“I hate all those obsessed scientific gawkers. Totally engrossed in their little holes, observing human nature like some kind of freak science experiment. There isn’t a more pretentious occupation than taking sides on someone you’ve never met. You wonder why we’ve gotten to where we are today, the way civilization is hanging on by its roots, the bastards; just take a look at the fools in high towers. Every wrong decision, every irresponsible choice, every blunder on the scale of billions is directly attributable to these scabs.”
Usually I try to take notes in shorthand, or simply record and input into the computer after the session, but sometimes I forget to press the button. Other times, like now, I just feel lazy. So nothing goes down except for scribble marks and ticks for every time she uses a contraction.
This was nothing new. The same diatribes, just different days and different faces. I really do have a couch, though, despite all those old office cartoons.
“Could you stop doing that?” she asks me, turning her head and glaring at my fingers.
I look down just in time to see my right middle finger paused mid-action, preying over my left pinky’s nail. “I’m sorry,” I say.
She looks back up at the ceiling. She’s sullen.
“How do you feel about me?” I ask, and she rolls her head to the right and bores past my leg resting on my knee. I shift so she can see my face, and she sighs.
“You’re phony. But that’s only because of your job. If you were me, you’d be just another cog in the wheel. And you’d probably be in here, lying here calling you a phony.”
“Am I gawker too?” I ask, consulting my tick marks.
“Yeah, but not in the same way as all those other people. You’re just you, you know?”
“What do you think would happen if we switched places?” I ask, and she sits up on one elbow.
“You mean, me there, you here?”
“That’s right.”
“Could we try it?”
“I’m afraid I could get in trouble if we did. I only wanted to make a point.”
“What was it?” She sighs and lies supine again.
“That you are eager to become one of these scientific observers. You like looking and studying and keeping tabs on people. And that’s normal. You want to dissect the human condition just as much as any of us. Look how quickly you wanted to jump into my role.”
“The way you separate it makes me want to hit you. Like this is a big game to you. You’re just playing me. You and that stupid fingernail you won’t stop picking.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. She gives me stony silence and withdraws, lying on her back again.
“Why should it be that the fish in the sea are all unable to sing?”
Silence.
“C’mon. What did we say at the beginning?”
Silence. She’s mad about not getting to sit here and ask me (her) questions. I’d love to, but it’s illegal unless you submit the paperwork to state agency, and then it’s a hamfest anyway, with you on the couch and them asking stupid questions about your sex life. It rarely works.
“C’mon. I think we need to move on to something else. So. Why should it be that the fish in the sea are all unable to sing?”
“Listen to me, young fellow. What need is there for fish to sing when I can roar and bellow?” she replies with a sing-song sarcasm, and she settles deeper into her shell.
“Good. You seem interested in roles today, so I want us to change identities for a moment. I want you to take on a role that is powerful for you. Think of anything you like. This role can be a person you admire, or it can be your idealized hero. It can be a person, or a place, or an animal, or maybe just an object. But it should physically exist.” I let her think about it for a few seconds. “Tell me when you are ready.”
“Am I doing this alone again?” she asks sullenly.
“I can do this with you, if you like,” I say. She nods and closes her eyes and begins breathing slowly, measured into intervals that match her chi patterns that she has been learning in her karate and yoga classes.
I go deep into myself and picture a polar bear chasing a penguin across the ice. I connect that with a Japanese businessman with whom I am friends and admire deeply. Finally I seek an image of a Boeing 747, and it is empty of passengers. Together they are my embodiment of power and strength for today. I look at her, willing her eyes open.
“Are you ready?” I ask in a low whisper, and she moans softly and her eyelids flutter unevenly.
“Ready,” she sighs. “And can you stop picking your nails?” She sounds exasperated.
I feel my face flush and command my fingers to separate. The edge of my pinky nail is now jagged and feels pleasant to touch. I lick my lips and try to concentrate.
“Sorry. Now, keeping your eyes closed, recite your ABC’s.”
“A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-”
“Why don’t you slow it down a bit. This is for relaxation, to get you into a state of restfulness.”
She opens one of her eyes but I look disapprovingly, and she quickly closes it again.
“A. B. C. D. E. F. G–,” she says. In the sudden silence I can hear the soft scraping sounds. “You know what you need?” she snaps at me, sitting up suddenly and crossing her legs Indian-style. “Little tiny plastic cones, like for dogs coming out of surgery, except these cones would go on your fingers, because you can’t keep the goddamn things off each other, can you?”
I cover my pruned fingers with my right hand and lean forward to face her.
“Do you want to do this?” I ask. “C’mon, let’s continue.”
I can see she doesn’t want to, but she huffs and flops back onto the couch. I don’t know how useful this will be. She’s obsessing about my fingernails now. She won’t be able to concentrate. I won’t be able to concentrate either, not with that little sheared off piece of nail just hanging on the corner like a monkey with a mango. One more tug and it’ll go, and then I’ll regret pulling it. It’ll bother me all the way home, driving, shifting; the slightest bump will set it on edge, and I’ll curse myself for not using the clippers.
