Evacuation: Valentine
I woke up, bright and early, only to discover a silver hair dangling from my brow. Staring into my reflection, I reflect on what it means to me as a person, right now, and decide it comes with the territory. I wink at my reflection. Check. I toss my head back, looking real good. Not even a single grey hair can put a damper on my day, I head off to my psychologist, Dr. Hermann Mueller.
I arrive a half-hour early, go around the corner and get me a breakfast taco from the street vendor. He knows me by name; I don't care to find out his. I pay the man (CA$H ONLY) and saunter back to my doctor's secretary, asking her how she landed such a cushy job. She shrugs, cutely (I presume), asks me to take a seat. I give her a stupid bow and sit down next to some kid and his mom. The kid looks unhappy - of course - and the mom is reading up on her feng shui. I stare at her for about ten minutes, but she never looks up. A lost opportunity I'm thinking, when my name is called. I stand, brushing the scrambled egg from my trousers, and enter into Dr. Mueller's quarters.
He has a comfy sofa and a few chairs lined with pillows, but I always sit, Indian-style, as I assume it singles me out as one of his more eccentric clients. Nevertheless, he always stares at me with the same bored eyes. In fact, were it not for the manila folder in his lap with my last name on it, I doubt he'd have a clue who I was, or what we've talked about (my hateful parents). We have a routine by now. He looks me up and down disdainfully until I begin to talk. His time is my money, so I launch into my spiel.
"I have a date tonight, doc."
"Congratulations," the good doctor responds, sardonically. He doesn't believe me, on principal. "What's her name...er, what's the name...of your date?"
"I'm nervous as all hell," I respond, ignoring him. "Tonight is Valentine's Day...er today, all of today in fact, but after about seven PM is when it gets real. Chocolates and flowers, the whole nine yards...just mandatory hogs-wallop. I mean, gosh! Flowers on any other day of the year is a guaranteed BJ.’
"Incorrect," Dr. Mueller responds, correctly. "Have you discussed this with your partner?"
"No..." I say, pretending to dwell on something. "I just want to make a good impression. Some kind of impact." I beat a fist into my open palm, driving the necessity deep into my psyche. And it probably impresses him.
"Hmmmm..." Dr. Mueller says, stroking his white beard. "On most days such a statement would alarm me. Frighten me, even. But...you have a point. I myself have ordered my wife a singing telegram. A poem I wrote her on a napkin during our first date; well, I translated it into German and am having a nine-piece orchestra show up at her school to profess a love she already knows."
"Sounds..." I pick my words carefully. "Well. Thought. Out."
"Indeed," my psychologist responds. “I got the idea last year at the eleventh hour...wasn’t able to do anything then, but the wait will surely pay off.”
“Guaranteed blowjob,” I say, casually, readjusting a sock. They itch, persistently. What gives? “So...what else?”
“That, my friend - and I do mean that - is up to you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Well...” Dr. Mueller shifts in his seat. “You’re a smart boy. I see us making progress, but on your terms alone. They won’t prescribe you anti-psychotics unless you’re seeing me on a regular basis...you’re a weird bird, but nothing altogether seems wrong with you. If you’re paying me...let’s just talk.”
“I have an appointment on the other side of town in like fifteen minutes,” I retort. “With my psychiatrist. I know you think I’m using you, but...see...I’m paying you. So shut up. Say I’m like crazy. No, wait...crazier?”
Dr. Mueller stares at me, unimpressed.
“I...” I struggle, valiantly, but to no avail. Suddenly, it hits me. “I want to sodomize...”
His eyebrows raise.
“...porpoises...”
He frowns.
“...gently.”
“Jesus,” Dr. Mueller says. “You don’t really have any problems and yet you terrify me. Be gone. And don’t come back...”
I stand.
Dr. Mueller follows suit. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I am your bread and butter,” I say, extending my hand for him to kiss. He doesn’t.
“Lay-taaaa” I say, suavely, winking at his secretary as I pass by. Fuck. I’m gonna be late. I get into my car and dig thru my alternative music selection, ultimately deciding that my real problem is this shit music I subject myself to. An inadequate diagnosis, but I want my meds and need to seem unreasonable to the naked eye. I crank that alternative shit UP.
SKIP TO THE ACTION
My psychiatrist’s name is...ohhhh, unimportant. This chick gives me my meds and I think she’s hot for me, based on her body language and though she has a space between her two front teeth I think she’s quite the looker. A well-paid looker. I call her ‘hooker’ behind her back. Behind everyone’s back. Alone. In my basement. With my medication.
