Woke Up Lonely A Novel - By Fiona Maazel Page 0,123
row of plastic chairs bolted to the wall. It resembled a bus depot or processing foyer for the urban sanitarium of last resort. At the desk, behind a glass partition, the intercom lady, in a sports visor and white seersucker tennis dress with red and green piping down the middle and neckline. So perhaps this was a gymnasium. A super-fancy gym.
Charlotte and Vicki huddled against a wall. Outside the purlieus of the Helix House, they had grown shy. Anne-Janet asked for a map. The tennis pro qua receptionist laughed and said, “Just fill out this form and bring it back up to the desk when you’re done.”
“I don’t want a form, I want a map.”
“Most people don’t come through this way. Since you people did, you have to fill out the form. Several, actually.” She closed the glass. It was smudged with handprints (fingers splayed, palms flat) and the imprint of a forehead that together were like a pillory for clients to fit themselves into during a losing encounter with the tennis pro.
Anne-Janet perused the questionnaire. Her first thought: This is not a gym. Her second: Oh, man, this is so not a gym. They wanted to know her age, weight, and emergency contact info; okay. But they also wanted references, a waiver form, and a confidentiality agreement more draconian than your average mortgage contract, plus a brief sexual history (if applicable), an explanation of that history (if applicable), a profile of her sensitive spots and no-no’s (if not submitted in advance), a blood report, and a letter from the client’s referring therapist.
She thrust clipboards at Charlotte and Vicki. Vicki didn’t even look, but Charlotte skimmed it over and, when she was done, seemed even more distressed than before. “We have to get out of here,” she said. “I know what this place is, and we need to go.”
Vicki seemed less convinced. “Yeah, but maybe they can do a ’plasty here, too.”
“Earth to Vicki,” Charlotte said. “The people who come here don’t need vaginoplasty.”
“What do you mean? Some people are born with big lips. Not every busted lip is because you fucked all the boys in Kansas.”
It was slow dawning for Anne-Janet, but then her ears went cherry at the tips. “So let me get this straight, people come here to, ah—”
“Customize their first time, you got it,” Charlotte said.
“Customize?” Anne-Janet said. “Whatever happened to flower petals and satin sheets and a real guy saying he loves you, and not just because he wants to ejaculate on your face?”
“No such thing,” said Vicki. “And from what I saw in your cell, I’m guessing you know that, too.”
Anne-Janet just shook her head.
Charlotte poked at her temple with her index. “And anyway, hello, since clearly neither me or Vick is new on the pony, we’re gonna get mistaken for cops or something, and then we’ll turn into you, all kidnapped and stuff, only we won’t get treated half as nice and probably we’ll get shot.”
“Also,” Vicki said, because Anne-Janet’s incredulity was annoying, “it’s no stranger than some john hiring me to do it. Only real diff is that sometimes in here you get daughters of sheiks or whatever who want a controlled experience.”
“A controlled experience,” Anne-Janet said, and the lady in her heart—her name was Pollyanna—plucked a rose and died.
The Pro took off her visor and spoke to Anne-Janet. “Okay, you’re all set. If you are amenable to the day’s arrangement, there’s been a cancellation. We can get you in now.”
Anne-Janet stammered. “Oh, no, there’s been a mistake. I didn’t come here for this.”
“What do you mean?” the Pro said, staring at Anne-Janet. If she had a racket in hand, she might well have served out a motivational speech about the game—You don’t choose it, it chooses you—though, in any case, what she did offer amounted to the same thing. She said, “I just read your questionnaire and bio. You know we do revisions, right? We can take you back, re-create the context, and change whatever you didn’t like. So, about your father, not to be rude, but you are so obviously in the right place.”
Anne-Janet’s mouth opened. She looked at the Pro, looked at the hookers.
“Sign here?” the Pro said. And then, to Vicki: “Maybe you both want revisions, too? There’s something here for everyone.”
Charlotte said, “Like virtual reality? Do we get to wear helmets?”
“Okay, this isn’t Blade Runner,” the Pro said. “You just describe everything for us, and we will re-create it down to the last detail.”