THE ACCIDENTAL THERAPIST
Six Million and Counting
“Hey Fink, your first client is here.” That’s Misty, my new receptionist.
“Great, send in the clowns.”
“Fink,” yells Misty through my supposed sound proof walls, “ remember, intercom, as in, we heard everything you just said.”
“Shit, I just called them clowns,” I reply, laughing.
“Uh Fink, your finger is still on the intercom button,” shouts Misty.
So it is, so it is. I take my finger off and wait to see my first client.
I tear myself away from my computer as my patient walks in and sits down on the couch.
“Hello there, Mr. Stillwater. What can I do for you today?”
“Eleven. So what happened to Doctor Bailey? Did you steal his practice or something?” he asks, laughing at the absurdity of the question.
“Yes, actually I did steal it,” I reply, matching his laugh. This may be one of those times when the truth is so unbelievable that it’s better used than a lie.
He looks around as his eyes take in the surrounding office. He is perched on a very large, over-stuffed, black leather couch. It must be comfortable because he appears to be ready to lie back and take a nap. On either side of the couch are a pair of leather chairs, same style as the couch. Opposite the couch is a desk big enough to have caused the harvesting of several small trees. You know that saying about guys and their big trucks. One might look at my desk and think, I too, am compensating for something.
Behind me and my desk is a wall predominantly made of windows, excepting a small windowless portion containing my many handcrafted diplomas and accolades. The wall to my left brackets a door which leads to a small bathroom and supply closet. My carpet is black and white checker board, matching the ceiling. The walls are black, but brightly lit with a half dozen track lights.
If my off-the-wall, bizarre brand of psychobabble doesn’t drive one mad, the room itself surely will. It’s certainly done that to me. I’ll think twice next time I get a bug up my butt, and want to do some decorating.
At last his eyes settle back on me. “Interesting setup you have here, Doctor. Did you do the decorating yourself? Where are Dr. Bailey’s plaques and awards and stuff? Is he not coming back?”
“Of course he is, he’s just on sabbatical.”
“Sixty-five. That’s odd, it looks as though you came swooping in here and took over his life. You have certainly changed his style in decor. I can’t picture the old man being too fond of your idea of good taste when he returns,” he says, pointing to my floor and ceiling. “You have definitely distanced yourself from the man. I bet any reminder of him found it’s way into your trash can.”
That’s true. I look to make sure my trash can is safely tucked under my desk and not in sight.
“And what’s with the number stuff, anyway, Mr. Stillwater?”
“It’s Rincon, just call me Rincon. One hundred thirty-three.”
“Okay, I give up. What’s up with you and numbers?”
“Damn, I swore I wasn’t going to do this today.”
“Do what, Rincon?”
“One hundred fifty-six, count words of course.”
“Huh?”
“So when did you say he is coming back?”
“I didn’t, and enough with the third degree already. He has extended his sabbatical to next June and is currently residing in Guatemala where he is resting and recuperating.”
“I see…”
“Now let me get this straight. You’re counting our words?”
“Yes, of course,” he replies, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I see, so what brings you here today?”
“Counting.”
I pause, not sure what to say to him. I have heard of people like this, but this is the first time I have ever encountered one.
“So you would like me to help you stop counting, is that it?”
“That’s twelve seconds and two hundred-thirty six words.”
“Wait a sec, what’s with the twelve seconds bit?”
“Oh, that’s how long you paused before resuming talking.”
I see, so he doesn’t just count words.
“So you want me to help you stop counting right?” I ask again.
“Yes doctor, that’s it.”
I notice he has a wedding band on. I wonder what his wife thinks about his little problem.
“Mr. Stillwater, I see you’re married. How long have you been married?”
“It’s Rincon, Rincon Stillwater, but please call me Rincon. We have been married for six million, eight hundred, thirty-three thousand six hundred sixty minutes and counting.”
Geeze, I have no idea what that translates into as far as years go.
“How many years is that, Rincon?”
“Just over thirteen, Doctor.”
“Impressive.”
“Three hundred twenty-four.”
“Words of course…”
“Of course.”
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“Five curse words, Doctor.”
I remember watching the movie, Clockwork Orange a long time ago, and if I remember right, they made a violent crazy guy stop his rampaging by exposing him to so much brutality that he actually became ill and lost his desire for it. I think they made him watch movie after movie with his eyelids held open so he couldn’t shut them. I wonder if something similar would work here? Maybe a little experiment is in order.
I look around my desk searching for things I can make him crazy counting. I have a box of toothpicks somewhere in my drawer. That should come in handy; what else? I have paper clips, thumb tacks, printer paper, and bullets. This will do for a start.
“Nine stacks.”
“What, what was that Mr. Stillwater?”
“You have nine stacks or piles of paper scattered on your desk, doctor.”