“Now. The alphabet. Backward.” I don’t really care about the alphabet, and neither does she. It’s a technique designed to get you to concentrate on what’s behind the letters. In other words, yourself.
Saying it backwards is a bit more difficult. I hope she’ll be concentrating on not screwing up, because the last thing you want to do when fully sober is look stupid, not being able to say your ABC’s backward. So she’ll concentrate and I’ll pick slowly, carefully, so as not to make any noise. Just gonna pull that sucker right–
“B. A. Done. You want that gift wrapped?” she asks. Son of a bitch!
“Good. Now the meat. Do you think you’re ready to talk about your father now?” She huffs, and I wait patiently. “Would you like to do this another day? You’re a little distant. Bothered. Maybe we can talk about that?”
“No. I can’t talk about him right now. I just need to rest. My head hurts,” she says, and rolls over so her back is facing me. I use this opportunity to whittle away some more at the nail, using my longer index nail to dig and pry gently. Must take care with these things. Might be able to avoid a nasty infection. So far she hasn’t noticed. That’s good, because she can get really angry when things don’t go her…uh oh.
“You ever rubbed pomegranates, Dr. Vaughn?” she asks me.
“I’m sorry, pomegranates? What do you mean, rubbed them?”
“You and I,” she says, getting up off the couch and throwing out her hand, pulling my hands apart and flashing me a beautiful, sexy smile. “We are going to rub pomegranates together. And guess what? It’ll blow your mind. You won’t be able to continue working here after you’ve done it.”
Now I’m protesting. “Alright, Sarah, let’s sit back down and recenter ourselves. I know this has been a tough session, but we need to get through it.”
“No! Nooo, c’mon! Dr. Vaughn,” and she says it like ‘Dottervon’. “Truly, this can count as our session. I’m sick of counting and reciting ABC’s and 123’s and all the other bullshit. You need a break and so do I. Let’s go rub pomegranates. Please?” She’s begging me with her eyes. Sultry. I’ve forgotten all about my fingernail. Well, not completely, but enough.
“Sarah, this really is counterproductive. Don’t you want to continue with the regular training? After all, you came to us, remember?” Trying to throw reason her way. What the hell is rubbing pomegranates, anyway? Sounds sexual. Not that I mind sexual, but it’s strictly forbidden for doctors to, uh, involve themselves, with their patients.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you Doc. I found something better. And it’ll blow your mind, you’ll see! I’m telling you, you can say goodbye to the profession, the office, all of it, once you feel this thing in your hands.”
Now I don’t even know what the hell she’s saying, but she sounds sexy as hell and the idea of holding anything remotely resembling a pomegranate in my hands…coming from her, well, I can’t really see the downside. Still, ethics and all. God damn it!
“Sarah, this really is quite unprofessional, and if I may say so, you’re taking quite a risk by breaking contact like this. You know how things work around here. I can’t go with you to-”
“-rub pomegranates,” she interjects. I glower at her.
“-rub pomegranates, yes. Whatever that is, whatever game you’re playing, Sarah, it needs to stop right now, and you need to get back on the couch and begin again.”
“Oh, Dr. Vaughn! If you only knew,” she wilts, and the way she does it makes my heart kind of skip a one-two, and that’s not so good. She sits back on the couch, grudgingly, sadly, still a little sexy, like the idea of rubbing pomegranates electrified her. Hell, it electrified me, and I don’t even know what the hell it is. Something I’ll have to google later on. “Rubbing pomegranates.” I’d have to remember that. But now, I look at my watch and realize that we’ve got ten minutes left in our session and we haven’t even done deep dives yet.
“Sarah, we’re coming to the last segment of our time today. I’d like you to lie back and recall something happy from your childhood, something that made you laugh.” She lies back, defeated, and I nod, crossing my arms and hiding my hand between my arm and my chest. Safe from Sarah’s prying eyes, and with sound hopefully insulated by the fabrics, I can safely satiate the burning desire on my pinky.
“I remember swinging with my sister, out on the jungle gym,” she begins monotonously, and I can tell she’s making it up, but I don’t care because I’m so close to finishing. Pinch the damn nail, finish with Sarah, and then google for pomegranates. Now that’s a quality afternoon. “And there’s my puppy Smiley, and he’s running to me to pick him up. I do, and he licks my face. My sister reaches out and pets him, and that’s the end.”
“The end of what?” I ask, stopping to savour the glow I feel in my finger. It’s ready, I think.
“That’s the end of our session,” she says. I look at her, but she’s gone the hell over the edge or something. The door opens up behind me and I hear Carl’s voice, telling me it’s time to get back to my room. Being a doctor isn’t easy, not like it used to be. Used to be you could sit there and pick your fingers all day, raw and bloody if you wanted to. Now they make up things for you to do. And I’ve still got to finish picking the nail, that burning’s still there!
Oh well, I think, as I feel them pulling the jacket over my head, my arms through the straps. At least I can google for pomegranates when I get back to my office.