No One Will See You Now

A rainy Friday morning. I stop at the parking booth. An attendant sits there, ignoring me. It's 7:50. I'm 10 minutes early for my appointment. I look at the attendant through my window. She looks at me through her window. She does nothing. I wait. Still nothing. I raise my hand in the air, as if to say, "Nu?" She partially opens her window. I partially open my window. Progress. "I'm not here," she says. "Huh?" I say. "I'm not here till 8." "But you're right there." "The parking lot isn't open till 8." "I'm so confused." "Just drive down there and park." "You just said it wasn't open." "Technically, it isn't." "So I should take my chances and park." "Yes." "Are you going to give me a thingy?" She stares at me. "A parking thingy." "No." "So parking is free today?" "No." Well, so far this is going well. I drive down the ramp and park. And there, of course, is a parking attendant, who won't give me a parking ticket, either. I try not to take any of this personally.

The elevator takes me to the 5th floor. I walk down the hall. I see no humans. I take a few more steps and there is a human lady, dusting. "Oh hi," I say, more grateful than I've ever been in my life. Whatever is happening, I'm not alone. "Is anyone here?" I ask. She says nothing and continues dusting. Okay then. I find a magazine. The cover is a knife in my heart. Jennifer Aniston, smiling at me from the March issue of Architectural Digest. Her happy life with Justin, her dogs, her gorgeous house high above Los Angeles. I start to browse. "Timing's a bitch," I say to Jennifer, certain she can hear me. Finally, another human arrives, a front desk human. "I'm here to see Sylvia," I say. Sylvia is the highly-skilled designated technician. In this dark night of the soul, she's much in demand. She whitens, brightens and lightens the spirits of those in need of a good coat of sparkle.

"Have a seat," says the front desk human. I go back to Jennifer Aniston and the photos of the amazing home she'll undoubtedly sell for gazillions to another celebrity. What does she need with this self-designed, altogether stunning shrine to short-lived marital bliss? Get out, Jennifer. Get out and build anew.

Minutes go by. More minutes go by. I'm starting to get that feeling, you know the one, that dreaded certainty that whatever is supposed to happen, a career achievement award, a sudden growth spurt, isn't going to happen. Not today, anyway. I'm back at the front desk, flashing the look my family knows too well. My signature look of impatience, passed down through the generations by my Russian ancestors. "So, where's Sylvia?" "Oh, Sylvia isn't here today," says the second front desk human, a recent arrival. "Excuse me?" "She's not doing your soul bleach." "Who's doing it then?" "Let me check... I think Gabriella is doing it." "I don't want Gabriella. I want Sylvia. Sylvia knows how sensitive my soul is. She's got that numbing cream and -- " "Gabriella can't do it," says the first front desk human. "She's helping someone else." "So, to clarify, in terms of soul whitening, brightening and lightening, the nice spiritual cleansing I'm in need of, given these turbulent times... that's a no?" "Yes." "We're so sorry." "Are you really?" "Uh huh." "Do I at least get a validation?" "Sorry, we don't validate." "Figures." "We'll call you when we figure out Sylvia's schedule." "Wonderful. I'll just sit in the dark till then."