Well, here goes nothing. I put my arm on my desk. Then, with one sweeping motion, I clear it of the nine stacks of paper. I can litterbug see his brain computing as he watches the sheets of paper raining down on the floor.
“One hundred three.”
Gotta keep the ball rolling now.
I grab the paper clips and thumb tacks. The tacks go first, followed by the paper clips, both of which I throw up in the air and bounce them off the ceiling. It’s raining office supplies all around poor Mr. Stillwater, as his eyes dart around in an effort to keep up with the downpour.
“Twenty-seven red, nineteen white, eleven blue, twenty-three yellow, and seventeen green clips,” and without break he moves on to the thumb tacks. “eleven white, twenty-nine red, nineteen blue, twenty-six yellow tacks.”
Before he is able to finish the tack count I throw my computer paper in the air as high as I can and follow that up with a partial box of bullets for my 9mm handgun.
“Thirty seven papers and thirty-eight bullets.”
Damn, he’s good. Before the last of the paper settles I have moved on to the next. I grab up the box of toothpicks, and two things of Tic-Tacs, both of which are only partially full. The Tic-Tacs are the first to become airborne, followed closely by the toothpicks.
“Thirty-nine orange Tic-Tacs and forty-seven yellow ones for a total of eighty-six, and one hundred twelve toothpicks.”
For the next five minutes I throw just about everything in my desk up-which is a lot- into the air.
Suddenly he looks to his left. “One shocked man.”
“What?” I stop rummaging around in my desk and look to see who came in. It’s Stularkey, my neighbor in the office across the hall. Great, if he didn’t think I was weird before, he’s gonna think I’m a shoo-in for a straight jacket and a padded room now.
“Jesus man, what are you doing here?” exclaims the stunned lawyer.
“Four hundred twenty-nine.”
“What?” asks Mr. Stularkey.
“Four hundred thirty-four.”
“Doctor Fink, what is going on in here? Surely you don’t call this therapy, do you?”
“Four hundred fifty-four.”
“Why,” asks the bewildered lawyer, “is that man counting?”
“No idea.” I reply.
“Four hundred sixty-five.”
“Enough with the counting.” Mr. Stillwater is beginning to get under my skin.
“Four hundred seventy-three,” continues Rincon blithely.
“He counts things, Stularkey.”
“No shit?”
“Yes, as you say, no shit.”
“Two shit curse words,” continues my patient.
“Mr. Stillwater,” I begin, ignoring his incessant counting, “this is Mr. Stularkey, a lawyer in the office next door. Mr. Stularkey, this is Mr. Stillwater.”
Stularkey starts to walk towards the couch where Rincon is sitting, then stops himself. I guess he has decided that if they shake hands he will catch whatever the other man has.
“So what brings you here this morning, Stularkey?” I ask.
He looks at me with a serious expression on his face and simply says, “Eight.”
“What?”
“Nine.”
“Hey that’s not funny,” chimes in, Mr. Stillwater.
“Thirteen, and oh yes ,it is funny,” teases my lawyering ‘friend’.
“Stularkey, did you just come here to harass my patient, or do you have something else on your agenda?”
“I did, but nothing I can think of tops this Jerry Springer episode.”
“Enough, Mr. Stularkey, as you should be able to see, I am quite busy here.” I’m getting even more exasperated.
“Yes, I have been watching how busy you are, throwing around the contents of your desk like a mad man. It was priceless, actually.” He holds up a shiny black iPhone. “I bet this video clip will make quite a stir on YouTube.”
Oops, that can’t be good. I don’t think the general populace will understand my level of brilliance here. Some may go so far as to think I am nuts and I am the one who needs to be sitting on the therapy couch.
“I think we need to talk, Mr. Stularkey, but as you can see, this is not a great time for it.”
“Hey I’m still here.” Rincon, jumps back into our conversation.
“Yes, yes you are, and my desk is now empty.”
“Ha, that almost looks like Misty,” Stularkey is looking at a porno magazine that is lying open on the floor.
Oops, didn’t mean to throw those.
I snatch it up along with two others and take a gander at the object of his affection. It’s a four-page glossy spread of a petite blond girl in an unmentionable position doing unmentionable things.
The title of the spread reads, “Barely 18 and ready to spread.” I take a quick glance at the text as I am in the process of throwing away the inflammatory material.
‘Our young slut Misty Chamberlain has discovered there is more than one thing you can do with a cucumber.’
Geeze, what kind of idiot would give her full name out in a magazine like this?
“Dr. Fink?” Stularkey is knocking on the edge of my consciousness as I am completely stunned by the following pictures and text.
It’s Misty.
“Holy shit, it’s Misty!”
“What?” Chimes in both Stularkey and my client.
I hold up the evidence.
Stularkey is beginning to drool.
