Knocked Out

    Sorry about that.  I had to take a few days off.  Things were getting a little too weird.  I had to knock it off for a little while.  

      I had a panic attack at the Studio.  A minor one, but that’s what it was: a panic attack.  After that, I was like, time out.  

      This is what happened:

       The previous day I’d come to the Studio on my day off to make a five-hour appointment with some guy whom I’d never met before.  He’s usually a night person.  What that means, in this industry, is that he is crazy, because the crazies come out at night, and that includes the Studio women who work the night shift.  I’m not exaggerating.  Half of those bitches who work the night shift are certifiable–at 1 AM, it’s like hazing night in some horror-movie sorority from hell in there, and as I understand it, it’s been especially dysfunctional the last few weeks.  No idea why.  Maybe it’s the holidays.  

      (I don’t get involved in any of the political diva-drama, by the way.  Nope!  I am a nice polite person, and when I’m not making money, I hole up in the back and try to get some writing done, or do my nails and watch a little YouTube.)

       So anyway, I rolled in on my day off for a 5-hour appointment. The guy was fine and everything went well–I made a lot of money–but when it was over I was physically and emotionally exhausted.  Readers might be wondering to themselves, “What do you do in a session in a dungeon for five hours at a time?”  Good question!  

        The answer is: everything.  Yeah, it was a lot of work.  

        I finished and washed up and then went to my locker to change clothes.  There, affixed to the door with a piece of scotch tape, was a nasty passive-aggressive note from the Studio’s notorious resident psycho.  

         I took the high road and threw it in the trash.  I’m not going to be goaded into fighting with this person.  Ugh.  

         At the same time, there was an argument going on in the other lounge.  Someone was flipping out on C.  I’ve written about C. before–I like her a lot, actually, and we’ve always gotten along.  She’s tremendously entertaining to talk to.  But I wouldn’t flip out on her, I wouldn’t get in her face, because anyone with two brain cells to rub together is able to tell that C. is a dangerous person.  She’s volatile and fearless as a teenage boy.  

         Well, I didn’t see it, but it happened: C. shut the other girl up by punching her in the face

         I wish that the person C. punched was the psycho who put the note on my locker.  That would have made my day, which is an awful thing to say, but it’s the truth.  But no, it was someone else.

        I didn’t stick around–I grabbed my wages, deposited them in the bank, dragged myself home, and collapsed on the sofa.  I was fried.  Absolutely fried.  I almost never miss drinking –drinking alcoholically is a goddamned nightmare–but that night, I definitely could have used some Scotch.  In fact, it’s probably a good thing that the liquor stores were closed.  

      C. didn’t get canned, by the way.  I don’t know how you can punch your co-worker in the face on the job and not get fired, but hey.  The ferocious Russian manager operates according to the standards of Russian professionalism, I suppose. 

      Weird dreams that night.  Really weird.  

      So, the next morning I went back in, and I have to tell you, my morale was very low.  I don’t know why, because I’ve seen plenty of crazy stuff happen at the Studio, but that punch was very discouraging.  I mean, what is this, a goddamned prison yard?  Can we please have a work environment where we don’t have to worry about getting punched in the face?  And am I the only one who think that women engaging in this kind of behavior is really trashy? I know that femininity is a tool of oppression in the patriarchy, but for heaven’s sake, is there anything more unattractive than watching women get violent with each other?  It’s bad enough that men do it!  

       Like celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay always screams on his cooking shows: “Standards!  Can we get some standards, people!  What the fuck happened to your standards?”  

         “What happened last night after I left?”  I asked the other girls in the locker area.  Most of the day-shift people are nice non-psycho individuals.  “Did the cops come?”  

        “No.  They gave (woman who got punched) a bag of frozen vegetables to hold over her face and then she went home.”  

        Nice, huh?  She hasn’t been back, either.  Can’t say that I blame her.  

        But Margo, what about the panic attack? I hear you wondering.

        The panic attack came a few hours later, seemingly out of nowhere, when the receptionist came in the back and told me that I had an appointment in half an hour.  

       With…let’s call him Mel.  

       Mel’s a very interesting case.  I’ve spent a lot of time with Mel. I’ve been thinking about writing about him for a long time, actually.  

       I’ll give you the story in the next installment.  


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