by K. J. Dahlen
"Try me. I've heard it all."
"Not this."
"Well what's the problem?"
"I'm afraid everywhere."
"I see." She started to write and mumbled as she went. "Expressive social fear."
"I can't make decisions anymore. My job is on the rocks, girlfriend left, everything in ruins."
More notes with a whispered "Ambivalence, confusion, frustration."
Dr. Aspen sat back. "That's it? That's all?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Happens at work. In stores. With women. I get overwhelmed and have to leave. The only place I feel safe is at home in front of a computer screen.
She took a deep breath. "Well that's really something that..." Sara struggled to connect her thoughts, "we can work with."
"Yeah? Really?"
"Sure." She tried to categorize his symptoms in her mind. "But first, let's start with some background info."
Sara opened his folder and scanned the page. "Says here you're a writer? She smiled with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah." He nodded with a smile back. "But I don't want to talk about that."
"Okay." Her eyes looked over the page for other clues. "And you're from the coast."
"Right again."
"What kind of books do you write?"
"Please don‘t go there," he added.
Sure, cause you just might give away your identity… "So how can I help?"
He extended both hands with his palms up. "It's immobilizing my life. I can't do anything without this anguish over all the choices and people."
Blake's expression twisted. "I'll be in Wal-Mart and people get in the way. They'll stop without warning, block aisles with their cart. It's horrible."
"You really do need help. I should've stopped for coffee on the way in this morning."
"I'll be in the store for one item and get bogged down with all the options." The man stood up, his hands raised with the palms facing up--as if declaring innocence. Then his arms made chopping motions off to the side as if stacking cans on a shelf. "Forget tomato sauce. They've got diced, mined, strained, with and without herbs and seasoning, some that's chunky, others smooth."
Sara pointed at the chair. "Please stay seated." She looked at the file again and let her thoughts wander.
I don't remember any of this kind of talk in his books. They were always about beautiful women and these hunks they would end up with
"Take Starbuck's for instance," Blake continued. "I can't go in there and just order coffee. They've got a hundred kinds with all the added elements..."
Sara lifted a hand. "That talk about coffee makes me want some."
Blake took a deep breath. Sara scribbled something in the margin of his folder.
"My specialization is cognitive behavior therapy," she told him. "That means we would work on changing your thought processes to help you function with less stress."
"Sounds good."
"Part of that is what we call 'exposure' therapy where we will try to gradually introduce you to the situations that bring pain and discomfort."
"As in?"
"Anything with a lot of choices."
He leaned forward in his seat. "So you'll go with me while I struggle with some of these things?"
"Yes, exactly."
"Okay. When do we start?"
Sara looked at the clock on her wall. "A lot of your progress will depend on your willingness to take risks."
"Then how ‘bout lunch?" He stopped. "I’ve got to make some changes fast. You said you'd like some coffee."
"I don’t go anywhere with patients for safety reasons," she answered. "But I’ll meet you there."
Sara smiled to herself. He sure is playing this game well. Her eyes scanned his chest and arms. Well, I can play also.
"So it sounds good." She closed her pen. "Let me tell my secretary."
"There‘s a place out by the by-pass called Bend in the River Cafe. He smiled and stood up. "If you can stand being with me in this melt-down."
"That's what I get paid for," she answered.
This is going to be good. When will he stop the fake symptoms and tell the truth?
Chapter Three
Out by the river, the café was busy. It was an old cedar-wood building that looked more like a barn with a deck that backed up to the water. An old sign had "Bend in the River" on the front and inside there were the remains of horse drawn plows, pictures of old farmers, and tables with varnished wood. The atmosphere was dark with paneling, exposed beams, hanging plants that were fern-like and large windows that faced the river. Tugboats moved up the channel next to sailboats. It was a mix of traffic. And that also reflected the type of customers.
One waiter was looking through the windows at the water at that moment. He was over forty with dark hair and a thick day’s worth of a beard. He also had the build of a swimmer but the chiseled eyes of someone who lived with pain. It was more than physical. It was an understanding that went beyond words.