Sillwater is counting- what I don’t know.
And I am too stunned for words.
The door opens and in walks the girl from the photos.
“Fink, what happened here?”
I hold up the magazine for her to see.
“Misty, what happened here?”
“Whoa, we’re getting into some heavy shit now. I think it’s time I escaped,” observes the lawyer.
“Uh, me, too,” says my patient, slowly getting up from the couch. “And by the way, if anyone is keeping count, that’s seven hundred thirty words.”
“No one’s keeping count,” replies Stularkey before I can get a word in.
Misty has a horrified look on her face and is staring at the magazine I have in my hands.
“You stay right where you are, Mr. Stillwater,” I say in my best commanding voice. He sits down immediately.
“Stularkey, you better skedaddle.”
“I’m gone,” he replies as he lets himself out of my office.
I look at Misty who is standing in the middle of the disaster area. “Barely 18, how long ago did you do this and how old were you really?”
“Oh I think I was probably eighteen, or somewhere around there. I don’t know. It was awhile back.”
I look at the date of the magazine. “Two weeks ago, that is awhile back to you?”
“Well, it’s a matter of perspective, Fink.”
Perspective, I didn’t know she knew any words longer than seven letters. And she told me when we first met that she was twenty-five. I did think she looked a bit young for that age, but not this young,
“Well, If I kick your ass out of this office, are you going to think it’s a matter of perspective?”
“Fink, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“Whatever…”
“Fink, I really needed the money, and I didn’t want to ask you for a loan, so I agreed to do the magazine piece.”
I look at the cover. “Petite Skanks’, what an awful name for a magazine. You would think they could come up with a better one.”
“Fink, I’m sorry. Can we just forget it?”
“Is this the only publication you can be seen in, or are there more? And what about movies, are you an ‘actress’ as well?” I let a bit of sarcasm drip into my voice when I say that last bit. I notice Mr. Stillwater is craning his neck trying to get a better view of the offending spread. I toss the magazine to him. Why not? Everyone else has seen it.
“Forget, it I’m going. We both have a lot of work to do.”
“Misty, since when do you have any work to do?”
She ignores me and closes the door behind her.
“Alright, Stillwater, put down the magazine. If you stop counting today I’ll let you keep it.” There, that should be motivation enough.
I hear little pitter-pattering on the window behind me and am startled to find that the wind is blowing rain against it. Pretty unusual for the San Francisco Bay Area in the month of June. Suddenly I have a thought. This is along the same vein as the Clockwork Orange bit. I wonder…
“Rincon, I want you to come with me for a minute,” I say, standing up and heading for my door.
“Eight hundred nineteen, where are we going, Doctor?” He asks, reluctantly getting up off the couch. He is still eying the magazine, which is closed for the moment.
I wait for him to catch up with me, and we head for the elevator. When we get to the first floor and step out I get yet another surprise in this very eventful morning. Just as soon we step out into the rain Mr. Stillwater has quite a reaction.
“Six hundred ninety three, one thousand three hundred twelve…sixteen thousand four hundred eighty-six. No twenty-eight thousand, no forty three thousand…uh eighty six, no ninety one thousand…Arrrrrrgh!”
With that, Mr. Rincon Stillwater runs for the safety of the building and I follow him inside. My instincts were right on. I think I just overwhelmed the counting urge right out of him. We take the stairs this time, and I look for any signs of him counting steps, which surely he would have by now. We reach the top with no signs of my obsessive-compulsive patient counting.
When we enter Misty’s office she refuses to meet my eyes. Guess we are going to have to have a real conversation tonight.
We go into my office and Stillwater sits back on the couch, and I look around for something else to throw into the air to see if he will start counting again. My desk is still empty, so I check my pockets for change. I come up with eleven coins of different denominations. I take them in my hand, make sure he is watching, then fling them into the air. He watches but fails to utter a single word. He also doesn’t look like he is counting, either. He doesn’t have that same intent concentration that he has when he counts.
“Damn, damn, damn, damn…”
He looks at me blankly. “What are you doing, Doctor?”
“Nothing, Rincon, never mind.”
I do believe we have a breakthrough here, but I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it. I believe this would be a good time to end today’s session.
“Alright, Mr. Stillwater, that is it for today. Please have Misty set up another appointment for next week. Oh, and why don’t you take this.” I hand him his very own copy of “Petite Skanks” and hope he has the sense to not ask Misty to autograph it. “Why don’t you put it in your backpack. Otherwise, it will get all wet and soggy when you leave.”
We both stand up, and I extend my hand.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“You’re welcome, Rincon.”
“I really mean it, Doc, thank you so much.”
“You are so welcome, see you next week.”
At that he walks out of the office a changed man, I believe. However, only time will tell. We will see how he is next week when I test him again.