Swimfan
From the recesses of my bedroom closet, I hear a buzzing. I dash down the hall to press the button underneath the intercom’s speaker. “Hello?”
“Salutations, Reagan Bishop!”
I reply, “Hey, Deva. I’ll be out in a sec; just let me grab my keys.”
After locating them in the crockery bowl I now use specifically to house them (excellent suggestion, Ol’ Rat Nasty), I head down the stairs to greet Deva.
I’m ready for my run in a white Nike Dri-Fit tank and Lululemon’s speed shorts in Mint Moment Black with the little zippy pocket that rests on my tailbone in the back. However, I’m wearing a waist pack, too, because I require enough room to carry my phone.
Deva, on the other hand, is ready not so much for a jog as she is to herd her camels across the Sinai Peninsula. She’s covered in layers of linen and ropes of tribal beads, topped with a kaffiyeh head wrap. But what really ties the whole outfit together is the matching Pumas.
“Um . . . are you wearing a toga?” I ask.
“Actually, Reagan Bishop, it’s a thobe.”
Of course it is.
“Might you be more comfortable in a pair of running shorts? I have plenty you can borrow. We seem to be about the same size.” Except for gloves, of course.
Deva waves me off. “Not at all, Reagan Bishop. Linen is very breathable and I’ll be protected both from the sun and sandstorms.”
“Have we had many sandstorms in Chicago lately?” I query.
Deva gives me a knowing look. “It’s best to be prepared for any eventuality, Reagan Bishop. The Bedouins have been dressing this way for centuries. I believe you’ll find that my outfit stands the test of time.”
“Then who am I to argue with the sartorial choices of the entire Ottoman Empire?”
I’ve had a world of stress to process lately, so Deva’s been joining me on my usual five-mile loop by the lake. Except we discover she can’t really run today without becoming tangled in her cape, so we decide to take a brisk walk instead.
“I notice a disturbance in your root chakra. How are you feeling today? What is your mood? I’m sensing . . . humiliation?” Deva peers at me, her outfit billowing behind her like a sail.
Sometimes what Deva says is pure bunk, and sometimes she’s right on the money. “Yes, I’d say my overwhelming emotion right now is rooted in a level of mortification. Of course, I’ve been embarrassed before,” I tell Deva. “Comes with the territory.”
“Therapy embarrasses you, Reagan Bishop?”
While we walk, I loosen up my arms by pulling my elbows back behind my head and pushing down with the opposite hands. I’ve been carrying an almost paralyzing amount of tension between my shoulder blades and this simple stretch works wonders.
“On occasion, yes. For example, one time when I first started my practice, I was at the Lincoln Park Target buying—what?—Kleenex? Toilet bowl cleaner? Something innocuous. Anyway, I spotted one of my patients coming down the aisle with someone else and I didn’t want to make eye contact.”
We’re heading down North Lakeview on our way to the spot where I loosen up my hamstrings on Fullerton. The sky is a bit gray, so we’re not suffocating in the stifling Chicago summer heat. That’s something no one from out of town ever fully understands—the summer temperatures are inversely proportional to the winter cold. I had a roommate at U of C who was from Galveston, Texas. She showed up without a single short-sleeved shirt, expecting late August snow. She was sorely disappointed.
In fact, more than seven hundred citizens—largely the elderly and the poor—tragically perished in the heat wave of 1995. The mayor was roundly criticized for his response to the crisis, so this is one of those Subjects That Are Not Discussed in the Bishop household.
I consider it a small blessing that today’s overcast and breezy with the threat of rain, which makes for a pleasant walk. I tell Deva, “You’re likely aware there are stringent HIPAA regulations regarding confidentiality. I was worried I might inadvertently greet my patient and then she might be forced into a conversation with her companion on how she and I are acquainted. I wanted to avoid all of that. So, to circumvent the potentially awkward eye contact, I pretended to be very interested in the display in front of me and started randomly grabbing products without even looking at what I was taking. I just wanted to seem like a regular shopper.”
Deva assures me, “There’s no shame in taking advantage of Target’s competitive pricing, Reagan Bishop. I purchase paper towels there. You’d be shocked at the splash zone created by certain types of Reiki healing.”
I glance over at her. “Do I want the details?”
Deva’s thoughtful for a moment. “Probably not. Please, go on.”
I shudder as I recollect. “I’m still mortified when I remember that day. There I was, trying to do the right thing, and it completely backfired. I was so hypersensitive to my patient’s needs that I didn’t realize I was inadvertently buying Astroglide in bulk. So my patient comes up to me, says hello, introduces her friend, and then she notices all the lube in my cart and she says, ‘Big plans this weekend, Dr. B?’ I wanted to die.”
“Would you typify the recent incidents as worse, Reagan Bishop?”
I snort. “Not even in the same stratosphere. At least I could explain my rationale when I saw my patient the next time. How do I justify myself to the entirety of the TMZ viewership?”