Years had left the waiter with a quiet balance as if he could move around people and yet distance their emotions. He had one arm around an empty tray with his other elbow on the bar. A large white apron wrapped around his waist. But his eyes were on the river.
"Don’t like this one bit," the fry cook said beside him.
The waiter turned with a glance. "How’s that?"
"Your dad wouldn’t approve."
"Why not?"
The cook was a large man with a stomach that pushed against his white apron. His hair was gray and arms thick. He looked more at home on the deck of a tub boat than behind a stove.
"The idea’s odd," the older man said. "You know how he was about business."
"I’d love to ask him," the waiter took a deep breath and lifted his tray as he started off. "But I can’t."
The room was full. Small groups sat around tables that were edged in the rolled hemp lines that ships used around bollards on a dock.
The waiter lifted a coffee pot and started through the room as the door opened and a woman entered. She wore a dark business suit and scanned the full tables.
The waiter saw her in the corner of his eyes and swiveled in mid stride. "I’ll be right with you," he said.
She’s beautiful. Blonde hair pulled loose in a pony tail, business suit pressed without wrinkle, eyes dark blue and alert. The waiter took it all in with a glance. He continued past tables as a gap opened in his thoughts.
She’s also alone, but the room is full and they all have friends.
He stopped to offer coffee for a group of legal secretaries. But the image remained in the back of his mind. He set the coffeepot down in the center of the table.
"Help yourself, ladies," he told them. "I’ll be right back."
The woman at the entrance watched him approach as he wiped his hands on the apron. The air smelled like cinnamon and cappuccino.
Large eyes. Maybe a tennis player. But no expression.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
She looked across the room and took a deep breath. "Yes, I wanted a table but…"
Smooth voice. And yet sounds tired.
He lifted a hand off to the side. "How about our deck. It’s a beautiful day outside."
She smiled weakly and nodded. He started to grab a menu and start for the door but stopped.
"Will anyone be joining you?"
She followed and then looked out at the river as if caught up in thought. "Well, probably not."
He stopped. "That doesn’t sound hopeful."
She smiled. "I’m used to it."
"I see." He continued out the door and headed for a table near the water. No one else was out there.
The woman sat down and looked at the sky, overcast now with a cool wind. Her hair fluttered off to the side and her eyes wandered across the water as sea gulls called in the distance. Then she picked up the menu and the waiter was still there, pen in hand, pad ready.
"I’m sorry," he said. "Would you like some time before you order?"
The woman paused as a dog stuck his head around the corner near the parking lot.
It was an old pointer with gray around his muzzle.
The waiter looked up and let his arms flop. "BOB…Get back in that TRUCK. How many times do I have to tell you?" He stopped and looked down at the woman. "I’m sorry. He knows better…"
An old lady stuck her head out the door with an edge in her voice. "You’ve got customers in here. You know that?"
"I’m sorry," the waiter shouted. He pointed at the dog again. But the animal didn’t budge.
"He looks determined," the woman said from the table. There was a slight smile on her lips.
"Doctor visit and he doesn’t want to go."
The old lady opened the door again. "WE NEED COFFEE!"
The waiter waved then pursed his lips with a finger toward the dog. "GET BACK IN THAT TRUCK NOW!"
The woman slid her chair back. "Want me to help?"
"No," he snapped. His voice then calmed as he looked back. "You’re a guest."
She got up. "Where does he go?"
The waiter pointed at the parking lot as he started back toward the building. "There’s a beat up old Chevy out there. Just put him in the back and raise the gate." He looked back at her with sadness in his eyes. "I’m so sorry for this. But thank you for the kindness."
The woman whistled as she approached the dog. He was a short haired pointer with a tail that rose in a dip. That tail began to wag as she passed the corner and faced the parking lot.
"Well, Bob. How are you Bud-dy?"
The dog came closer and began to sniff. The woman ran her fingers behind his ears in a slow scratch.
