The Jackpot?

HI HO

 

I don't amble. I don't rush. My distance from the Brooklyn Q bus to my office is only five busy blocks away. I am not worried or frightened but keep alert, listen for footsteps coming towards me too fast. My purse slides off my shoulder and I hold it tight across my chest, sigh a little as a teen ignores me and crosses the street where he shouldn't

 

The Hudson View Building is my destination, twelfth floor, room eighteen, desk six. Taking as few chances as possible, the building owners and tenants installed tight security a few years ago at each of the entrances. Finger prints, all packages, drivers' licences, photos, passes are scrutinized. Usually the system moves quickly and efficiently. I don't even gripe mentally but do resent the fact that I've been here ten years and still go thru the daily process. A 'good morning', a smile and a wave should suffice as most of the guards have been here five or more years. They do now and then take a tiny bit of leeway.

 

Over the years, especially in slow summers, I've shared short conversations, questioned the guards about possible problems and am now much more wary than ever. Jack has confiscated ten guns from customers, patients, who want access into my building. Two guns have been loaded. Knives of all shapes and sizes, white powders by the pack are just about routine. It is too tough to comprehend which makes me believe Jack is pulling my leg.

 

This building has been here for twelve years, is kept in fantastic repair. The tenants are attorneys, physicians, accountants, architects. No shlemiels are accepted, so, my problem is with whom  are these armed people meeting. Do the same ones return in disguise, do their dirty stuff, get out fast without, so far, killing anyone?

 

Peacefully on the elevator, leaving for the day, just dreaming the elevator will go non-stop to the ground floor, I get off when someone I don't know gets on. My paranoia is strangling me.  Dr. Shackman, a psychologist ( maybe a psychiatrist) has taken over Dr. Rollin's practice. He is the proverbial tall, dark and handsome man that lonely women hope to just accidentally meet and conquer. My thoughts are not too far from theirs but I do have another- the need-- to get over my fears, stop the nightmares, the foolish looking around.

 

Jack introduces Dr. Shackman to me early on a Friday. Those wanting 'in' are few for the moment. Almost immediately the doctor tells me to just call him Bill and with a silly smile, adds or call me for ' lunch.' His name is before me, Bill Shackman but already I have his number his initials, 'B.S.' No question, he is full of it. Dr. B.S. starts to get off on the tenth floor, pushes the 'hold' button and, I almost die laughing when he asks me how my bowels are, adds he's a proctologist. A wink and he is gone.

 

I don't need a proctologist or Dr. Shackman either. I can't help wondering though where Dr. Rollin's went. It seems I recall him being a psychologist or psychiatrist.

 

Maybe Jack knows.