Deva waxes philosophic. “Those who matter will know your truth, Reagan Bishop. It’s hard when you’re up to your armpits in alligators to remember you came here to drain the swamp.”
I give her a sidelong glance. “Did you just quote President Reagan to me?”
“Are we still not doing that?”
“We are not.”
When we arrive at the corner of Fullerton and Lincoln Park West, I position myself behind a bench and work through my litany of running stretches. After I loosen up my soleus (inner calf muscle) and Achilles tendon, I grasp the back of the bench and execute some leg swings. Swing back, kick front, swing back, kick front, repeat twenty times on each side, really working the joints. To maintain my balance, I fix my gaze on the condo complex across the street. I notice one of the units has recently added a row of flower boxes on the deck and it’s filled with red geraniums and some greenery. Personally, I wouldn’t obstruct a lake view with cheap flowers and vines, but different strokes, eh?
Satisfied with my range of motion, we move on. “The upside with Ashlee is at least there’s no footage of me counseling her. Yes, everyone still blames me, but at least she imploded prior to therapy.” I roll my shoulders as we walk. “But with Lance? I have no excuse for Lance.”
“Then how will you handle tomorrow, Reagan Bishop?” Deva asks, chugging along next to me. I’ll be damned if she’s yet to break a sweat. I’ve already saturated my T-shirt.
I feel my stomach twist itself in a knot because this is my last chance. “Magic? Miracle? Maybe I can simply astral project into Tabitha’s body and do it for her?”
We’re filming a Very Special Episode of Push tomorrow due to Kassel’s coup of landing an actual star. Tabitha Baylee’s a true A-lister and she’s come to Push not because she needs a publicity stunt, a makeover, or a free Ford F-150, but because she has crippling acrophobia, which is a fear of heights. What’s problematic is that she’s starring as Parker Peter in the female remake of the movie Spider-Man (don’t ask) and she has to film a scene at the top of the Willis Tower.
(FYI, Ma still refuses to call it anything other than the Sears Tower. Quelle surprise.)
One of Kassel’s pals from his Make ’Em Eat a Bug days is the movie’s director, and he’s desperate to capture the shot where a moody Parker Peter gazes out on the city below, while coming to terms with having become a Spider-(Wo)man. Richard Holthaus, the director, is so desperate, in fact, that he called us after hypnotherapy, acupuncture, and drugs failed to assuage the starlet’s fears.
“What can you do?” Deva asks.
We cut across the park and head to the walking path next to the lake. Even with foreboding skies, sunbathers line the beach. The afternoon smells like Coppertone and charcoal, as the aroma from the outdoor grills at Castaways on North Avenue Beach drifts toward us. I haven’t touched anything that wasn’t born swimming since 1998, but my God, the scent of those burgers is intoxicating.
I explain, “Thing is, I’ve done tons of exposure work before, which is how a therapist helps patients with fears. For example, I had a client who was desperately afraid of dogs, having once been attacked as a child. But her fiancé had a big Swiss Mountain dog and the creature scared her so much, she was afraid to go to visit his house, let alone live there after they were married. So we started off small. The first pup she met was a teacup terrier, and we worked our way up from there, graduating to shih tzus, then pugs, etcetera. Over a six-month period, we slowly introduced bigger and bolder dogs. By the time of her wedding, she not only was able to be around her husband’s pooch, but even had the confidence to take him out for walks.”
Deva has been listening intently. “Cesar Millan sometimes has me perform Reiki massage on his most troubled cases. I worked on a magnificent Basenji named Anubis—opened his chi right up.” Deva adjusts her thobe, which has shifted as we’ve walked. “Anubis still lifted his leg on the drapes after that, though.”
“What was your resolution?” I ask, trying to imagine exactly which new age treatment would have curbed a naughty dog’s behavior. Chanting? Burning herbs? A newly feng shui’d doghouse?
“I filled a Dr Pepper can with pennies and shook it at him whenever he approached the window.”
This stops me in my tracks.
“What, Reagan Bishop? You don’t need mystical power to discipline your dogs. You just need to show them you’re the boss.”
This? This is how she’s been winning me over. “You are an enigma wrapped in a turban, Deva.”
“Namaste.” She grins and bows. “I like you, too, Reagan Bishop. I do not desire seeing you fired, so what’s your strategy?”
As we cruise past the volleyball courts, I give the players a cursory look. Nope, no one I know. Which reminds me to check my phone. I surreptitiously slip it out of and then back into my waist pack. Nothing. How can there be nothing? I’m sure the phone works out here—I’ve tested it. And there’s a cell tower at Clark and Division, less than a mile down the road. I have three and a half bars, for crying out loud!
“Reagan Bishop?”
“Gosh, sorry—had to check on something.”
Deva knits her brow. “Are you waiting for a call? Again?”
