Fictional commentary on the medicalization of America...
There was something off about her. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew. Her descent was gradual.
“You’re depressed,” her husband speculated over dinner one evening.
“Everyone’s depressed,” Rachel retorted.
Maybe she was in a rut. It was undeniable that her work, her marriage, her life had grown stale. Each day was exactly the same as the day before it, and the same as tomorrow would be.
Up at 6am.
Feed dogs, cats, husband.
In the car by 6:45.
At work by 7:30.
At work until 4:30 (if she was lucky).
Another 45 minute commute.
Feed dogs, cats, husband.
In bed by 8pm.
Up at 6am.
Her life was the workaday equivalent of the song that never ends. How she craved—what?
Nothing extraordinary, she reflected on her drive to work on this particular morning. Just something—different. A little time to herself. To remember what it felt like to be still—to not go, go, go.
Arriving at work, she parked in the same space as always and entered through the same door. She put her lunch on the same side of refrigerator and took the same flight of steps to the second floor of the building. When she passed Karen Newcomer from Accounting on those steps and the enormous woman managed a timid “Hello,” Rachel felt such a bizarre sense of invasion that she couldn’t even look Karen in the eye.
She should have known better than to waste breath on Rachel Peterson. The woman was an ice queen. Perfect, beautiful, and completely above her. Must be nice to be born into the privilege of a body with good skin and good hair and a metabolism that wouldn’t quit. Must be really nice.
At the bottom of the steps, Karen headed in the direction of the lunchroom. She didn’t bother greeting anyone else who passed her along the way. She knew what they were thinking.
Fatso, fatso, fat bitch!
Well, it wasn’t like she did it on purpose. She had a thyroid problem.
At this time of morning, the lunchroom smelled like pancakes and maple syrup and faintly of yesterday afternoon’s popcorn. These smells mixing together made her mouth water and her stomach jolt with longing. She paused in front of the snack machine to assess the situation.
It had to be something healthy. As her doctor stressed, her cholesterol was through the roof and if she didn’t put the breaks on her junk food binges (and fast) she was in danger of suffering fatal consequences. Improving her diet hadn’t been easy, but with all the discipline she could muster she was getting there. Now when she stopped at McDonald’s on Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights she never said super size and she never got a sundae. She cut Friendly's out of the routine altogether and replaced it with a Chinese restaurant that boasted an incredible buffet. The doctor had recommended introducing more vegetables into her diet, and she was discovering that Asian food was chocked full of them. And whatever they fried them in, it was darn good. Mmm-hmm.
Okay, so when he said vegetables he didn’t mean they should be fried. But she was on Lipitor, so she enjoyed some culinary license that her parents never had in their own battles with terminal obesity and cholesterol.
She fed the machine her dollar and selected E9—a bag of cheddar and bacon potato chips, reasoning that potatoes were vegetables, too. On her way back to the elevator (it killed her knees to take the steps back up to the second floor), she passed Anthony Marcelli and giggled when their sudden encounter startled him to the point of gasping and laying a hand over his heart.
Wasn’t he absolutely precious?
***
I have to tell them no.
This thought raced through Tony’s mind at the same urgent pace of his heart.
I have to tell them no. I have to tell them no. I have to tell them no.
What would it involve? Organizing meetings? Giving presentations?
Then he was struck by a thought so mortifying he felt his bowels twist and loosen.
Would they ask him to travel?
Picking up his pace, he plowed through the lunchroom doors and into the men’s room. He slammed the door of the closest stall, dropped trowel and purged violently with his head in his hands. When it appeared he’d be there longer than anticipated, he loosened his tie.
Enterprise Streamlining Manager.
It definitely had a ring to it. How could he say no? Hadn’t all his hard work and long hours over the last five years been building to this very event? The luncheons, the golf outings, the participation in the activities committee which he absolutely abhorred?
Another wave of panic shot through him—all the way through him—and he loosened his tie even more.
Oh God. I’m not cut out for this. I have to tell them no.
Several minutes later, washing his hands at the sink, he paused and looked into his own eyes. They were young eyes. Intelligent eyes. Eyes that had envisioned such a bright future.
So what the hell happened, chief?
He wasn’t exactly sure. He’d just—lost his edge. Somewhere between high school and college, between college and the bleak adult world of full-time work.
Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, he withdrew the oval-shaped white pill and stared at it nestled on his palm. Tiny. Benign. The answer to all his problems. Xanax. Slightly ashamed but too needy to care, he tossed it into his mouth, flicked his tie over his shoulder, and bent to suck water from the faucet. Then he waited.
Ten minutes later.
I’m really not cut out for this.
Fifteen minutes later.
Looking pretty good, Tony. Did you get a haircut?
Twenty minutes later.
He didn’t just exit the men’s room—he exploded from it and marched in the direction of his destiny.
***
Rachel was surprised when she heard the news that Anthony Marcelli walked. She immediately knew he’d gone on to bigger and better things. Why not? He was a hard worker and he had an easy confidence about him that she envied. Lately she couldn’t even make it to the mailbox without suffering a panic attack. She’d taken to jogging after dark when no one could see her and she didn’t even wear her reflective vest anymore.
“You’re going to get killed,” her husband scolded.
“At least I’d die doing something I enjoy.”
“Hiding?”
That’s when she decided to get help. She had a friend at work who was taking Lexapro for general anxiety disorder.
Anxiety, Marcy stressed, not depression. I’m not depressed.
To which Rachel answered, Neither am I.
She called the doctor. There were no morning appointments available, so she settled for late afternoon. The day of the appointment began as usual.
Up at 6am.
Feed dogs, cats, husband.
Forty-five minute commute.
She pulled into the parking lot and turned in the direction of her regular space, then hit the breaks. Her car idled outside the east end of the building and a door she never took. In front of that door was an empty parking space prefaced by a sign that read, Enterprise Streamlining Manager. She took it.
There was something off about her. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew. Her descent was gradual.
