Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [37]
“We’ll get you out of jury duty, don’t worry,” my boss told me.
“But this isn’t jury duty; it’s something else.” How could I possibly explain Debby to him? “My housekeeper was stealing from me, and I have to go to court.”
But because this was advertising, there was no excuse that was more important than the emergency meeting. Thus, I missed my court date.
And a month later, a notice arrived, certified mail. It stated that because I failed to appear before the judge, I was now ordered to pay Debby the sum of nine hundred dollars.
I held the notice in my hand and read it again. Of course, I’d known this would be the result of missing the hearing. And my boss had told me to “just put in an expense report for it.” But still. It was the principle of the thing.
I called Brad to complain. “So now I have to pay her nine-fucking-hundred dollars,” I said. “I mean, even though I’ll get the money back from the agency, still. Still.”
But Brad was very clever, and he had a great idea. “Meet me at the Citibank on the corner of Fifth and Fifteenth in an hour,” he said. “And bring a friend. I’ll bring my car.”
It was a big step for agoraphobic Brad to leave his apartment, but when I saw him standing on the corner in front of the bank, he actually looked happy. Excited, even. I introduced him to my friend, Kevin, and we went inside the bank to do our business.
Afterward, when we were in his car, I said, “Brad, this was such a genius idea. You’re amazing. You should really leave your apartment more often and spread some of your evil around the world.”
“Aw, shucks,” he said with pretend modesty. Then, “That’s it over there.”
He’d stopped the car in front of an apartment building on Ninth Avenue and Fifty-Third Street, an area known as Hell’s Kitchen. And where else would the little demon live?
“She’s on the second floor, apartment 2B.”
“I can’t believe you even know where she lives,” I said, stepping out of the car and hoisting one of the bags up onto my shoulder.
“I check everybody out. She lives in a one-bedroom. Her grandkids live in California along with her kids. They all hate her. You know, she’s fifty-three?”
“No way,” I said, breathing heavy, trying to keep the awkward bag balanced on my shoulder. “She doesn’t look it at all.”
“Well, she will when she gets done counting these,” he said.
And we dropped the last of the bags in front of Debby’s apartment door. Six bags, all together.
Nine hundred dollars, exactly.
In pennies.
ROOF WORK
F
or the past week I have had this curious bubble on the roof of my mouth. It’s about the size of small lima bean and firm like one, too. I’ve been flicking at it with the tip of my tongue constantly. This bubble occupies so much of my mental energy, it might as well be a uterus, sprouting outside my body.
On Friday night it began to hurt. Not a stabbing pain but a dull ache. Not an emergency but rather a warning. I wasn’t sure if the pain was because I was endlessly tongue-slapping it or if it was getting bigger and more life-threatening. So I decided to go downstairs to the pharmacy and buy a compact so I could have a small mirror to shove in my mouth. But buying the compact turned out to be unexpectedly shameful because of the smirk I received from the young Hispanic girl behind the counter. I think she actually winked at me like You go, girl. This brought up all sorts of transsexual issues from childhood, and I wanted to explain myself, tell her about the tumor. But it was just too involved.
I took the compact upstairs to my apartment and went into the bathroom. Here, I opened it and rested the mirror side facing up on my bottom teeth, angling it so that I could see the roof of my mouth in the medicine cabinet mirror in front of me. I was surprised by how small the bubble was. And yet it was causing so much pain. Did cancer cause pain? I thought I remembered that it didn’t, until it was too late. I decided