Bradbury

Saturday, August 29, 2009

AFTER A LONG EXPLANATION OF THE PREVIOUS EVENTS

My therapist Bradbury has a terrifying stare. He is handsome, thin and bearded like an iconic Jesus. He has muscular fingers, if you can imagine that. We sit in the dim of his office and Bradbury leans forward and looks at me with his pooling olive eyes. His strong fingers rest interlocked in front of his face and tap against his lips every few seconds. He is waiting eagerly to hear what I have to say next. The room is silent and dark. The mahogany walls and thick books creep up around us, all shadows of the former forest they once belonged to.

“I don’t think I’m going to go,” I say. I try not to look Bradbury in the eye.
“I thought you wanted to find the man with all the answers,” he says. His voice is so god damned deep.
“I thought you were the man with all the answers,” I say. “That’s what you told me on our first session.”
“I was the man with all the answers,” his reply is calm. “That was three years ago. Now I’m not the man with all the answers. The man with all the answers is someone else. All of the answers change all of the time. That’s how it works. But this man, this man with all the answers is the real deal.”
“So you think I should go all the way down to Saratoga and meet a man in the middle of some concert?”
“I don’t think that’s such a hard task.”
I sit back and sigh my eyes float to the ceiling of the room and follow the blade of a spinning fan around and around. I start to feel nauseous.
“I would rather remain ignorant of the answer to my question,” I say.
“But it’s an important question,” Bradbury says. “I went to a lot of trouble setting you up with an appointment to see the man with all the answers. Not only is he hard to find, his assistant is twice as hard to find. You should be thankful.”
“I didn’t know it would be so much work.”
“Most of the time good things come from a lot of sweat.”

Bradbury catches my eyes and holds my gaze. In that moment we both become watchers and the watched. Am I wrong to mistrust this man? He has counseled me through so much. Some days he seems like a shepherd and other days he plays me like the strings of a guitar. I start to imagine the subject of his eye’s inspections. Does he see the small pimple forming below my left nostril? Does he see the spot of face fur I missed when shaving this morning? What of me is his mind absorbing? Is he laughing inside at my ever growing double chin? I myself can’t look away as I need him to analyze me as best as possible. I need his decisions. I trust him to groom me like a bonsai.
“So I should go? It makes no sense,” I say.

Bradbury stands up. Our staring game remains unbroken.

“Well I could always come with you,” he says.
“What?” I shrink back into my chair as Bradbury looms over me. He is easily seven feet tall. His body is thin and firm like that of an adult tree.

“Why would you want to come with me?” I ask.
“I’m doing some research on a special kind of root,” he says. “I am aware of a supplier in Saratoga. I could meet him at the concert.”
“A root?”
“It’s for psychiatric purposes, a rare root that only grows in coastal American forests. It would be an excuse for me to meet with some fellow colleagues.”
“So you would drive down with me?”
“Of course. As it happens, I’m also a Phish fan in my personal life.”
Bradbury sits next to me on the couch and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You said you had two extra tickets right?”
“Yeah, I could only buy a set of three from Ebay.”
“Well I will pay you for the ticket and we can figure out a way to get down there.” Bradbury’s thumb presses into my shoulder.
“Doesn’t this violate some kind of doctor-patient rule?” I ask.
“I don’t have a PhD. It violates nothing.” Bradbury says. “But make up your mind soon because we’ve only got a couple minutes left in this session.”