“I’ve got a date,” I announce as soon as I step into her office. “And I’m...freeeeeakin’ out doll!” I swing my hips her way, do a little dance move, and accidentally knock a painting from her wall.
“This...” She stands, fluffing out her skirt or some dame-ass shit, “is unexpected, to say the least. I gave you a prescription thru June. I remember doing so...because I didn’t want you coming back any time soon.”
“Its all used up, sugar-lips,” I says, hoping she can feel the seduction pulsing from my eyes. “I need a new subscription. Or...prescription. I need to be filled up with your meds. Your signature is gold.”
“Are you...in love?” she asks. I am taken aback. “You seem...more laconic than usual.”
“Shhhhhhhh...” I whisper. ‘Slow down. What are you talking about?”
She continues to eye me in that lazy way. Finally, she turns away, shrugging.
“Nothing...” she concludes. “You just seem more hopeful. I don’t know...more spicy. That’s all.”
I look around. “Am I on like some crazy camera show?”
My fist tightens, I breathe with much difficulty. “That’s fine...if I’m on...some prank show...but I want...”
I struggle for some non-existent word.
“Mindless sedation.”
She stares, nodding, making presumptions.
“Perfect!” I say. “Yeah. That.” She should have said that, but okay. I give a little, I take a little. Never before have I realized how ugly my psychiatrist is, but it comes with the territory...its not like gym coaches...pedophiles and lesbians, etc (no etc)...psychiatrists are a breed unto their own...but if they’re ugly...fuck.
“Your story shares many subtle similarities to that of the Minotaur and his labyrinth,” she says.
“Bye,” I say.
Which bring me to my date.
We met up at a cafe...ooh, I’m getting ahead of myself. I am drenched in sweat and I go home to change. I check my messages, which are significant, but not to this story. I take a cab downtown, arriving fifteen minutes early, assuming I can compose myself. She’s already there, which is both flattering and alarming. I sit down at the table across from her, waving down a bartender.
“Scotch” I whisper. I clear my throat. “Neat.”
“How’re you?” my date asks.
“Been better,” I say, shrugging. “A pretty shitty day, all in all, but...” I’m losing her. “Much better...” She smiles. “Now that I’m with you. Right?”
She shrugs, cutely. “I guess so.”
“Heh heh hee,” I spew.
“Did you find trouble parking?” she asks.
“Yes,” I respond.
She smiles. She looks around at the romantic lighting. “This is a nice place.”
I sigh. “So...what say we get down to the bread and butter. Name five things you like about me.”
“Well...” she says, somewhat taken aback. “I don’t know...we don’t really know each other...”
“You’re very pretty,” I say
She blushes.
I fold my hands. “Name...five things...you like about me.” I pitch-shift my voice so that ‘me’ sounds like ‘me?’, not so much a command (which it is) as it is a question (which is ridiculous).
“Well...” she says, taking the bait. “I love your eyes. There is...a kindness to them...”
“That’s two,” I say.
She chuckles, blushing. “You’re putting me on the spot, mister.”
“I stuff animals,” I give. Geez! I sound like a taxidermist!
“Three...” she says, still laughing. She stares at me for a long time, ceasing to speak.
“I am kissable,” I offer. She shrugs. I look around bewildered.
“Let’s say we don’t order anything and head back to my place for a well deserved game of ‘snake in the grass’?”
I actually said that.
“Let’s say we take a rain-check?” she replies. I narrow my eyes, not necessarily at her, but enough in the general direction that she knows I’m for real.
She smiles, playfully, yet possibly terrified.
I shrug, uncaring. “Ain’t my game, but whatever lady.”
At this moment I ponder the idea that I'm at the wrong table. She looks down at the napkin in her lap, sadly.
"Seriously..." I say, staring at this. "Where is our waiter?"
She looks up at me, her eyes red and teary. "Listen...I don't know if I'm able to do this right now. It has nothing to do with you...I just got out of a three year relationship. Oh...I'm a bad person, aren't I?"
"All right," I say, nodding. She just stares at me. "Okay. I'm not wanting a really long-term thing."
"What?" she asks.
"Seriously," I say. I flash her a smile. "Believe me."
