Talk to Mike Grotsky on the Fictionville blog
Location: Paris.
Through the courtyard, up the dank stairs to the doctor's office. I suffer from an unknown affliction. Symptom: anxiety.
The white-smocked woman doctor, something like middle-aged, perhaps middle European, pokes and prods me, reads some instruments. Frowning, she considers me like a wayward enigmatic child. Obviously seeking meaning in my vague situation.
With decision she grabs my ankle, twists my foot up to her face, inhales deeply as if seeking the vintage of an off year. A clue. She leads me behind a screen to a closet-sized room with padded walls. Leaves me there and clicks a button. The walls begin to close, then compress against me in a not-altogether unpleasant fashion: not to crush but to measure, to massage. Still I am relieved when she sets me free again.
The doctor has reached a diagnosis. A little bottle of turquoise pills, a nod of the head in encouragement - this will do the trick.
What?
A kind of amphetamine, an upper. Sure as shit.
But speed to cure my anxiety!? I just want to relax.
Her firm fat finger leads my eye outside the window. In the courtyard below Gabrielle runs and bounds like a happy bird, her loose white gown flowing like feathers as her arms wave up and down like a soft signal. Her face absorbed in a quiet ecstasy of abandon, she reminds me of an angel set free and, at the same time, I think of Artaud confined to quarters for eternity.
The pills rattle like dice as the doctor puts them in my hand. Dice or old dry bones, they rattle in my throat as she leads me to the door.
Down the hatch. Watch your step. Good luck.