Young, Quick, and Full of Promise (Yes, I Stole This Title)

                My least favorite patient sprawled grotesquely on my couch today, on New Year's Eve, talking about his biggest fears for this New Year. 2012, he said, was full of too few ups and too many downs. Do you really think I care you had a mental breakdown on a cold Carmel beach? Is it so important how much weight you gained? Has it ever passed through your little mind that maybe every person out there had a work situation where they want to blow their brains out?

                Listening to you sickens me.

                Alas, it is my job. And while Mr. Dramatic regaled me with his tales of woe, I reflected. Perhaps he whines because he finds his life so important. Maybe it’s because he feels like he is in a crowded room, screaming at the top of his lungs, and no one is there to hear him.

                Maybe he’s just a loser.

                But none of those explanations will do. He pays me too well, and I will have to come up with something good, a creative solution to his problems. Maybe I’ll have him write a letter to himself.

                After a while, I tune him out. As the Good Doctor would say, he’s tedious. I open my eyes to the open fields of wheat, corn, and watermelons, with a storm brewing on the eastern front while the sun sets in the west. I breathe in (overriding the acrid scent of my patron’s body odor), and my brain registers only the dewy smell of the coming rain and the earthly aroma of nature’s bounty. Excited, I turn and begin to walk briskly toward my low sandstone temple. Red and gold speckles wink at me as the setting orb reflects a dazzling beauty of architecture. My bare feet feel the change from hard, packed dirt to soft, smooth stone. White marble circles the building, three rows around the entire structure, each a meter wide (yes, only three, must remember the details). Up the nine steps to the patio, my warm hand bouncing on the cold metal banister.

                “Everything just gets so damn hard, doc. Sometimes I just feel like it’s all not worth it…”

                “Now, let’s not talk that way. You know that isn’t true. Those feelings are just a cover for the problems really bothering you. List them out, tell me in detail. I won’t interrupt, I’ll just quietly listen. I’m here for you.”

                To the right of my rough-hewn oak doors hangs a sky-chair, so comfortable, hanging from the outcropping of the sandstone rotunda. I glance left and right at the wings of my home, marveling at the blending of modern architecture and ancient material. The 24 columns around the rotunda (only 12 of which are visible to me) are smooth and polished. Today, I am not destined to sit here and watch the moon rise, but I grasp the white marble handle and pull open my doors…

                Ah. I step inside, see my personal crest emblazoned on the floor. The room, empty for the moment, will be filled with statues at a later date. Here, I pause. If only my patient had some statues, some inner structures of self-confidence and deliberation.

                I walk to the center and turn right. My welcome room waits. I push open the near-invisible door, made from more white marble. My footsteps stop ringing across cold tile and stone, and I finally rest my sore feet on smooth carpet.

                My guest still talks on my office couch, a hard and cold leather monstrosity. I have a better one here.

                I stop and drink in the deep, rich bouquet of the ocean, baking bread, and my burning fire in the fireplace. On the far wall, the Son of Man stares at me from behind his apple. There used to be more art in this room, but I think my patient today has made it clear to me that focus and concise thinking are a goal here, not necessarily quantity.

                “So what do you think, Doctor? Do you think… do you think things will ever get better for me?”

                I glance over to my sitting area. My beautiful microfiber beige chaise lounge winks at me, begging me to bask in the comfort of its embrace. A tall glass, a blank notebook and a pen sit on a low black end table, different from my usual fiction novel. I chuckle silently; sometimes, I surprise myself. My parched mouth pleads to be satisfied by the cold drink on the coaster. I walk over the Persian rug on the floor, and lay down on my sofa, take a sip of my beverage, and pick up my pen and notebook.

                I close my eyes.

                Ah, Dave, you left us so quickly. Take Five truly is a wonderful piece of jazz.

                I open my eyes and look over at my poor, befuddled customer.

                His eyes glisten, moist but hopeful, looking to me for answers.

                Those blue eyes aren’t devoid of emotion. We aren’t looking at a cow here. Crude and foolish he may be, but I can’t turn my back on this man.

                “Yes, things will get better. I promise. We will just have to work at it. After all, it’s a new year, isn’t it?”

***

Happy New Year, everyone.