by Dan Taylor
“Jane?”
Again, no reply.
I go through to the living room and who I find sitting there blows my mind.
6.
“DR. HANNAH ROGERS?”
She turns to me, looks at me sexily over the rims of her glasses. “Jake, hi. Come and lie on the sofa.”
Dr. Hannah Rogers is a high-class hooker who specializes in role-play experiences. I asked her to dress up as that shrink from The Sopranos, and it turned out she was pretty good at tapping the bad stuff out of my psyche or whatever jargon you want to use, so I hired her in that capacity. Our last appointment was three weeks ago—no, that isn’t a coincidence—and as far as I can remember, we didn’t book one for today. I have no idea what the hell she’s doing here.
So I ask, “What the hell are you doing here?”
She’s sitting on the sofa chair, busying herself with getting her notepad and pen out of her briefcase, but then looks up upon hearing my question. “So, you got fired.”
“Word travels fast. How did you find out?”
“I didn’t. I assumed you would. Your plan to gain employment sounded flawed at best, ridiculous at worst.”
“You could’ve told me that during our session.”
“I did.”
“I think I would remember.”
Now sitting iron-rod straight, she flicks through her notepad. “I said, and I quote, ‘You’ll get found out quicker than a one-armed pool player.’”
“That doesn’t sound like you. You’re usually so…”
“Professional?”
“I was going to say frigid, but in a sexy way. But that works.”
“I let my hair down that day. Plus, I decided it would be better to speak in your language from time to time, to lessen the confusion during our sessions. Remember my saying that?”
“I don’t.”
She starts to flick through her notepad again.
“There’s no need for that. It’s obviously in there.” I go and lie on the sofa, sigh. “Have you come to say I told you so?”
She doesn’t answer, just looks at me in that curious way shrinks do when they’re interpreting what you said in a million different ways.
“Is saying that beneath you?”
“No, it wouldn’t be a productive way to spend our session.”
“What would, then?”
She sits and says nothing for thirty seconds or so.
“Doc, why aren’t you talking?”
“I was trying a new technique, letting you open up all by yourself.”
“So I’m paying to be your guinea pig, now?”
She’s silent again, and for about a minute this time.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, so things are going well with my sister.”
My sister, Mary, has progressive-relapsing multiple sclerosis. Six months ago we had a troubled relationship. She tried to lean on me for emotional support, and I just wanted to pretend she wasn’t ill. I just bought her stuff instead of being there for her.
I continue, “We hang out often, and I’ve been her shoulder to cry on, on a few occasions. I’ve even babysat Randy a few times.” I smile. “Great kid…”
“That’s your nephew, right?”
I sit up on my elbows, frown. “You already knew that. Seems pretty redundant you asking.”
“I did. Just making things clear.”
“Okay…” I go back down into a lying position. “So I think I’m sorted in that department. I’m now an okay uncle and brother.”
“But you still don’t feel content?”
“Who does, Doc?”
She has a smile on her face that’s communicating contentedness.
“Don’t be smug, Doc. It doesn’t suit you.”
She ignores what I said, says, “Let’s talk about your dreams.”
“Which ones, the nightmares I have about my ex-wife coming back to L.A., her telling me that she didn’t process the divorce papers and that she’s pregnant with my triplets?”
“Not those.”
“The ones in which people I’ve known for a long time pull off latex masks, like in the movies, to reveal they’re actually someone else?”
“Not those, either.”
“Which ones, then?”
“The one in which you’re at the base of a tall tree, unable to reach the first branch to climb to the top.”
I sigh. “Oh, that…”
“I believe this is where our next level of progress lies.”
“It’s just a dumb psychological hangover from my childhood. I was shit at climbing trees. I always wanted to be good, like Trevor Flowers. But I was short as a kid. And I had weak hands.”
“I think you’re taking it too literally.”
“My other dreams are literal. Why can’t this one be?”
“It can. But it’s worth exploring, just to see if it isn’t.”
“You know what I think it might symbolize—the tree, I mean?”
“Go ahead, Jake.”
“It’s about my drought.” I cringe as I prepare myself to admit the extent of it. “The only person I’ve had sex with in the last three months is you.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Don’t become all bashful, Doc. Anyway, that first branch is the first lay after my drought. Once I grab on to it, it’ll be easier to get to the second branch, and the third, becoming progressively easier.”
“It’s an interesting interpretation.”
I sit up a little. “It is, right? I only just thought of it now.”
“Do you think having meaningless sex with multiple partners, most of whom you will take advantage of, will fulfill you as a person?”
I look at her like she’s just asked if the pope shits in the Vatican. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
“It is.”
“Good. So how do we go about ending my drought?”
“Not rhetorical in that way. No, it wouldn’t fulfill you as a person.”
I yawn, only half-theatrically. “Probably not. But it would restore the status quo.”
“That’s a step backward. Let’s look at a different interpretation.”
“Shoot.”