"You‘re a calm dog-gy. That’s good." She scanned the parking lot and let her eyes pass the row of Lexis, BMW’s and SUV’s. An old truck was in the corner like a leftover from a landfill. It had the rounded hood and rust from decades past.
She started for the truck, lowered the tailgate and snapped her fingers. "It’s okay Bob. These doctor visits sound bad," she turned and stroked his head. "But they’re over fast."
The dog wagged faster. His eyes were bright. The woman pointed at the back and snapped again. Bob jumped up and turned to face her. The gate was still down but she rubbed his head again.
"So what’s the visit about today? Flea dip? Teeth cleaning?"
"No," a voice said from behind. "He’s got a heart murmur."
The waiter was behind her in a jog. "They don’t think he has long." The man lifted the gate shut. "But thank you for the help."
Another old lady was on the deck and started to shout across the parking lot.
"ARE YOU THE ONLY HELP IN THERE?"
The waiter turned again. "Fraid so." He smiled at the woman by the dog and started back for the café.
"We’re trying to pay and there’s no one else but the cook and HE DON’T TAKE MONEY!"
"I’m coming." The waiter rubbed his hands across his apron. "Look, how does an organic salad sound?" He walked backwards toward the café. "It’s the best thing in the house. I designed that meal myself."
"Sounds good," the woman answered. "But why are you the only one working?"
"Easy," he turned and started to run. "I’m an idiot and gave everyone else the day off."
The woman walked back to the table. Her expression softened as the moments began to stretch. The waiter brought out a large tray and began to set plates around her: fresh wheat bread, large bowl of salad, coffee.
"Wow," she replied.
His actions were fast, eyes back on the building. "I’ll be back later," he said. "They’re watching me. It’s madness in there."
"I see." She smiled and watched him walk away.
He glanced back and caught her looking. Both smiled.
She lifted the bread and took a deep breath. Steam came from the top as she dipped her knife in a pallet of butter and slid it across the top. It began to sink in a fast melt. She lifted it to her mouth and felt the blend of wheat dissolve in the butter taste.
The salad had spinach leaves with specks of cheese that stuck to the sides but not smeared. Each leaf had moisture from the dressing, olives, orange slivers, and cashews.
The woman dipped her fork in the middle and slid it into her mouth. The combination of sweet and sour mixed with the textures of nuts and olives. She let the savor linger and looked out at the river that floated by in spirals.
Later the waiter returned with a bowl of fresh fruit.
"Great, but…" the woman paused, "I didn’t order that."
"I know," he said. "It’s on the house."
"Well, thanks." She lifted a grape and watched him as she bit down. The skin gave way on with a tartness that was almost a snap inside her mouth. "I might need a doggy bag," she added. "You know how that is."
"Bob would approve." The waiter smiled. "He’s my dog."
The woman looked at her watch. "Wish I had more time."
"Yeah, well…." He held the tray at his waist and continued to glace back at the building.
"So, could I get the check?"
"Oh no." He lifted a hand. "Not this time."
"What do you mean?"
The waiter smiled, lifted a hand, let it drop, pointed at the parking lot then back at the building.
"I take that to mean something." Her eyes softened again.
"Yeah. It was my pleasure." He looked at her and bowed with his eyes toward the water and then back. "But, a… thanks for stopping by."
"That is very kind of you then." The woman wiped her mouth and got up.
They both looked at each other then apart. She walked off and he started to lift the dishes from her table.
Chapter Four
Later that night Dr. Sara Aspen sat at a table in the studio of WRVR and adjusted some headphones as a technician typed into a computer across the room.
"You know the format," he called to her. "I’ll take the calls and send you an instant message or wave a hand when I need to interrupt. They’ll show up on your screen as a list with the tag next to the first name."
"Got it, Mr. Harris," she said.
The man had gray hair and a silver mustache. "Call me Max."
"Okay, Max."
A large picture window opened on one wall to face the river and another on the lobby for people to watch. Sara let her eyes wander out to the water.
"Three minutes to count down," Max added.