up to the stop sign. A red SUV ran the stop. Chase honked and flipped off the driver. "That's right, rules are just for stupid people. How hard is it to comprehend that a four-way stop is part of the social compact? You have to adhere to the social compact. If we don't adhere to it, anarchy ensues."
Lacey had tuned her out and was instead tuning in the radio. "Why do you always listen to NPR? It's so boring." She found a hip-hop station.
"Because I learn things." Chase got back on the freeway and headed up town to the Parker clinic.
"Oh, it's my song." Lacey began to sway to the beat.
"Who sings it?"
"Shakira. It's part hip-hop and Latino salsa. I love it."
Chase listened to the lyrics. "My hips don't lie..." or at least that's what she heard. "What the hell does that mean? My hips don't lie. If that's the case the cerebral cortex is located behind
"Great," Chase said, studying the card. She smiled, gritted her teeth and walked out.
Once in the car, she called Lacey.
"How did it go?" Lacey asked.
"Great."
"When you say, 'great' it means it sucked. What happened?"
"My therapist talks like Dr. Ruth and has the sensitivity of Nurse Diesel."
"In the film High Anxiety." Lacey loved movies and trivia. It seems she knew stuff that no one in their right mind would bother with. Chase attributed this to Lacey's lack of a full-time job and the need for very little sleep.
During sleep, Chase had read, the brain dumps files, ridding itself of daily clutter. Lacey didn't sleep much, so she didn't dump useless information. Whenever Chase was in need of some particular piece of oddness for a book, she called Lacey, who was happy to help.
"Well, you can always see someone else. The network is huge." Then, Lacey changed tactics. "Shopping will make you feel better."
"You're right." Chase backed out of a parking space and turned onto Wyoming Street.
"You want me to get you a Chai to go?" Lacey asked.
"Sure." She was picking her up at Starbucks—Lacey's second-home. "We'll have to go to the Parker clinic first to get my drug sample pack."
"A sample pack? To see if you like it or not?"
"How the hell do I know?" She stopped at the light. "I'll see you in five." She clicked off and got on the freeway. She really didn't want to be a lunatic on her way to get a sample pack, but she couldn't live on a roller coaster either.
Chase wondered if extending herself in the writing department had anything to do with it. Perhaps all the subdivision of self that her many imaginary worlds demanded was getting the best of her, stretching the limits of her mind and it was starting to crack.
Perhaps, she should consider telling her people to keep an eye out. They could watch her. She would choose Gitana and Lacey for starters. She felt as if she were electing a bipartisan committee to keep her normal.
She got off the freeway and drove into the mall parking lot. Lacey was waiting outside holding a Chai and looking benevolent and understanding. She flounced into the car seat, glanced at Chase and said, "You look the same."
"What? Psychiatric evaluations alter your physical appearance?"
"Who knows?" She scrutinized Chase, who didn't move the car an inch.
"I'm supposed to have people watch me."
"And you picked me?" Lacey reached over and squeezed Chase's shoulder, almost spilling her Chai.
Chase watched her. Lacey acted like she never got picked for basketball in PE class and her moment of glory had just arrived. "You've known me for a long time."
"So, I'd be a great observer. Look what I found at Borders." She pulled the book out of her enormous purse and handed it to Chase. "It's Kate Millet's The Looney-Bin Trip. She was crazy too—only she took lithium."
Chase exited the parking lot and pulled up to the stop sign. A red SUV ran the stop. Chase honked and flipped off the driver. "That's right, rules are just for stupid people. How hard is it to comprehend that a four-way stop is part of the social compact? You have to adhere to the social compact. If we don't adhere to it, anarchy ensues."
Lacey had tuned her out and was instead tuning in the radio. "Why do you always listen to NPR? It's so boring." She found a hip-hop station.
"Because I learn things." Chase got back on the freeway and headed up town to the Parker clinic.
"Oh, it's my song." Lacey began to sway to the beat.
"Who sings it?"
"Shakira. It's part hip-hop and Latino salsa. I love it."
Chase listened to the lyrics. "My hips don't lie..." or at least that's what she heard. "What the hell does that mean? My hips don't lie. If that's the case the cerebral cortex is located behind
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