She likes this. Oooh, wait. She doesn’t. She stands, and leaves, leaning into our waitress as she goes. The waitress leaves a bill on the table, with a note saying ‘Smooth Move Lame-O’. I leave a 20% tip, just to fuck with her.
I arrive a half-hour early, go around the corner and get me a breakfast taco from the street vendor. He knows me by name; I don't care to find out his. I pay the man (CA$H ONLY) and saunter back to my doctor's secretary, asking her how she landed such a cushy job. She shrugs, cutely (I presume), asks me to take a seat. I give her a stupid bow and sit down next to some kid and his mom. The kid looks unhappy - of course - and the mom is reading up on her feng shui. I stare at her for about ten minutes, but she never looks up. A lost opportunity I'm thinking, when my name is called. I stand, brushing the scrambled egg from my trousers, and enter into Dr. Mueller's quarters.
He has a comfy sofa and a few chairs lined with pillows, but I always sit, Indian-style, as I assume it singles me out as one of his more eccentric clients. Nevertheless, he always stares at me with the same bored eyes. In fact, were it not for the manila folder in his lap with my last name on it, I doubt he'd have a clue who I was, or what we've talked about (my hateful parents). We have a routine by now. He looks me up and down disdainfully until I begin to talk. His time is my money, so I launch into my spiel.
"I have a date tonight, doc."
"Congratulations," the good doctor responds, sardonically. He doesn't believe me, on principal. "What's her name...er, what's the name...of your date?"
"I'm nervous as all hell," I respond, ignoring him. "Tonight is Valentine's Day...er today, all of today in fact, but after about seven PM is when it gets real. Chocolates and flowers, the whole nine yards...just mandatory hogs-wallop. I mean, gosh! Flowers on any other day of the year is a guaranteed BJ.’
"Incorrect," Dr. Mueller responds, correctly. "Have you discussed this with your partner?"
"No..." I say, pretending to dwell on something. "I just want to make a good impression. Some kind of impact." I beat a fist into my open palm, driving the necessity deep into my psyche. And it probably impresses him.
"Hmmmm..." Dr. Mueller says, stroking his white beard. "On most days such a statement would alarm me. Frighten me, even. But...you have a point. I myself have ordered my wife a singing telegram. A poem I wrote her on a napkin during our first date; well, I translated it into German and am having a nine-piece orchestra show up at her school to profess a love she already knows."
"Sounds..." I pick my words carefully. "Well. Thought. Out."
"Indeed," my psychologist responds. “I got the idea last year at the eleventh hour...wasn’t able to do anything then, but the wait will surely pay off.”
“Guaranteed blowjob,” I say, casually, readjusting a sock. They itch, persistently. What gives? “So...what else?”
“That, my friend - and I do mean that - is up to you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Well...” Dr. Mueller shifts in his seat. “You’re a smart boy. I see us making progress, but on your terms alone. They won’t prescribe you anti-psychotics unless you’re seeing me on a regular basis...you’re a weird bird, but nothing altogether seems wrong with you. If you’re paying me...let’s just talk.”
“I have an appointment on the other side of town in like fifteen minutes,” I retort. “With my psychiatrist. I know you think I’m using you, but...see...I’m paying you. So shut up. Say I’m like crazy. No, wait...crazier?”
Dr. Mueller stares at me, unimpressed.
“I...” I struggle, valiantly, but to no avail. Suddenly, it hits me. “I want to sodomize...”
His eyebrows raise.
“...porpoises...”
He frowns.
“...gently.”
“Jesus,” Dr. Mueller says. “You don’t really have any problems and yet you terrify me. Be gone. And don’t come back...”
I stand.
Dr. Mueller follows suit. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I am your bread and butter,” I say, extending my hand for him to kiss. He doesn’t.
“Lay-taaaa” I say, suavely, winking at his secretary as I pass by. Fuck. I’m gonna be late. I get into my car and dig thru my alternative music selection, ultimately deciding that my real problem is this shit music I subject myself to. An inadequate diagnosis, but I want my meds and need to seem unreasonable to the naked eye. I crank that alternative shit UP.
SKIP TO THE ACTION
My psychiatrist’s name is...ohhhh, unimportant. This chick gives me my meds and I think she’s hot for me, based on her body language and though she has a space between her two front teeth I think she’s quite the looker. A well-paid looker. I call her ‘hooker’ behind her back. Behind everyone’s back. Alone. In my basement. With my medication.
