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It usually took an hour to get to her office so that was annoying in itself. I’ve reached the point where a 20-minute drive makes me start looking for a rest stop, not because I need to pee or anything but because I prefer fresh air, real fresh air, not the stuff that the air-conditioning gives you. And even if I have the windows open, that’s more tantalising than satisfying because it just makes me want to be IN it, not just catching bits and pieces of it.
But, it was the end of the month so I had to go. Last Friday of the month, like clockwork — is there a phrase “like calendar-work?” There should be.
She’d had that office for five years now, maybe six, and she was getting to be the, I mean THE, the therapist to see if you lived anywhere within 150 miles of her. It’s true, there weren’t THAT many therapists in the tri-county area, but she wasn’t the only one.
She had her degrees and all that, with the certificates hanging on the walls, but what really set her apart, in addition to her personal approach and skills, was she accepted all kinds of things in exchange for her services: checks and cash, certainly, but also trade (like, fixing or painting her car, or yard work at her house, or free passes to concerts in town — those were from her musician-clients) —- and there was the dressmaker who kept her in homemade finery, and many more such deals. The best restaurant in town, for example – she could eat there once a week, forever, due to the treatment she’d given that family.
If she absolutely had to, she’d deal with insurance companies, but she urged all of her clients to avoid that if at all possible, and most of them didn’t have it anyway.
She was happy. They were happy. Her landlord was super-happy … he loved getting his rent paid in real money. There’s something about a fistful of hundreds that brings a smile to even the laziest slumlord. And that’s really not fair, because he wasn’t that — but he wasn’t God’s gift to tenants, either —- the building included a dentist, a CPA, a music teacher (which often led to a pleasant atmosphere), and her therapy office.
So, rain or shine, last Friday of the month, I drove over. I had to. She wasn’t just my therapist, she was my sister, too. And more, I wasn’t just her brother, I was also her supplier. All modesty aside, I’ve got the best dope in all three counties, and that’s been true for a decade, and my dope was a big reason her clients kept coming.
I read somewhere grass is going be legal in this state one day. Yeah, right. And pigs will be jet-skiing, just you wait.
Win-win, and cash only, for her, and from her. She’s my best customer, even with the family discount, so I guess I can still handle the two-hour roundtrip, once a month, with the trunk packed with kilos of primo. Yes, I can. She’s happy, I’m happy, and her clients keep coming back for more. They, they are beyond happy. It’s all good.
About Tony Press
Tony Press tries to pay attention and sometimes he does. His story collection, Crossing the Lines, was published by Big Table. About 150 of his stories and poems can be found in print and online. He loves walking the streets of Brisbane (the one in California, USA), cherishes hot chocolate, and enjoys Bristol, England, and Oaxaca, Mexico. He claims several writing award nominations, a dozen years in the same high school classroom, and twenty-five criminal trials.
