When My Heart Joins the Thousand(23)

I consider pointing out that most of the animals here don’t have the opposable thumbs necessary for that particular activity, then decide to let it slide.

She continues: “Our guests come here for the experience. The whole package. We’re competing with movie theaters, with sporting events, with any other damn thing people can do on a Saturday, and that means we’ve got to deliver. If guests come in and see you looking like a bucket of crap, the experience suffers.”

Exhaustion creeps over me, making my body heavy. She keeps talking, but the words slide through my mind without leaving a mark. My vision wavers, and the world swims.

After a moment, I realize Ms. Nell is saying my name over and over. Her voice seems to slow, as if someone’s playing a recording at half speed—Alviiiiie . . . Aaaalviiiie. I can see the words floating through the air, shining faintly, like they’re traced in silver paint. My gaze follows them with detached interest.

“Hey!” She snaps her fingers.

My vision jolts into focus. “What.”

She frowns, but her eyebrows are tilted down at the outside corners. That usually means someone is worried, not angry. “You sure you’re not sick?”

I shake my head. “Just tired.” And preoccupied.

Duke the parrot lets out a sudden squawk from his cage, and I give a start, almost jumping from my chair.

Ms. Nell’s frown deepens. “Maybe you ought to go home early. Get some rest.”

I open my mouth to protest—I feel calmer here than I do in my apartment—but I recognize the futility of argument. So I close my mouth, nod, and push myself to my feet.

At home, I sit on the couch, fiddling with my Rubik’s Cube. I close my eyes and focus on the smooth, cool plastic under my fingers. This is just another puzzle. If I can find a way to stop thinking about Stanley, my problems will be solved.

I open my laptop and type stopping obsessive thoughts into the search engine. I scroll down through the results and start clicking on links. I do more searches. The rapid-fire click of keys echoes through the silence; a comforting sound. My gaze latches on to a name.

Bupropion. It’s an antidepressant, but it’s also used to treat addictions. And attraction, after all, is just another form of addiction. It activates the same centers of the brain as cocaine.

The thought stops me. Am I attracted to him? I remember being disappointed when he wouldn’t let me take off his clothes. I enjoyed touching him. Maybe I am capable of attraction, after all—and now I’m trying to put an end to it. Ironic.

I’ve always avoided prescription medications, but I’m not against taking pills so much as seeing doctors. There are ways to buy prescription drugs online, but most of them aren’t strictly legal, and I’d rather not take the risk.

Again, I consider the idea of calling Dr. Bernhardt and asking for his help. I don’t like it, but at this point, I’m desperate enough to try almost anything.

I flip open my cell phone and scroll through my list of contacts, which includes him, Ms. Nell, Stanley—my gaze lingers on his name—and an old employer whose number I never bothered to delete. I select Dr. Bernhardt’s name and call.

He picks up in the middle of the second ring. “Alvie?” He sounds utterly baffled. I’ve never actually called his cell phone before.

In the background, a man’s voice says, “Who’s that, Len?”

“Hang on,” he mumbles. I hear footsteps, then he asks, “Is everything okay?”

“I have a favor to ask you.”

“Uh . . . of course. Go ahead.”

“I need some bupropion.”

There’s a pause. “You realize I’m not a psychiatrist, don’t you? I have a doctorate in sociology.”

“I know that.” Already, this is starting to seem like a bad idea. “I just thought . . . maybe you knew someone who had some samples, or . . .”

“In the past, you’ve been very adamant about not going back on medication, or seeking any kind of help, for that matter. Why now? Why bupropion?”

I grit my teeth. If I want his help, I’ll have to give him some sort of explanation. That much is clear. “It’s sometimes prescribed to people who want to quit smoking or who can’t stop playing video games.”

“So have you taken up smoking, or are you addicted to video games?”

“Neither.” I guess I could have just lied about that and said yes to one or the other, but I’m no good at lying, and I hate doing it, anyway. “I’m addicted to something else.”

“What?”

I shift my weight on the couch. “It’s nothing illegal. So why does it matter.”

“Because even if I could write you a prescription myself, which I can’t, it would be irresponsible of me to hand out pills like candy without even knowing why you want them. So what are you addicted to?”

“It’s a person,” I mumble.

“A person,” he repeats.

“There’s a person I can’t stop thinking about. Someone I met recently.”

After a few heartbeats, he replies, “Was it a bad experience?”

“No. It went better than I expected, actually.”

“So why do you want to stop thinking about it?”

“Because I’m showing clear signs of obsession. I got no sleep last night. My reflexes are shot. I almost got into an accident driving to work this morning. If this continues, I’m going to lose my job, and I don’t want to lose my job. I like being around the animals. I—”