Death Theory

by John Mimms

  “Uhhh...sure, I guess so,” she said, glancing at her bedroom clock; it was 8:45. “You can see me today?”

  “If you want. I sometimes work on Saturdays. It is the only time some of my patients can see me. I have an appointment at nine o’clock, but I will be in the office until noon. Any time after ten o’clock would be excellent with me.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you at ten,” Debbie sighed.

  “Don’t worry, everything will be fine, we’ll just talk,” Dr. Staples said. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock, Debbie ... goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” Debbie breathed as she ended the call.

  She placed the phone and business card back on the nightstand. She stared out the window at two neighbor kids bouncing on a trampoline. Their heads bobbed up and down above the cedar picket fence, giving the appearance of two people at sea bobbing about on the waves. Debbie already felt sick to her stomach with nerves. The last thing she wanted was a bout of seasickness. She turned her attention away and went into the bathroom to shower and get ready for her appointment.

  ACROSS TOWN, JEFF’S day had taken a severe turn for the worse. He was about to put his headphones back on when he heard the irksome voice of Old-Skunk-Head a few cubicles away. He was supposed to be back in St. Louis. Jeff heard him ask one of his direct reports if they had seen him this morning. Jeff had barely enough time to put the headphones away and minimize Windows Media Player before the top of Skunk’s head appeared above his six-foot cubicle wall. Jeff turned to face his computer. He placed his hands on the keyboard when Old-Skunk-Head poked his head inside.

  “Good morning, Jeff,” he said curtly.

  “Good morning,” Jeff replied with a forced smile.

  “You know why you’re here this morning?” Old-Skunk-Head asked.

  Jeff nodded.

  “Then don’t you think it would be an innovative idea to be on the floor this morning to make sure everyone is not screwing around?”

  Jeff gulped and he felt sweat beads blossoming on his forehead. Old-Skunk-Head was not above profanity; in fact, he used it quite often in meetings. Not using profanity today was more ominous than if he had broken into a cussing tirade.

  “Yes, Mr. Marlowe. I was just checking my e-mail, and then I will get right out there,” Jeff lied, his heart hammering. Sweat began to pour down his face when he thought of the disaster he had avoided. He almost said ‘yes, Skunk Head’. It would have been the end of his illustrious career at Nuverian Health.

  Without another word, Marlowe turned. He gave a jerk of his skunk-like head before walking away in search of more loafing managers to terrorize.

  Well, this was the end of his fun Saturday morning listening to EVP’s. What the hell was Marlowe doing here? He had never been there on a Saturday, let alone twice in the same week. The economy was in the crapper and Nuverian Health’s productivity was down twenty-five percent this year. It was obvious to the outside observer why upper management was cracking the whip more than usual. Yet, to those affected by his wrath, it seemed personal.

  Jeff left his office and began patrolling the floor like a Roman Centurion. This is where he would stay for the remaining three hours. There were no more gopher peaks over cubicles this morning. The gophers were busy hiding in their dens, trying to avoid the rabid skunk on the loose. Jeff called Elvis on his ten-minute break and they agreed to meet at Elvis’s place after work to review evidence.

  Chapter 11

  DEBBIE ARRIVED AT THE office of Dr. Staples a few minutes after ten o’clock. Her stomach was in knots. She was so distracted, she didn’t notice the white sedan with conservative bumper stickers parked at the Waffle House across the street. Pac was treating himself to a brunch of chili, topped with cheese and jalapenos. The chili resembled a heated can of Alpo, but it was good, greasy, and cheap. Today was all you can eat Saturday from ten to eleven, so Pac wasn’t complaining. He almost choked on a jalapeno when he saw Debbie get out of her car and walk to the front door of Dr. Staples’s office. He staunched the gagging by taking a long swig of orange soda.

  “What the hell is she going to a shrink for?” Pac muttered as his eyes followed Debbie’s fanny through the front door of the office.

