current dilemma. “What’s that?”
“The opener,” he snapped, looking frazzled and making me wonder just how long he’d been working on my door. “What the hell kind is it?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just help me out?”
We pulled into traffic. The sun was baking down on us from a faded blue-gray sky, and stinking, fuming vehicles were stretched out as far as the eye could see. The Beetle’s fans were working hard enough to blow my eyes closed, but it was still hot on the passenger side where the unblinking sun hit me full strength. I lifted the hair from my neck and immediately felt Solberg’s gaze slither in that direction.
“It ain’t gonna work.”
I blinked at him. “What’s that?”
“You ain’t gonna wheedle any more information from me with your woman’s wiles.”
Woman’s wiles. Uh-huh. “Fair enough,” I said and searched the hills for some sign of sanity. There was none, because houses were stacked like oatmeal cookies along the steep slopes. What the hell kind of a person would build a two-million-dollar home in the desert? I slumped down in my seat, feeling lumpy and lethargic. Traffic was struggling along like sun-baked Galapagos, and I could think of no good reason to refrain from sleeping. True, Solberg might decide to take me to some secluded beach and drown me, but I was too tired to give it much thought.
When I awoke, he was parked in front of the strip mall that housed my office. I yawned and slid upright, feeling groggy and rumpled.
“My buddy’s got a yacht,” Solberg said, his tone defeated.
I turned toward him and noticed that his magnified gaze had settled on my chest.
“He lets me take guests on it whenever I want.”
I stifled a sigh. “I’ll give you your car back,” I said. “Just get me a couple phone numbers.”
But apparently his car was a matter of pride now, because he shook his head like a petulant child. I disembarked and he puttered down the street, leaving me to wander dismally into my office building without the promise of a yachting weekend or the much-needed phone numbers.
7
There is none so troubled as one who thinks himself perfectly sane.
—Frank Meister, M.D.,
professor of Psychotropic Medications
T HE HOURS CREPT BY. Angie Fredricks talked about her sexual fantasies, which were surprisingly inventive considering she’d passed the seventy year mark nearly a decade before. Melvin Osterman told me about the time he’d bicycled down Owens Avenue wearing nothing but a smile. It’s amazing what some guys will do for a six pack and a cheap thrill, and Mr. Ulquist, father of two, admitted he had had a crush on his science teacher who happened to be male and as handsome as a Greek god! Hormones ruled the world, but none of their problems seemed to compare to mine. Some kind of psychologist I was.
Around five P . M . Elaine drove me home. There, Solberg was sitting across the street in his Beetle. I gave him a wave. He slapped a hand distractedly back at me, and I lumbered into my house.
The phone was already bleating by the time I locked the door behind me. I answered on the fourth ring.
“Chrissy?”
“Mom,” I said, sliding into a nearby chair and prodding off my sandals. My toenails were now neon pink thanks to insomnia and lightning-bolt frustration. I prefer to consume a vat of cookie dough when frustrated, but I’d settled on a pedicure instead.
“What’s wrong?” Mom’s tone was tight, like it used to get when I told her I really
had
been at Molly’s house
all
night and wouldn’t dream of sneaking out to meet some boy.
“What do you mean?” Just the sound of her voice made me sweat, and I was pretty sure my acne was already reviving itself. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You sound stressed.”
Two thousand miles away and her maternal instincts were as sharp as a bloodhound’s. “Just a long day.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Since breakfast. I crossed my fingers and said a half
“The opener,” he snapped, looking frazzled and making me wonder just how long he’d been working on my door. “What the hell kind is it?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just help me out?”
We pulled into traffic. The sun was baking down on us from a faded blue-gray sky, and stinking, fuming vehicles were stretched out as far as the eye could see. The Beetle’s fans were working hard enough to blow my eyes closed, but it was still hot on the passenger side where the unblinking sun hit me full strength. I lifted the hair from my neck and immediately felt Solberg’s gaze slither in that direction.
“It ain’t gonna work.”
I blinked at him. “What’s that?”
“You ain’t gonna wheedle any more information from me with your woman’s wiles.”
Woman’s wiles. Uh-huh. “Fair enough,” I said and searched the hills for some sign of sanity. There was none, because houses were stacked like oatmeal cookies along the steep slopes. What the hell kind of a person would build a two-million-dollar home in the desert? I slumped down in my seat, feeling lumpy and lethargic. Traffic was struggling along like sun-baked Galapagos, and I could think of no good reason to refrain from sleeping. True, Solberg might decide to take me to some secluded beach and drown me, but I was too tired to give it much thought.
When I awoke, he was parked in front of the strip mall that housed my office. I yawned and slid upright, feeling groggy and rumpled.
“My buddy’s got a yacht,” Solberg said, his tone defeated.
I turned toward him and noticed that his magnified gaze had settled on my chest.
“He lets me take guests on it whenever I want.”
I stifled a sigh. “I’ll give you your car back,” I said. “Just get me a couple phone numbers.”
But apparently his car was a matter of pride now, because he shook his head like a petulant child. I disembarked and he puttered down the street, leaving me to wander dismally into my office building without the promise of a yachting weekend or the much-needed phone numbers.
7
There is none so troubled as one who thinks himself perfectly sane.
—Frank Meister, M.D.,
professor of Psychotropic Medications
T HE HOURS CREPT BY. Angie Fredricks talked about her sexual fantasies, which were surprisingly inventive considering she’d passed the seventy year mark nearly a decade before. Melvin Osterman told me about the time he’d bicycled down Owens Avenue wearing nothing but a smile. It’s amazing what some guys will do for a six pack and a cheap thrill, and Mr. Ulquist, father of two, admitted he had had a crush on his science teacher who happened to be male and as handsome as a Greek god! Hormones ruled the world, but none of their problems seemed to compare to mine. Some kind of psychologist I was.
Around five P . M . Elaine drove me home. There, Solberg was sitting across the street in his Beetle. I gave him a wave. He slapped a hand distractedly back at me, and I lumbered into my house.
The phone was already bleating by the time I locked the door behind me. I answered on the fourth ring.
“Chrissy?”
“Mom,” I said, sliding into a nearby chair and prodding off my sandals. My toenails were now neon pink thanks to insomnia and lightning-bolt frustration. I prefer to consume a vat of cookie dough when frustrated, but I’d settled on a pedicure instead.
“What’s wrong?” Mom’s tone was tight, like it used to get when I told her I really
had
been at Molly’s house
all
night and wouldn’t dream of sneaking out to meet some boy.
“What do you mean?” Just the sound of her voice made me sweat, and I was pretty sure my acne was already reviving itself. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You sound stressed.”
Two thousand miles away and her maternal instincts were as sharp as a bloodhound’s. “Just a long day.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Since breakfast. I crossed my fingers and said a half
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