The Procedure
We will make sure you never have to look at that again.
The phone rang. It did that a lot.
“Watch,” Veronica said, all business.
I nodded.
She turned her face on. That’s what she called it. Always turn your face on, she’d instructed me. They can hear it.
“The Clinic.”
Simple and crisp, but friendly. A statement. Most of the rest of the call was just sounds. Veronica had a whole repertoire.
“Oooh!” This noise implied surprise, like she was hearing something brand new.
“Aaaaah.” This was for yes, now that you mention it, that makes perfect sense.
“Mmmm hmmm.” This was conspiratorial, like I know just what you’re going through.
Her favorite seemed to be “Aww!” This was pity. You poor thing. That’s terrible.
“Well, we will make sure you never have to look at that again,” she’d say. She made that promise to every caller, with her face turned all the way on. “We guarantee it.”
Her warm smile clicked off every time she hung up the phone. It was back to business.
“Most of the questions you’ll get are how fast can they get in, how much does it cost, and how long will it take them to recover—especially anything with their face,” Veronica explained, holding up three fingers.
“They want to get back on their snaps and insta. This is what matters most to our clientele.”
I nodded.
“The Procedure is $5,000. Non-negotiable. It takes about an hour. Recovery is always quick. Yes, they will notice results immediately. Yes, it is always successful. No, there are no refunds.”
Veronica wrote this on an index card, which she then handed to me.
“This is all you need to know. You get them in, and we take care of the rest.”
I nodded, admiring her neat penmanship.
“If they ask you anything else, you just say ‘That’s proprietary.’ Understand?”
I nodded again.
“Any questions for me?” Veronica asked.
I hesitated.
“How can it cost the same every time? And it’s always an hour?”
She looked at me blankly.
I glanced at the steel door leading back to The Procedure Room.
“What’re you guys doing back there?” I whispered.
Veronica’s face turned on.
“That’s proprietary,” she said, warmly.
I nodded. Her smile switched off. And that was the extent of my training.
* * *
It took a few days to get the hang of things at the front desk. It took longer to get used to how secretive and, honestly, just weird The Clinic was. For example, I never met anyone besides Veronica. I could not talk to the customers when they arrived, and I was not permitted to enter The Procedure Room.
The waiting room really wasn’t, by which I mean we only allowed one patient inside at a time. Appointments were scheduled to prevent overlap, so customers did not see or interact with each other. Our security team verified identities and confirmed details downstairs before giving them access to the elevator. Then I would buzz them inside—but not until Veronica was there, ready to greet them by name. She would use her key card to unlock the heavy door into The Procedure Room.
After those brief moments in the lobby, I never saw the clients again.
All of this eventually became normal. Not asking questions was normal, too.
In about a year, nothing about The Clinic felt normal anymore.
* * *
Veronica and I reviewed the appointment book together every morning. I learned new terms for things, the medically correct names, like rhinoplasty and blepharoplasty, breast augmentation, and liposuction.
There seemed to be no end to the things a person could have done, or to the body parts they did them to. Like anal bleaching—my friends laughed so hard when I told them this was a thing people did. We spent an hour discussing the need for aesthetic improvements to the place your poop comes from. Charlie kept asking why people were even looking at that. Layla said people must run out of things to worry about to end up worrying about the brownness of their buttholes.
We decided bleaching the skin around your anus was a good indicator that you didn’t have enough real problems.
They loved asking me questions about my job, but my NDA prevented me from sharing much. Not that I really knew much. I didn’t.
It turned out I didn’t know most of it.
* * *
“Today is going to be a little unusual,” Veronica explained that morning, as we reviewed the book. “Our last appointment of the day. I’ve scheduled a special client. They’re being accompanied.”
This was more than “a little unusual.”
Clients always come into The Clinic alone. This was one of our rules. No one was allowed to bring a companion. They pay in advance, submit their paperwork and notarized waivers through the secure portal, and show up alone. That’s how it’s done.
But I didn’t ask questions. Of course. I knew better.
“This is a special client,” Veronica repeated. “She is a minor.”
I nodded, confused—and curious.
“The client’s mother wants her to have some work done. It’s a unique circumstance. A first for us,” Veronica continued. “Typically, we would never agree to this, but the girl’s mother is quite insistent. She feels strongly that her daughter needs a few things taken care of.”
Veronica’s face turned on.
“After a long conversation with the mother, we knew we had to do something to help.”
* * *
That evening, 4:45 on the dot, Veronica greeted a woman and a teenage girl, her daughter, who looked to be around 16.
Veronica looked very serious as she nodded, mmmm hmmm’d, and aww’d her way through the conversation with the mother, who spoke in a low voice as she pinched, poked, and pointed at her daughter.
I could only make out a few random words, like fat and breasts. Something about her father’s Italian nose.
The girl was stiff. She wouldn’t make eye contact and refused to talk.
I thought she was just being a teenager. You know, with the attitude.
Finally, Veronica slid her arm around the girl’s shoulders and promised her that she would leave happy.
“We need to share more details about The Procedure with mom first,” she explained, with her smile at full volume. “Please just wait here, and we’ll be with you shortly.”
Veronica and the mother disappeared behind the heavy door.
Almost immediately, my phone buzzed.
“Please have security escort the young lady downstairs,” Veronica said, her voice calm and even. Business as usual.
“A car is waiting.”
* * *
It was the daughter who called the cops, after her mother arrived home in a cab hours later. She was frantic, couldn’t remember anything, and said she couldn’t see. The girl got scared and called 911.
By the time the police entered The Clinic, it was empty. Everyone and everything, just gone.
The story was huge. I was interviewed on all the major networks, telling the same story to different people and answering “I don’t know” to most of their questions.
There was no one else for them to talk to about this, after all. I was better than nothing.
In reality, I learned almost everything by watching TV, just like the public.
That was where I learned the truth about The Procedure.
All those clients—their retinas were taken. Then they were donated for transplant.
Hundreds of people were blinded.
And hundreds more had their sight restored.
Some people called Veronica a butcher. Others called her an activist or a hero.
Either way, without anyone to prosecute, with no salacious trial to devour, we moved on to the next thing that captured our collective attention in no time at all.
Back to business.