So Agnes (32) reluctantly joined an encounter group called Massaging the Human Heart over in South Ploughsborough. It was a small group, thank god, because Agnes suffered from several active issues that sprang from her basic loathing of people. There were ten members of the group plus Brad. Brad was the “leader.” Mr. Sensitivity. Mr. Open-Your-Heart. Mr. I’m-Feeling-a-Lot-of-Love-in-This-Room. Mr. Calm. Mr. Articulate. Mr. Asshole.
Agnes hated Brad and everything he stood for but she had to admit he was a handsome man. Easy on the eyes as they say. He looked like a model in a stereo ad or something with his feathered hair and groomed mustache. He had a cleft in his chin you could store files in.
Agnes didn’t know about the others but her attendance was mandatory if she wanted to keep her job (which, frankly, she didn’t). Agnes worked as a receptionist at an insurance company and when she quit taking her medication people started to complain about her lousy work ethic. She was too curt with the customers. She wouldn’t smile. She sighed a lot. She jumped when the phone rang and IT RANG ALL THE TIME. An important component of the job was forced friendliness and she just couldn’t fake it anymore. Her boss—an obnoxious little weasel and creep—told her he was reaching the end of his rope with her bad attitude so he ordered her to attend a “sensitivity seminar” or she’d be dismissed. Summarily.
So here she was, sitting in a circle with nine other losers. Brad walked into the room smelling of pipe tobacco and spearmint and took the seat opposite Agnes. Oh great, Mr. Eye-Contact was going to harass her tonight. Mr. Emotions. Mr. Personal Growth.
“Hello there Agnes,” he purred in a sugary voice. “And how are we feeling today?” He spoke like a kindergarten teacher, like she was a child or something. Mr. Condescending. Mr. Smarmy. Mr. Fuckface.
“Well,” Agnes began. “Today I feel open to new concepts and challenges. I feel like solving my problems and I want to participate in the group and really explore my emotions,” she said with as much false sincerity as she could shovel. She knew she was overdoing the sarcasm but she didn’t care. Mr. Mind Games didn’t know who he was dealing with.
She wanted to break him. Disrupt the meeting. Wipe that smug expression off his patronizing face.
“Well, Agnes. We get the feeling you’re just telling us what we want to hear.” He leaned forward, staring at her with his ice-blue eyes. “Now why don’t you knock off the bull-stuff and tell us how you really feel. Or we’re afraid we’ll have to turn you around again.”
Mr. Taskmaster punished insubordination by making members face away from the rest of the group. It was like being shunned. It was stupid. Agnes had been turned around twice so far (for refusing to participate). Three strikes and you were out and she’d get a bad evaluation. She had to present her weasel boss with a positive report to keep her crappy job. God she hated the men in her life. She hated life in general.
Perhaps stopping Zoloft had been a misguided idea.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by things right now, to be honest.”
He plastered a look of pity on his face and said, “M-hm. Good. Honesty is what we strive for here. Tell us what you feel overwhelmed by.”
She was going to mention her current fears and frustrations regarding her impossible job and rocky relationship (Tom had served her with divorce papers and she’d have to move out of their house) but couldn’t summon the will to spill her guts so instead she said, “This stupid waste of time and you, you asshole.” She felt a tingling frequency of pleasure rise inside her. God that felt good. What was wrong with her?
Some of the other members gasped and averted their eyes but Brad’s smooth expression didn’t change. He waited several dramatic beats and then gave her a wisp of a grin and said, “We sense a lot of rage in you. And that’s okay. Your feelings are valid and you express them in a clear and frank and blunt manner. We think you’re learning it’s unhealthy to keep your emotions bottled-up. Even the negative ones. This is progress. Let’s congratulate Agnes on a major breakthrough, everyone.” The other members clapped half-heartedly. It was the textbook definition of “a smattering of applause.” It was sad.
Agnes sighed. “Aren’t you going to turn me around?” She hadn’t planned it but she suddenly wanted to embarrass the whole rotten group.
“Do you want us to turn you around, Agnes?”
“I don’t really give a shit what we do.”
Brad looked at the young woman to Agnes’s right. “Marsha, do you think we should turn Agnes around?”
Marsha looked struck. “Uh, well, I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t know...”
“Come on Marsha, don’t equivocate. Give us a clear, decisive answer.”
“Then I say, uh, yes? I mean, I guess so...”
“Thank you Marsha. Why don’t we take a vote? Raise your hand if you think Agnes should be turned around. But keep in mind that this would be her third strike and she’d be expelled from the group permanently. Let’s see a show of hands.”
It took a few awkward seconds for every member to raise their hand. It was unanimous.
Agnes laughed. “I’m feeling a lot of hate in this room. And you can all go fuck yourselves.”
“That’s enough Agnes,” Brad said in a calm, even voice. “Please turn your chair around and face the wall.”
“Are you kidding? You think I’m going to stay here just so you can kick me out? Get a clue, Brad.” She stood up. “I’m out of here. Meeting adjourned.”
“I’m sorry you’re leaving in such an angry, agitated state. We think the group could have helped you with your copious crises,” he told her. Mr. Guilt. Mr. Petty. Agnes wanted to smack him. Instead, she walked out of the room, fighting the urge to slam the door.
Bastards.
As she made her way across the parking lot she was struck by the fierce fact that not only would she have to move, she’d also have to find another job. It was too much.
When she was on Zoloft she couldn’t cry. Her emotions had been blocked. Locked up. But now, sitting in her Honda Civic, the tears flowed salty and hot and she actually considered returning to the meeting and apologizing to the group. She felt helpless and lost. Her defiant attitude had evaporated. But who was she fooling? She couldn’t face Brad and the others again.
Mr. Full-of-Himself. Mr. False Sympathy. Mr. Dickhead.
No, she had burned that bridge.
They were probably having a grand time talking shit about her.
When she was under better control she started the car and drove slowly toward home.
She turned on the radio and found some hard, violent music.
Her brief crying jag had been cathartic and as she pulled onto highway 93 she noticed she was almost smiling.
Welcome back.
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