::3.3 Cents Per Second
12:55 a.m. - 2005-02-07
Marriage. Children. Home. Family. Church. God. Spirituality.
He ticks them off in tune with the clock, watching me intently for a reaction. I told him I’d be sure to pipe up if he hit a subject that interested me. Then somewhere between Children and God, I realized it would be more interesting to figure out that I am paying this man roughly 3.3 cents per second. Well, my mom’s check and our insurance company are paying him that anyway.
“These things don’t have any value to you?” he asks quizzically when I have failed to light up accordingly.
Not true, my mind responds. They now mean exactly 23 cents to me. To him, I smile. “Not really,” I reply unapologetically. We are in North Carolina and he does not appreciate this.
“Why do you think that is?” he asks. Typical, I judge him, disappointed in his lackluster question.
Sighing, I decide to speed things along.
“I know why it is,” I iterate in a level tone. “I think you’re the one who needs to know why.” He blinks. I win.
“So why don’t you tell me?” I must give him credit for his rebounding skills as he brings his fingers up under his chin and smiles serenely at me. “Tell me what you know.” His gradually weakening efforts to hide his condescension should encourage me, but as usual, any indication of alleged superiority only causes my lungs to tighten and my words to shorten.
I sit back in my seat and twist my hairband aimlessly; in my peripheral vision, he glances at the wall quickly, but not as subtly as he’d like to think. He has 25 minutes left of me. I know this because in between my blatant gawking at the clock, I tick the seconds off in my head.
Not wanting him to feel unnoticed, I slip my band back on my wrist and look at him directly. “It’s 4:35,” I tell him sweetly. He glares. “I guess you saved the best for last, huh?” I poke further. He remains silent and, on a roll, I start ticking off the seconds aloud.
Before I can hit four, he stops me. “I know you like to consider your intelligence above that of everyone around you, but counting actually isn’t that great of a feat. No need to display your ability aloud.”
After having sat with this man for roughly 24.5 hours of my life—twice a week since I told her that I didn’t believe all homosexuals were going to hell—he finally gets to me.
Though not denying the accuracy of his statement, I hate that he’s received 3000 dollars of anyone’s money to figure out something a deaf mute could conclude after ten minutes with me. And before I know it, the urge to defy him rises in my chest with unladylike force—that’s how she would put it—turning immediately into determination and disabling any rational ability to harness my tongue.
“Fine, here’s what I know,” I spit at him, not letting any shallowness of breath cut into my disgusted tone. “I know that my dad left when I was a kid and blamed me. I know that he doesn’t call on my birthday and called me stupid when I told him my SAT scores and a slut when I told him about my first boyfriend.
“I know my mom used to beat the crap out of me. I know she resents me and sees in me all the things she never got to do. I know that she thinks every single mood I have, short of a perkiness to rival Miss America, is part of some secret conspiracy I have to make her miserable with my own GOD.DAMN.”—he cringes—“bad moods. So with that in mind, I know I’m not allowed to feel a single emotion without her immediate approval.”
“So I KNOW, okay? I’ve KNOWN for quite some time now. But I’m not going to flaunt it here for you, so you can file up some report on the state of my eternal soul. That’s part of who I am; that’s not WHO I AM. And since when do my actions need justifying anyway? Why do I have to justify the fact that I don’t want to get married or have kids or be tied down? Why do I have to justify the fact that I am not willing to condemn people to hell?”
That look? That infuriating, holier-than-thou look which he has worn for the past 24.75 hours of our time together? That look is gone now.
Still, I guess that Christian counseling school taught him something about professionalism: he keeps his cool and I hate him for it.
“You don’t have to justify it, per se,” he speaks smoothly a moment later, not realizing that his attempt to be calming is only pissing me off more by the second. “I just want you to rationalize to me—and to yourself—this overwhelming need to rebel against society.”
Too much, I think, immediately deciding to stop putting any thought into my answers, knowing this session was over before it started. That’s what happens when your mother’s a Christian, you’re unsure, and she’s paying the doctor bills.
I remain silent. My eyes trace the floral pattern on the cheap curtains half-covering the window behind his desk. I want to tell him that, at 3.3 cents per second, he should have some better fucking curtains for me to look at.
He sighs heavily and looks at the clock. Fifteen minutes to go. It is still technically too soon to say “Let’s wrap it up early.” He knows. I know. He knows I know. I remain silent.
“So that’s it?” he concurs a moment later. “You just don’t believe in God or love or marriage or having children or making a home? You just don’t believe in anything?”
“No,” I reply flatly, bringing my feet out from under me and placing them heavily on the floor. “You’re wrong.” His eyebrows rise in expectation.
I get up, not caring that I will be wasting approximately 18 dollars in the nine minutes I getting ready to walk out on. “Maybe if you put your judgment aside long enough to do your job, you’d find the very answer you’re looking for,” I continue, pulling on my jacket. I do not bother to note his reaction as I wrap my scarf around my neck.
As I reach for the door handle, I turn to look at him and steadily meet his gaze. “But to answer your question, yes, I believe in something. I believe in plenty,” I tell him. “I believe in myself.”