  Pac decided to drown his sorrows in grease and orange soda because nothing else seemed to work. His humiliation was driving him towards quitting the group. He was sure Elvis knew what he did and conveyed it to the group as his big belly rolled with laughter. On the other hand, they might not know. A sudden insight made a warm feeling grow in his gut, like the Grinch’s heart on Christmas morning. Debbie had a dirty little secret too. She was going to a shrink. They may or may not know of his trouser flood, but he knew about Debbie. Yes indeed, he could tuck this ammo away for the future.

  He decided he would stay with the group a while longer. He enjoyed searching for spooks and he also enjoyed checking out Debbie. He could always deny the incident; after all, they had no proof - only the musings of an overweight Las Vegas lounge act. Then another flare of brilliance flashed in his head.

  “I’ll get some dirt on the old fart too! I’ll nail his ass to the wall if he says anything!” he thought.

  The problem was, he knew little about Elvis, so Pac would have to do some digging. He pulled out his phone, pushed the White Pages app, and entered the name. He had to try it twice because the first attempt he screwed up and entered ‘Erin’ Presley. There was only one Aaron Presley listed in the area, but the address belonged to Aaron & Vicky Presley.

  “He’s married? What woman would be desperate enough to marry the fatso retard,” Pac muttered as he pulled the address up on a digital map. It was only five miles away.

  Pac ordered another bowl of chili, even though he was full. It was all you can eat and he believed in getting his money’s worth. After choking down the last few spoonful’s, he finished off the watered down remains of his orange soda.

  He had devoured five bowls of chili and two drink refills, yet he was angry. Pac judged his deprivation of a final refill as a severe neglect of service. He decided to cut the tip in half. He tucked a dirty, crinkled one-dollar bill under his empty chili bowl and hurried to the register to settle his ticket. He dashed out the door before the waitress saw his stingy offering. As he opened his driver’s door, he gazed at Debbie’s car. She had been in there for ten minutes now.

  “Whatever they’re talking about must be good,” he grinned.

  It was now mid-September and the first signs of fall had arrived. This was a welcome contrast to the lengthy string of ninety-degree plus days for the past two months. Pac cranked the windows down, inserted a Smashing Pumpkins CD, and then turned up the stereo.

  He would head home first and “relieve” some stress on his digestive tract. He could eat all day and night at Waffle House, but he refused to use the facilities. Too nasty.

  After his business was completed, he would check out where Elvis lived and start digging the dirt.

  WHEN DEBBIE ENTERED the waiting room of the Staples Counseling Clinic, her eyes bulged. The waiting room was quite lavish. The walls and ceiling consisted of solid mahogany panel with rich crown molding. Beautiful paintings populated the walls. Huge Boston ferns graced each corner; their long, lush tendrils drooped over ornate brass pot stands. Plush leather chairs ringed the room, forming an axis around a cherry coffee table centered with a rustic fleur-de-lis sculpture. Magazines and hardcover books sat in neat stacks on either side of the centerpiece.

  This was not the typical doctor’s waiting room of cheap metal seats, cinder block walls, and ten-year old issues of Field & Stream. This room exuded class and sophistication. Debbie walked across the glossy hardwood floor to a sliding, stained-glass reception window where she tapped on the glass.

  “Debbie?” said a pleasant and familiar voice beyond the glass.

  “Dr. Staples?” Debbie answered.

  She heard faint shuffling footsteps growing closer and then the door to the right of the window opened. Debbie had the sensation some people get
when they see what their favorite radio DJ looks like in person. The voice rarely matches the appearance.

  Her first thought was of Wilford Brimley, the old guy who pitches Quaker Oats and diabetic products. Dr. Staples was short and plump with a walrus mustache matching the gray hair ringing the bald spot on his head. He had to be in his late sixties. He peered at her with bloodshot eyes over horned rimmed reading glasses resting on the end of his bulb shaped nose. He wore a red jogging suit and brown moccasin house shoes.

  “Not a professional dresser,” Debbie thought, “but it is a Saturday.”

  His gray eyes twinkled as he extended his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Debbie. Won’t you please come in and make yourself comfortable?”