“No, it’s fine. Sorry. You were saying—tomorrow. What am I going to do? That’s the million-dollar question. I tried to explain my therapy methodology to Kassel and he said, and I quote, ‘No one wants to watch a movie star climb a ladder.’ That’s how I’d begin to desensitize Tabitha. I said it wasn’t ethical for me to try to treat her any other way, particularly given what the filmmaker wants, and that I likely wouldn’t even capture any usable footage. And he said to try anyway because he couldn’t save me if I fail again.”
Tomorrow, Kassel and Co. intends for me to attempt the impossible—stick a terrified girl right out on the Ledge of the Willis Tower Skydeck. The Ledge is an enclosed box on the hundred and third floor that extends 4.3 feet away from the side of the tower. People who don’t harbor a rabid fear of heights feel weak in the knees stepping into the laminated glass enclosure, so there’s no way I can coax Tabitha out there.
Patently impossible.
I’m normally not so defeatist, but I understand the parameters under which I’m toiling. I wouldn’t expect a wheelchair-bound person to walk based only on my encouragement. There would be months, if not years, of intensive rehabilitation involved first, and even then success wouldn’t be a guarantee. I mean, I’m skilled, but I definitely couldn’t just tip them out of the chair and say, Have at it.
This business with Tabitha is almost a guaranteed failure, and I can’t stand failing. I’m not clinically diagnosable with atychiphobia, as I don’t avoid risk to prevent failure. (Ahem, person who lives in our parents’ basement, ahem.)
Rather, I’m übermotivated by my desire to exceed and excel; that’s why I was such an exemplary student. Well, that and my desire to not be taunted by rich kids. While everyone else was dating and attending prom and playing team sports, I was locked in my room memorizing the periodic table and diagramming sentences. I attained the highest grades because I was willing to sacrifice the most to earn them. But I can’t nose-to-the-grindstone my way out of tomorrow, and the notion of bombing is giving me agita.
And won’t everyone at the unemployment office be impressed with my credentials. Argh. Maybe I can write a book about how the disinterested clerk keeps calling me “Doctor” when she really means “bitch.”
Oh, this can’t happen. I cannot be fired. I feel my chest constricting and I think I may vomit.
“Humor me, Reagan Bishop; please stop and take a deep, cleansing breath.”
I comply, inhaling so much grill smoke that I can practically taste the burgers and brats. Oh, is that fennel? Then I hate myself for being drawn to the taste of factory-farmed meat. While we’re by the snack bar, I dash in to buy us both a bottle of water to wash away any stray flavor.
After I hand her an Aquafina, Deva circles around and stands in front of me. “Repeat, please—nam myoho renge kyo.”
I grimace. “I’d rather not.” It’s one thing to stroll the lakefront with someone dressed like a Hari Krishna, an entirely different one to actually pass out the carnations.
“Do you not desire to open the pathway to awaken your Buddha nature?” Deva clasps her chest with her enormous paws, clutching herself as though I’ve cast a mortal blow.
“Not today, no.”
Deva rights her head wrap, and I can tell she’s about to lecture me about her new age hokum. “Nichiren believed that voicing this incantation strengthens our capacity for wisdom, courage, confidence, vitality, and compassion.”
“Listen, Deva, gaining wisdom, courage, confidence, vitality, and compassion sounds fantastic, but ultimately will this incantation lure a movie star into a glass box 1,353 feet in the air and prevent me from being fired?”
“Not directly, but—”
“Maybe next time, then.”
We keep moving and I check my heart-rate monitor. I’m not quite hitting my target heart rate, yet my blood pressure is elevated due to my stress level. I wonder, will that produce the same caloric burn?
At this point we’re back across the park and heading north toward my place. “Hey, give me your water bottle. I can pitch them here.” I grab her empty and toss them in the recycle bin behind the condo complex at North Lakeview and Fullerton. As I pass the rest of the bins, I can’t help but notice what the residents have so thoughtlessly thrown away. Distressed as I am about myself, I congratulate myself for still looking out for others.
“Deva, come see all this waste—these bananas are barely brown. They’re still edible.” I pull them out of the can and set them off to the side. I hate our culture of waste in this country, so when I see an opportunity to salvage food products, I take it. “And look at this box of lentils,” I say. “It’s not even open!” In no time, I’ve scavenged enough ingredients to provide a day’s worth of sustenance for a family of four. I find a clean paper grocery sack in the recycle bin (why isn’t everyone using canvas totes yet?) and I bring the bagful of ingredients out front to the bench where a homeless person can spot them.
I tell Deva, “Maybe this one little action won’t change the world, but if someone who wouldn’t have had dinner tonight now can eat, I feel better about myself.”
“That’s very noble, Reagan Bishop.”
“Thank you.”
I often give myself affirmations about my own nobility.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Anything.” I zip open my waist pack and dig out my hand sanitizer. After I feel like I’m thoroughly disinfected, I reach for my phone, glance at it, then look back up at the geranium-covered deck.
“Reagan Bishop, how long have you been stalking your ex?”