Nurse the Hate: Tuesday 10am

Each Tuesday morning, he went to see his therapist in a small office building filled with small businesses advertising vague services like “logistics solutions” and “financial consulting”.  There the receptionists would stare at him as he walked past.  He felt self-conscious that they speculated on his “condition” as he walked past, so he went to great lengths to avoid eye contact.  The receptionists would hurriedly gaze down at their computer screens on the rare occasions when he tried to confirm his suspicions that he was being monitored.  He would sit in the small waiting room that contained water damaged books of New Yorker cartoons and Ansel Adams coffee table options culled from library sales.  His therapist was always late to receive him but eventually the door would open and the tired old man would greet him.  “C’mon in…”

The room had two chairs and a sagging couch from the 1980s.  It felt like a rec room from a different time.  Clutter filled the floor.  Unhung paintings, hardcover books, stacks of magazines.  The doctor wore Birkenstock slippers with toes worn to the point of his socks being visible.  The doctor always placed his feet on a stool as if he had an ongoing ailment like gout or poor circulation in his feet.  The sound of a strained exhale indicated that the doctor’s feet were on the stool and the session could begin.  He suspected the therapist was a narcoleptic as he often appeared to doze off during the sessions.  Maybe he was just bored.  It was hard to pinpoint. The doctor held a notebook and stared and him with heavy blinks as if unable to find comfort in a pair of old dry contact lenses.  He stared back.  There was an uncomfortable silence.  It was part of the game, meant to force him to talk, the discomfort of the silence working to ferret out what was on the patient’s mind.  The patient eventually always lost this game and would begin to speak.

“I sat on an airplane next to a dying man last week.”  How did that make you feel?  “I don’t know.  I didn’t feel anything.  He was thin, but in a sickly way, you know?  He was older but you could still see the vision of what he looked like as a young man if you tried.  He was out of breath.  Must be cancer.  He smelled like decay and cigarettes.”  Um hum.  The doctor shifted in his chair and began to close his eyes.  “To my right was a young woman.  Really pretty.  She smelled like flowers.  It was probably one of those expensive shampoos.  Meanwhile the sick guy starts wheezing to my left.  There I was in the middle seat like an example of middle age.  It went right across.  Beginning, middle, end…”   The doctor stared at him, blinking.  There was an uncomfortable silence.  The doctor struggled to keep his eyes open. 

“I get to the airport and am waiting on my luggage.  I bought one of those black suitcases with the wheels.  I had all kinds of anxiety picking it out.  What if I can’t figure out which is mine when the luggage comes out?  What if I grab someone’s bag by mistake and get to the hotel with someone else’s clothes?  I can feel myself getting more and more nervous about it.  Then the bags start coming off and it’s nothing but black bags.  I can't remember which is mine.  I knew I made a mistake getting that black bag.”  The doctor scribbled off handedly in his notebook.  

"So the bags keep rolling onto the belt.  Bag after bag.  Every one of them is black.  Every single one.  I grab one that I think is mine and I hear this woman say “that old ugly guy just grabbed my bag”.  Now I’m not even paying attention to see if the suitcase is mine because I’m dealing with the idea that I’m old and ugly.”  The doctor opened his eyes showing some animation for the first time.  Do you think you’re old and ugly?  “Well, I didn't before but I guess so now because that woman said I am with a lot of confidence. It wasn’t like the guy with her looked at someone else before coming straight over to me and hassling me about the suitcase.  I just handed him the bag without a word and stared at his wife thinking “fuck, how long have I been old and ugly?”  I know I’m not a model but I didn’t think I was notably unappealing.  I’ve been walking around thinking I’m just a normal guy.  Now I’m looking at people wondering how ugly they think I am.  Do you think I’m ugly or am I just unattractive?”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably in his chair and hedged.  Well, ah... It doesn't matter what I think...  Umm...  Let's get back to your anxiety about the suitcase.  I think that would be more constructive.  "Well, that woman fucked up.  It was my bag all along.  I just watched her strut out on me with my bag and I didn't say anything.  I stood there like I was invisible for about 15 minutes.  All the other passengers retrieved their suitcases and ignored me as I stood there like a statue.  It was just me and one black suitcase going around and around and around on the belt.  I finally filled out a lost bag report at the airport and left.  I never got my bad back.  I had to go out and buy new clothes and a toothbrush.  I went to WalMart and bought all cheap shit.  What's the difference what I wear now anyway?  I am almost the cancer guy and I didn't even know it.  Do I smell like decay?  You'd tell me, right?  You'd let me know, wouldn't you?"  The doctor was motionless with his eyes closed, perhaps now fully asleep.  His Birkenstocks rested on the stool, old and worn out.