“The tree is your unfulfilled career. Each branch is a level of progress. That first branch feels far off because you’re unemployed.”
I sit up fully. “Aha! I have a job!”
“Congratulations.”
“So let’s get back to talking about that tree-drought situation.”
She frowns.
“You know what I mean.” I lie down again. “Seeing as though the tree isn’t a career tree, my interpretation is probably right.”
“When was the last time you experienced the dream?”
“A couple nights ago.”
“And when did you gain employment?”
“This afternoon. I don’t get where you’re going with this, Doc.”
She’s silent.
It sinks in. “So you think that the next time I have the dream I’ll be on the first branch?”
“If you are, it’ll be telling.”
“Okay, let’s run with your interpretation. In terms of professional fulfillment, are we talking bonuses, better medical, or a pay increase?”
“Do those things mean a lot to you?”
“They would help me sleep better at night.”
“So they provide security. But that isn’t fulfillment.”
“I don’t get it. What other reasons do people work for?”
“One could be to feel you’re contributing to your community. Another could be to accomplish a lifelong goal, win an industry award, etc.”
“I get it now. Another could be to get closer to a colleague who I’ve secretly wanted to screw for a long time.”
“I don’t think you have.”
I think about Gerry. “Should we take a break and I’ll make margaritas?” I start getting up.
“Lie back down, Jake. I know what you associate with that drink, now. Y
ou told me during one of our previous sessions.”
I do as I’m told. “I was just thirsty, is all.”
“Would you like to get a glass of water?”
“Nah…”
“So, back to these career goals. Can you think of anything you’d like to achieve that doesn’t involve money, sex, or vanity?”
“Off the top of my head, no.”
“Can you take some time to think about that before our next session?”
“I can.”
“Good.”
I check the time. “It’s not long before my driver arrives.”
“Are there any other pressing matters?”
I turn on my side, open my legs to display my crotch, and raise an eyebrow.
She throws her head back and laughs. “Geez, you are getting rusty.”
“Is this not doing it for you?”
She resets her professional demeanor. “Whether it is or not is irrelevant.”
I return to a normal lying position, sigh. “Okay, there is a pressing matter. And I do have time. I lied. It’s my lack of sex. I’ve lost my mojo.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Yesss! I knew it worked! The old Hancock crotch—”
“Not that. You never had any mojo. You just seduced women who were young and naïve enough to think you’re more special than you are.”
I frown. “If you had one of those desk timer things—like attorneys have—I’d reach out and stop it.”
She ignores me. “It could be that your lack of career fulfillment is related to your lack of sex.”
I think about that a second while looking dazedly up at the ceiling. “That would be really convenient. Anyway, you said that I seduced women dumb enough to think I’m not a good catch, denying I had any mojo in the first place.”
“I did, in different words. And I think that still rings true. You’ve stooped so low professionally that you can’t even manage that.”
I reach over and mime stopping the desk timer.
“My job isn’t to cater to your ego, Jake.”
“Can you at least guarantee success?”
“You knew the answer to that before you asked it.”
“Give me a percentage chance of success.”
She’s silent.
“Okay, a ratio, then.”
Still silent.
“At least give me an IMDB-style score. One of those when, if it falls in the normal range, you don’t know whether it’s a good movie or not.”
“That’s not how it works, Jake.”
It’s my turn to ignore her. “I’m going to go with six-point-seven…no, eight. Six-point-eight chance of success. Three-point-two chance of failure.”
“As with all your problems we’ll work through them together. Even if the result isn’t the intended one, we will have made some progress by the end of our work.”
“That’s such a shrink response.”
She gets up and starts packing her stuff away. I watch her as I lie on the sofa. When she’s at the door, ready to leave, despite my lack of hovering around her, making inappropriate small talk, I say, “Don’t make me beg…”
“Until next time, Jake. And remember. These two things could be connected.”
After she leaves, I slam my head back against the armrest and mutter, “Don’t say that…”
7.
I SHOWER AND DRESS in double time. Just as I’m putting my socks on, there’s a buzz at the intercom.
I go over to it, inspect the grainy, gray image of the driver for a good ten seconds.
He says, “I can hear you breathing, Mr. Hancock. I take it that means you’re coming down.”
I start to say, “You can never be too careful,” but he’s already on his way back to the car.
When I get down there, he’s waiting in the driver’s seat.
As I get in, I say, “Standards are slipping.”
He looks at me in the rearview mirror, his raised bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows asking questions for his dull, lifeless eyes.
“You guys usually wait by the passenger door, like a chauffeur.”
“Word got around you don’t tip well, so we don’t try.”
“I do so.”
He ignores me, starts driving.
After thirty seconds or so, I can’t resist myself. “Who said that?”
“Why, you going to file a complaint?”
“No. Never squealed in my life. Just interested is all.”
“Couple a’ guys down the depot.” Drily, he continues, “Anyway, if we’ve done enough catching up, I’d like to concentrate on driving. Reach down into the compartment in front of you. Take out the hood.”
