“I know you just wanted to take a nap,” a sweet, caring, grandmotherly nurse says, just the way your sweet, caring grandmother would, if she weren’t so busy being racist. “We don’t have to tell anyone. Your insurance won’t cover it, but we’ll work something out.” She fluffs your pillow, then strokes your forehead, sensitive to your overstimulated plight. “Oh, dearie, I never do this, but . . . here’s my HBO GO password.” She starts to leave the room. “I almost forgot—I have a surprise for you!” The nurse pulls a year’s supply of birth-control pills from her bosom. They cause no side effects.
“Excuse me, boss?” you say, as you knock on an already open door, since your company believes in open-door policies, catered lunches, and summer Fridays. She—it has to be she, because you’ve always worked for a woman—looks genuinely happy to see you, and encourages you to take some freshly cut fruit, because you live in a place where harvests are bountiful.
“Take as much as you want!” she says. “The harvests were bountiful!”
You don’t hesitate with your request. “I noticed this morning that I’m getting pretty behind on my issues of The Economist,” you say. This is not a lie. You regularly read The Economist, and you find typos every time, too. “Could I have a few days off to catch up?” Your boss gives you ten, and some more fruit.
You beat your highest Candy Crush score without a single cheat, and, later that day, though you’re sure you’re imagining it, people treat you with a little more respect.
“Hi, it’s [tenuous friend]! I know we were supposed to go to [horrible activity] at [terrible bar] in [Queens], but I’ve been reading between your tweets, and . . . I just think you deserve an evening eating Popeyes in your underwear. Do you want my HBO GO password?”
“Marked down to $3.50? I better get two!”
You’re walking down the street, furiously tapping away on the screen of your Latest Coolest Phone model, when you bump into an actual model, one not famous enough to place but well known enough that your nemesis, whom you haven’t seen since third grade and who walks by at this exact moment, does a double take. The model apologizes, and holds out his somehow muscular hand for a handshake. You two stand on the street and talk easily, like old friends or familiar neighbors who talk to each other only in the elevator, and he eloquently explains to you the difference between a traditional I.R.A. and a Roth I.R.A. Minutes pass, and you realize that you haven’t introduced yourself.
“What’s your name?” the Beautiful Man asks, wiping a picture-perfect glistening bead of sweat from his brow, as he searches through his phone for the name of a lawyer who can get you out of that time-share. You tell him, and he chuckles. “Jazmine, eh?” he says. “That’s so funny. That’s my HBO GO password.” ♦