  She shook his hand and followed him down a hallway. She soon felt as if she had entered a different building. In the hallway, the opulence stopped and gave way to benign painted sheetrock. It was devoid of any decoration other than a cheap framed print of dogs playing poker. A few moments later, they reached the end of the hall and entered Dr. Staples’s office. There, the lavishness returned with a vengeance.

  The walls and ceiling were similar to the waiting room. A grand sunken bookcase wrapped two walls of the room. A diverse collection of hardback books and assorted trinkets filled the shelves. An enormous oak roll top desk rested against the wall by the door and was currently pulled shut. In the far corner by the window sat a plush leather chair and long leather sofa. Drawn hardwood blinds covered the window.

  “Please, have a seat,” Dr. Staples said, motioning to the sofa.

  Debbie placed her purse on the floor beside the sofa and sat. The soft stuffing and silky-smooth leather engulfed her legs, back, and derriere in a warm and comforting embrace.

  Dr. Staples smiled and walked to his desk. He opened the cover revealing a workspace in sharp contrast from the ordered symmetry in the room. It resembled the underside of a messy child’s bed. An assortment of office supplies and clothing framed the area surrounding the computer monitor. The rotating screensaver depicted the MoveOn.Org logo.

  He rummaged through a stack of papers and pulled two from the pile. With a couple of hard tugs, he managed to force open a jammed desk drawer. After a few moments of digging, he produced a red clipboard. Dr. Staples attached the sheets of paper to the clipboard and pulled an ink pen from the rummage pile on top of the desk. With one delicate movement, he closed the lid to the desk, taking care not to mash any stray debris. He then walked back to Debbie where he handed her the clipboard and pen.

  “This is merely a standard questionnaire I have all my patients complete,” he said, pointing to the paper on top. “The second page is a standard confidentiality agreement. What we say within these walls goes no further.”

  Debbie nodded and began to peruse the form. Most of the questions were medical in nature. When Debbie finished, she noted there was no place asking for medical insurance information.

  “I don’t see a place for medical insurance,” Debbie said. “I don’t have any yet. I forgot to sign up during open enrollment. Is it a problem?”

  Dr. Staples sat down in the adjacent leather chair and beamed at her.

  “No problem at all. In fact, most of my patients don’t carry insurance. My rates are quite reasonable and affordable for most.”

  “How much?” Debbie asked sheepishly.

  “A standard office visit is thirty minutes to an hour, and is twenty-five dollars. If it is a hardship, I can arrange a payment plan.”

  Debbie gulped. She must have misunderstood, it couldn’t be that low, could it? Twenty-five dollars is the co-pay most insurance companies require.

  “Did you say twenty-five dollars?” she asked.

  Dr. Staples chuckled.

  “Yes, that’s right. I am an old man and it’s not about the money for me anymore. I want to help folks in the time I have left.”

  Debbie glanced around the office. There was a diploma from St. Louis University and another from the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences. Three certificate sized documents hung above the roll top desk, too small to be read.

  Dr. Staples noticed her searching eyes. He leaned forward in his chair.

  “To me the most important thing in the world is honesty - do you understand?” he asked.

  Debbie nodded, fidgeting with the clipboard.

  “As much as I expect you to be honest with me, I likewise will be honest with you. Do you agree?” he asked.

  Debbie nodded; she was getting more nervous.

  “Well then, let me start by being blunt and getting right to the point. I no longer carry a medical license.”

  Debbie’s stomach lurched. “Why would her doctor send her to someone such as this - someone who is no longer a doctor?” She wondered.

  “But, I thought you were ‘doctor’ Staples.” Debbie frowned.

  “Quite right...and so I am. Even though I no longer carry a medical license, I have a PhD in psychology.

  “Okay, but why don’t you carry a medical license anymore?” Debbie asked.

  “A fair question and one I am happy to answer,” Dr. Staples replied. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his plump belly.

  Debbie clasped the clipboard to her chest.

  “I am proud to say I held my medical license for thirty years. I helped a lot of people during that time, but the field changed a lot. Some people would call it progress, but I choose to call it laziness.”