I laugh. “You’re okay, Jeeves.”
“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Hancock.” He screeches the car to a halt.
“You serious?”
“Do I look like a man who jokes around?”
It wasn’t an invitation, but I look at him anyway. He’s got a pudgy face, pockmarked skin—the eyebrows I’ve already mentioned—and wiry, curly hair that looks like it’s five weeks past it’s last trim. “It’s…inconclusive.”
His face is emotionless, which I think is my answer.
I say, “No, you don’t look like you moonlight as a standup comedian.”
“Not even a sit-down one. Reach into the compartment. Take out the hood.”
A car has pulled up to the tailgate and the driver is beeping the horn.
I do. After I’ve inspected it, I say, “It doesn’t have any eyeholes.”
“That’s why I said the hood.”
I sigh and then give in. “At least put on the radio. I get claustrophobic.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Hancock.”
He turns it on. Nice station, great show. Terrence Salt’s Two-Hour Jazz Drive. But it doesn’t help one bit.
After the half-hour drive I’m about ready to claw the hood off my face from panic.
I hear the crunching of gravel under the tires and then the car pulls up, goes quiet, and I say, “Are we here?”
“Did you hear me turn off the engine at any other traffic light or place I stopped during the drive?”
I take the hood off. “You’re getting the hang of this, the comedy stuff.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Hancock.”
I look out the window, blow one of those falling whistles as I look up at the mansion to my right. “This the place?”
“No, I just stopped to admire the view.”
I ignore him, get out, and stretch my legs. Then I go to give him a tip. I take out a twenty, then remember something he said, and choose a fifty instead. As I hand it to him, I say, “And remember to tell all your buddies down at the depot about this gig.”
With a wry smile on his face, he says, “Don’t worry, Mr. Hancock, I will.” Then he takes the fifty. Drives off.
8.
“YOU DIDN’T SHAVE off your mustache,” Gerry says, greeting me at the door.
“I was expecting a butler to answer. Or a maid.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I got held up. There wasn’t time.”
“What were you doing…on second thought, don’t answer that.” She steps aside, allowing me in. “Take off your shoes.”
“I haven’t done that since I visited my aunt Barbara.”
“Well your uncle Andre demands it.”
I do as she said.
She leads me down a hallway. “There are a couple things I should say before you meet him.”
“Shoot.”
“First, his appearance might surprise you. Don’t comment on it; don’t look at him for too long or not look at him at all. Just act natural. Don’t act like how Jake Hancock would in these circumstances.”
“Got it.”
“Second, don’t make small talk. Especially Jake Hancock topics of conversation. In fact, try not to speak. Only speak when you’re spoken to and keep your answers short.”
“Wow, you’re getting me all nervous.”
/> “Third—”
“The third member of the couple?”
She ignores me. “Third, and this is a big one, don’t sneeze or cough in his presence.”
“That’s strange.”
She doesn’t reply.
We stop outside of a grand set of sliding oak double doors, and she takes a deep breath, asks, “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
Turns out I’m not.
9.
THE DOUBLE DOORS OPEN to a large billiard room. In the center is who I can only presume is Andre. He’s lying in a large metal cylinder, which surrounds his body. Only his head pokes out.
He speaks in a British accent, “Mr. Jake Hancock, we finally meet.”
“Sir, it’s a pleasure.”
We walk towards him.
We’re a ways off, so I whisper to Gerry, “What hell is that thing?”
She doesn’t answer.
Then I recognize it. It’s one of those iron lungs. That explains the sneezing and coughing thing.
When I get there, I present my hand for him to shake. He looks at it, then laughs. “Gerry told me you had a wicked sense of humor.”
I didn’t realize I had—held my hand out, I mean—as I was nervous. I look down at it, and then laugh along with him. God knows why, but during the laughter, I lean forward, pat the top of the iron lung, as though tapping him on the shoulder.
I glance at Gerry, who scolds me with a look.
Andre says, “Would you care for a drink, Jake?”
I go to answer but Gerry interrupts me. “No! No, he wouldn’t.”
Andre says, “Now, now, Gerry. Let the man drink if he wants a drink.”
I say, “Why not?”
“There’s a bar behind you. Make us both a Scotch and soda, and bring a straw for me.”
I walk over to it, ignoring that Gerry’s look is burning a hole in me. I ask, “Any Scotch preferences?”
“You choose.”
“Why’s that? Can you tell a lot about a man from the Scotch he drinks?”
“Heavens no! They all taste the same to me.” We both laugh. Gerry doesn’t.
I take a cursory glance at the bottles and choose one. Then mix the drinks.
I remember the straw, go back over to Gerry and Andre. I place his on a little table by his head, put the straw in his mouth. After he’s taken a sip, he giggles. “Mr. Hancock, I might not be able to tell the difference between whiskies, but I can tell the difference between a Scotch and a brandy.”