“I’ve got a date,” I announce as soon as I step into her office. “And I’m...freeeeeakin’ out doll!” I swing my hips her way, do a little dance move, and accidentally knock a painting from her wall.
“This...” She stands, fluffing out her skirt or some dame-ass shit, “is unexpected, to say the least. I gave you a prescription thru June. I remember doing so...because I didn’t want you coming back any time soon.”
“Its all used up, sugar-lips,” I says, hoping she can feel the seduction pulsing from my eyes. “I need a new subscription. Or...prescription. I need to be filled up with your meds. Your signature is gold.”
“Are you...in love?” she asks. I am taken aback. “You seem...more laconic than usual.”
“Shhhhhhhh...” I whisper. ‘Slow down. What are you talking about?”
She continues to eye me in that lazy way. Finally, she turns away, shrugging.
“Nothing...” she concludes. “You just seem more hopeful. I don’t know...more spicy. That’s all.”
I look around. “Am I on like some crazy camera show?”
My fist tightens, I breathe with much difficulty. “That’s fine...if I’m on...some prank show...but I want...”
I struggle for some non-existent word.
“Mindless sedation.”
She stares, nodding, making presumptions.
“Perfect!” I say. “Yeah. That.” She should have said that, but okay. I give a little, I take a little. Never before have I realized how ugly my psychiatrist is, but it comes with the territory...its not like gym coaches...pedophiles and lesbians, etc (no etc)...psychiatrists are a breed unto their own...but if they’re ugly...fuck.
“Your story shares many subtle similarities to that of the Minotaur and his labyrinth,” she says.
“Bye,” I say.
Which bring me to my date.
We met up at a cafe...ooh, I’m getting ahead of myself. I am drenched in sweat and I go home to change. I check my messages, which are significant, but not to this story. I take a cab downtown, arriving fifteen minutes early, assuming I can compose myself. She’s already there, which is both flattering and alarming. I sit down at the table across from her, waving down a bartender.
“Scotch” I whisper. I clear my throat. “Neat.”
“How’re you?” my date asks.
“Been better,” I say, shrugging. “A pretty shitty day, all in all, but...” I’m losing her. “Much better...” She smiles. “Now that I’m with you. Right?”
She shrugs, cutely. “I guess so.”
“Heh heh hee,” I spew.
“Did you find trouble parking?” she asks.
“Yes,” I respond.
She smiles. She looks around at the romantic lighting. “This is a nice place.”
I sigh. “So...what say we get down to the bread and butter. Name five things you like about me.”
“Well...” she says, somewhat taken aback. “I don’t know...we don’t really know each other...”
“You’re very pretty,” I say
She blushes.
I fold my hands. “Name...five things...you like about me.” I pitch-shift my voice so that ‘me’ sounds like ‘me?’, not so much a command (which it is) as it is a question (which is ridiculous).
“Well...” she says, taking the bait. “I love your eyes. There is...a kindness to them...”
“That’s two,” I say.
She chuckles, blushing. “You’re putting me on the spot, mister.”
“I stuff animals,” I give. Geez! I sound like a taxidermist!
“Three...” she says, still laughing. She stares at me for a long time, ceasing to speak.
“I am kissable,” I offer. She shrugs. I look around bewildered.
“Let’s say we don’t order anything and head back to my place for a well deserved game of ‘snake in the grass’?”
I actually said that.
“Let’s say we take a rain-check?” she replies. I narrow my eyes, not necessarily at her, but enough in the general direction that she knows I’m for real.
She smiles, playfully, yet possibly terrified.
I shrug, uncaring. “Ain’t my game, but whatever lady.”
At this moment I ponder the idea that I'm at the wrong table. She looks down at the napkin in her lap, sadly.
"Seriously..." I say, staring at this. "Where is our waiter?"
She looks up at me, her eyes red and teary. "Listen...I don't know if I'm able to do this right now. It has nothing to do with you...I just got out of a three year relationship. Oh...I'm a bad person, aren't I?"
"All right," I say, nodding. She just stares at me. "Okay. I'm not wanting a really long-term thing."
"What?" she asks.
"Seriously," I say. I flash her a smile. "Believe me."
She likes this. Oooh, wait. She doesn’t. She stands, and leaves, leaning into our waitress as she goes. The waitress leaves a bill on the table, with a note saying ‘Smooth Move Lame-O’. I leave a 20% tip, just to fuck with her.