I saw a shrink today for the first time. It was a therapeutic disaster. As soon as I walked into the doctor's office he broke down into a million pieces. He bemoaned his estranged wife, out-of-control kids, over domineering mother, and career that's fallen short of his youthful expectations. The more he went on the more inconsolable he became as he pulled at his thin grey hair and wailed loudly: "Why? Why? Why?". I wasn't sure what to do, so I did what I thought was right. I grabbed his Rx pad and sketched a prescription for some powerful mood relaxants, Valium to be specific.
I hope he takes his meds to calm himself down. If he does, I can assist him next session with a combination of Freudian and Jungian analysis with the purpose of unburdening his melancholic mind. Maybe we can clear away foggy memories of childhood conflicts with sandbox bullies and a sullen seafaring father. While I admit to being a bit of an amateur about matters of the psyche, I have watched Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting enough times to put my counseling skills on par with those of Dr. Phil. Besides, I kind of like the ole' headshrinker, so I feel duty bound to set him emotionally straight. It could also work to lift me out of my own purple funk, help me conquer a case of minor neurosis. And it may even help me to deal with friends of mine who seem to do me little good whatsoever. Like that character Zigman Zibanski. Talk about a guy with poor emotional underpinnings and noxious underarms.
Lately I've been bedeviled by badgering beggars at my door asking for money. They say in exchange for a handout they'll shovel my walk, take away my garbage, repaint my white picket fence. I tell them I'm as broke at they are, and besides I live in a fourth floor apartment. I don't mind beggars so much, just dumb ass ones. Better start reading and making myself smart before Mr. Landlord gives up on collecting my back rent and tosses me over the balcony. Who knows, maybe I'll get a job before that time. Then I'll just go door-to-door as a hobby.Could be a good way to meet a better class of people.
I have this constant dream I shouldn't be where I am. Instead I should be on the road, wandering about with a day pack slung over each shoulder. One holds my imagination, the other words I own. When something strikes me as interesting I match the contents of the two and that becomes my tale.
What am I doing here besides living on a slow burning debt and the empty fumes of hope?
Time to go? Time to carry my mind and my words and go wherever my boot heels take me?
Tortelli finally got his fingers on an unemployment cheque with his name on it. He wandered into a neighbourhood grocery store looking for some budget rigatoni when he ran into a trouble making acquaintance by the name of Zigman Zibanski. Zigman is the kind of character who's a couple of quarts short of a full can of gas, the kind of explosive personality type who easily ignites into a fiery madness. Or so it seemed.
Tortelli turned into aisle six and saw the odd immigrant toss jars of tomato sauce on the floors and ceilings. First he went through the cheap Ragu stuff, pitching them with caution, making sure they missed fleeing customers. By the time he got to the thicker organic brands it was only Tortelli staring at him. First Zigman looked around and then hit the aisle sign dead-on with a jar. It exploded like a red grenade, some of which fell on his acquaintance's head and shoulders. He then gave a wink like everything was under control.
At that point crazy Zigman starts breaking open waxed cardboard tins of Kraft Parmesan cheese and shakes them all around. He does this until the manager and a pack boy built like a high school fullback meet up with him. On the first rush the kid slips on a puddle of sauce and crashes into the pasta section, bags and boxes of spaghetti, macaroni, and rigatoni fall and break open.
The young dynamo tackles him on the next try and drags him away, and puts him into the arms of the police, who take him to the station and charge him with disturbing the peace and assault with a deadly jar of tomato sauce.
Tortelli didn't get his bag of rigatoni that day, but he was soon to find out that the authorities thought Zigman was in a troubled state of mind that bordered on insanity, and no knowing judge would find him guilty. So the charges were dropped and he was placed into some retraining program where he got himself steady employment with benefits and job security.
This got Tortelli wondering. He knew Zigman Zibanski well enough. He saw his smile that day and believed that he was smarter and saner than he let on. Tortelli wished he had the guts and ingenuity of Zigman, but he didn't. So Tortelli keeps waiting for those cheques to come in until something better comes his way.
I woke up this morning with my heart stinging like a pair of scraped knees. I must have fallen recently, but I don't know when. In the last few days I haven't lost a job nor has an important woman walked out on me--those things happened a long time ago. No point in pondering what's been done. I've got to put an antiseptic on my wounded heart before I dress it with a band-aid. It may sting awhile and when I pull off the band-aid it will hurt like heck, but it will get better. And if I'm lucky it will leave behind a neat scar.
When sidewalks become slippery because of black ice it is best to watch the steps one takes. A man in his early sixties was preoccupied as he carried a jar of orange marmalade. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell beside me. He was OK, except for some of the wind being knocked out of him. Of course the jar was shattered; its shiny sweet contents had combined with the broken glass on the concrete. This upset the man more than his calamitous fall. As I helped him up he told me of his mother in her late eighties who he said was now too old to cook. What broke that afternoon was the last jar of marmalade she would ever make. I asked if he was sure he was OK. He replied he was, and bent over to collect the large pieces of glass. No one would be cut because of his fall, because of his icy bad luck.
The sky is dark and moody just like me. That's why we are friends, why we talk so much. Misery invites company, I suppose. I like it most when the sky grows thunderous and releases bolts of white hot lightening. I like it least when it turns sunny and bright; it's too much of a jolt to my system. Dark and moody is best for me. That's when I speak to the sky and write my blogs.
