The Psychiatrist

As Harold pushed the button for the fifth floor, the guilt rose up to a fever pitch. What gave him the right? We all have problems, he thought. He was fortunate that his work had provided an excellent health care plan that Harold had taken full advantage of over his many years of loyal service. But this was getting out of hand, he thought. He pushed back the sudden wave of sickness churning in the pit of his stomach, trying to focus on the larger problems. He prepared for what he had to say to the Psychiatrist.

The elevator door dinged, rolling open as Harold stepped off onto the fifth floor of the modest but well positioned Santa Monica apartment complex. Lots of shrinks kept their offices at home, he pondered. He walked along some old brown carpeting until he reached the door for 515.

He knocked. And waited.

In less than ten seconds the door opened to a kindly man in his sixties, who threw his hand out with assured but gentle strength. "Harold?"

Harold nodded.

"Dr. Frank. C'mon in." Harold felt awful as he crossed the threshold. There was no turning back now.

The apartment looked like a bachelor pad. A very nice one, to be sure, with a flat screen TV in the living room where Harold would be giving his full disclosure. Harold sat down in a plush chair as Dr. Frank sat across from him. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" The gesture was meant to make Harold feel welcome but it had a reverse effect, instead serving to fuel his immense guilt for even being here.

"No thanks," Harold said. Dr. Frank smiled - not offended in the slightest. "Stop me anytime if you change your mind. Do you want to get started?" Harold's eyes drifted to the brand new box of Kleenex strategically placed on the coffee table in front of him. Oh boy. Harold closed his eyes, and decided to just dive in and get this visit over with...

Harold let out all the pent up frustrations that had been festering inside of him over the last year. He told Dr. Frank about the ski fall that nearly left him paralyzed, and how his back had never been the same. His doctor told him he could look forward to a hellish old age for it, as the discs in his spine deteriorated to geriatric jelly. He lamented about how sometimes it was far, far better not to know certain things - especially the ones he had no control over. He told the psychiatrist about his ex-wife who had recently left him for another man. He told him about turning 40, and what mind job that was, figuring he might get himself kicked out by this guy who was at least a couple decades older (that's what I'd do if some young, punk kid came in here whining about 'getting old', Harold thought). But Dr. Frank gave not the slightest hint of contempt. Only concern and empathy and a desire to help was apparent in his demeanor. It felt great to get it all out. Harold badly needed this therapy session. He began to settle in and really dig deep.

He went to the dark places. He told Dr. Frank the things that no human being should hear. Harold worked in politics and thought that although it was more than socially acceptable - if not outright encouraged - to see shrinks in these modern times, he couldn't help but dread that somehow he might screw himself over if he didn't edit at least some of what he was saying. He had done that in the past with the other shrinks. But Dr. Frank made Harold feel particularly comfortable. Harold let every last bit out, like wringing out a wet rag until every last drop of saccharine spilled out onto Dr. Frank's nice Santa Monica floor...

Harold woke up from the trance on his own. He felt amazing. He realized with sudden clarity how badly he had needed this session. He looked back at Dr. Frank to thank him and to excuse himself. Dr. Frank stared back with that Pope-like smile. Harold was amazed at how well Dr. Frank had held up. No one could bullshit that well, Harold was confident. This made Harold feel a lot better. Dr. Frank might just stick around, he hoped.

Harold thanked Dr. Frank and even had the boldness to ask for a cup of water before leaving. Dr. Frank couldn't have been more obliging.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Harold felt another tiny wave of fear bubble up. What if? He pushed it back down. Not this time, he thought. Today you are going to enjoy your life and not worry so much about others. Maybe - he hoped - this could be the first of many such days? Could it? Was Dr. Frank really that special? Harold took these thoughts with him as he exited the apartment complex and was hit immediately by the sweet smelling Spring air. The warm sun felt particularly good on his skin as Harold walked to his car. He got in, took another refreshing breath, and drove off feeling absolutely spectacular; it was amazing how one could wake up feeling like Cancer itself, and a few hours later emerge a new man. Harold looked forward to getting to the office so he could call Dr. Frank and schedule the next appointment.

Upstairs, Dr. Frank's smile had faded. He looked sick and pale as he sat in his chair with a vacant look on his face. He stared out his sliding door window at the palm trees, wavering in the wind.

Dr. Frank pushed himself up onto his feet, his mouth falling open as if it had come unhinged, and would never shut properly again. As he passed by the land phone he decided he would take it off the receiver.

The sliding glass door coasted open on its track soundlessly. It was contrasted sharply by the heavy slap that Dr. Frank's body made against the concrete walkway below.

Harold was in for more disappointment.