receptionists rule
CARO COOPER KNOWS WHO REALLY RUNS THE WORLD.
A visit to the dentist leaves me with knots in my guts. I’m not scared of the havoc my grinding has caused or the constant jibes of, “Well, at your age…” That’s all fine, in a slightly terrible way. It’s Margaret* who turns my knuckles white. Call her what you will – receptionist, office clerk, desk executive – she is the Janus, the keeper of gates, with the power to make me stumble clumsily on my words. Somehow, she makes asking to see my Medicare card sound like a sick burn. People think the world is controlled by men in suits or shadowy figures who move through the night on their way to sacrifice children. That’s true to a degree, but at the front desk of every great sacrificial overlord’s headquarters is a receptionist, the true bearer of power and guardian of the diary of ritualistic sacrifices. They run the world. The gender of the receptionist is irrelevant. Many a fella has cast a withering gaze across the top of a pair of wire-framed bifocals, his hand jutting a new patient questionnaire into a nervous face. It’s not about gender or age or race – it’s something else, some other power they’re imbued with that sets the fear of the devil in you when you’re running late. Something elusive, like a loveless childhood in a cold climate, or a soul callused by a litany of appointment no-shows. Maybe they’re cyborgs or blessed at birth with the ability to vaporise people with an extended silence.
No doubt, receptionists are trained in the power of the pause. They can let a disdainful silence hang in the air until it settles like a plastic bag over the head of whoever has dared approach them. Their power does something to my voice, as well. I revert to my most elegant of tones; a plum appears in my mouth like an articulate tumour. I pepper my sentences with praise and pleasantries; I’m obsequious; I bear my ground-down teeth in a frozen smile, begging with my eyes for them to like me. Before I know it, I’m offering to massage the receptionist’s feet and pumice their heels.
Like Roald Dahl’s witches, these commanding receptionists are everywhere. My friend recently encountered one at a motorbike repair shop. They quibbled over some minor detail in the service, and when he returned later that week to pick up his bike and gear, all the tags and labels had been hacked off his jacket. He checked his pockets for dismembered kittens. Service with a serial-killer smile.
Like most fears, mine stems from a traumatic childhood experience – specifically, summers spent working as the photocopy girl at my dad’s business. There I was, under the watchful gaze of his receptionist for eight long hours each day. Not even the fumes from the copier fluid could dull the effect of her critical eye. The only time I couldn’t get her attention was when I actually wanted it. Every time I broke the photocopier, spilled toxic toner across the floor or accidentally fed another paper clip through the machine, I’d approach her desk, only for her to lock eyes on her black computer screen and steadily tap out some mystical incantation on the keyboard, apparently blind to my presence. Silence. I was small, and I felt even smaller.
You should never let a tormentor get to you, or get the better of you. Never cave to their intimidation. I truly believe that. If you need to defend yourself, do it. Don’t hold back. However, if that tyrant is the schedule-keeper for your dermatologist and your rash is flaring up like a corpse flower at midnight, then let them win. You’re powerless. Sometimes pride isn’t nearly as important as avoiding the wrath of a receptionist.
*Names changed to avoid retribution.