  Dr. Staples removed his glasses and began to polish the lenses with a handkerchief. His naked gray eyes regarded Debbie with sadness.

  “You see, I stopped counting a while back. There are at least forty new drugs on the market since I began practicing. They claim to treat a variety of psychological ailments. I know on the surface it sounds like a profound achievement of research. In some cases, it may well be, but it has created a mentality in the medical field. It is a dangerous mentality and has now spread over to the public. Everyone seems to believe in a magic pill to make everything better.”

  He placed his glasses back on his nose and leaned forward as much as his pudgy belly would allow. “I believe the human mind is capable of extraordinary things ... not only with cognition, but with a tremendous capacity for self-healing. I have had far more success with counseling therapy than I ever had with prescribing any type of medication.”

  “But why would you surrender your license?” Debbie blurted.

  Dr. Staples did not comment, he instead continued his explanation. “In today’s world, the “educated” public comes in just for their fix. Tegretol, Ritalin, Concerta, Valium, Wellbutrin, Cymbalta, Lexapro, Zoloft, Xanax were their magic pills. They knew what they wanted before diagnosis was even started. It became general practice for most psychiatrists to prescribe first and ask questions later.”

  He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, allowing his belly to fall in his lap. “I had friends and family who would call me up out of the blue. They asked for a script of Valium or Wellbutrin because they were dealing with some anxiety. Their anxiety came from nothing more than deciding whether to go to Hawaii or Aspen for vacation.”

  Dr. Staples chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t mean to make light of people’s problems, but it got to be such a bothersome nuisance; I finally came to the decision I had done as much as I could as a psychiatrist. Counseling therapy is where I believe people gain the most benefit and I can continue to do it as a psychologist.”

  “But why would you throw away something you worked so hard for?” Debbie asked.

  Dr. Staples face broke into an incredulous, but kind smile. “I thought it was obvious, my dear. If I don’t have a medical license, I don’t have people calling me all the time. No license, no prescriptions; problem solved,” he said, tapping his finger on his forehead and winking. “Besides, like I said, I’m not getting any younger, so I might as well do what makes me happy.”

  Most of what Dr. Staples said made sense to Debbie. Her education training tau
ght her to identify children suffering from ADD or ADHD. In fact, half the children in her class were on medication. She knew a sizeable percentage of these kids were the by-product of lazy parenting or doctoring, in some cases both. It saddened her to see the children turned into diluted reflections of themselves. The magic pill solution was never more evident as it was in the public-school system.

  “I understand what you are sayin’,” Debbie said, “medicating has gotten as crazy as a Bessie bug in the schools.”

  Dr. Staples smiled, “So, you’re a teacher?”

  “Yes, second year.”

  “Well then, you know better than anyone else what I’m talking about.”

  Debbie grinned and handed the clipboard back to Dr. Staples. “All done,” she said.

  He took the clipboard, gave it a token glance, and then sat it on the reading table beside him. “Well, are you ready to get started?” he asked.

  Debbie nodded and glanced awkwardly at either side of the sofa. “Do I lay down...or what?”

  Dr. Staples gave her a reassuring smile, “However you feel comfortable. If you want to lie down I can get you a pillow.”

  Debbie shook her head. “No, I think I’ll just sit today.”

  “Excellent,” he said, withdrawing a small steno notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket. “Tell me, what is troubling you?”

  Chapter 12

  DEBBIE TOOK A DEEP breath and told of her dream. She recounted what she could remember, including the little girl squatting in the floor. The terror this dream evoked was evident on her face. When she finished, Dr. Staples made a couple of quick scribbles on his pad, and then frowned at her.

  “Debbie, I thought we understood ... honesty must be prevalent in our conversations.”

  Debbie ducked her head.

  “I find it hard to believe Dr. Boyd would have referred you to me only because you were having bad dreams. Are you sure there is not something more, some physical manifestation or byproduct of your nightmare?” he asked, his kind, gray eyes peering straight through her.