Though my real self had not been awakened the night of the devil’s laughter, the effects on my real self were still quite painful. I woke emotionally drained and almost unsure of every aspect of my being. For the first time in my life, I craved a rum and Coke immediately upon waking. I felt weak and pitiful. I needed to see that psychologist soon, whatever his name was. I was a mess. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to see anyone laugh all day. I was sick of it.
CHAPTER 14
FRIDAY DIDN’T COME soon enough. I had been to two more AA meetings and was getting a good handle on working in the car, organizing my ideas on paper at dinner, then thinking more good thoughts about my clients during my last lap to the Serenity Club. I had been to the live oak one more time, but I had not Thursday night because I had talked with Toby, and after twenty minutes of good conversation with him, I wanted to get home to sleep. Besides that fact, I had also become quite fond of working in my brain the forty-five minutes it took me to drive home.
But my big personal news was that Friday afternoon I was going to fill out my paperwork for Dr. Banderas. That day at noon, I stopped at Amanda’s desk and picked up my client schedule for the next two weeks. I had requested that she perform that task Tuesday in order to give her plenty of time to complete it before Friday. As usual, she was prepared with my client schedule, printed out neatly and logically for the next ten business days. I marveled at how efficient she was. She was a secretary that I had employed for several months and I could not recall a single mistake that she had made. I said, “Thank you, ma’am,” as I took the paperwork from her hand and headed out the door. I headed for my car, salivating for a Polish sausage and an Orange Crush. Today I would go to Joy, my favorite hot dog vendor in the city of St. Pete. Joy set up her hot dog cart each morning on the northwest corner of Sixth and Central. She was a well-muscled woman, toned in several visible places including arms, legs, chest and back. She wore thick glasses and sunglasses, almost always, covering what most people never noticed was a very pretty and kind set of eyes. Fact was, she was truly a kind person, always helping to raise money for some charitable organization she supported. She had a rough side too. Even though she had a reputation of always giving a hot dog and a soda to someone who was genuinely hungry, she also had to deal with quite a few thugs and druggies who wandered around downtown St. Pete along with the far greater majority of honest hard laboring people who worked downtown. Occasionally, some creep would ride by and snatch a handful of coins and paper money from her tip pail. When they tried to grab the whole silver-colored pail, they were nearly jolted from their bikes because that pail was bolted to the hot dog cart with a long thick chain and six strong bolts near the end of the chain. Joy’s husband, Roger Michael, was her partner not only in life, but in the hot dog business. He set up his own hot dog cart on the southeast corner of Central and Eighth Streets. A big burly guy with long graying hair in a ponytail and a lengthy beard. He had muscles upon muscles. He and his wife were members of the Black Knights Motorcycle Club and they worked out and lifted weights four nights a week without fail unless they went on vacation on their motorcycles. No one had yet to try to snag Roger Michael’s tip pail.
Joy was her typical ebullient self that glorious late May day. I had found a parking spot about seventy-five feet from her stand and had walked up to her feeling a bit happier than I usually did.
“What’s up, Dr. McKenzie?” she said, her pretty smile trekking broadly across her suntanned face.
“I’m trying to give up drinking,” I said.
“I didn’t know you had a problem with it,” she said, more seriously than her hello.
“I didn’t either, until a few days ago.”
“I don’t drink that much,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I can’t imagine giving it up completely.”
“Honestly, neither can I.”
In the first place, I couldn’t believe I had blurted out that I wanted to give up drinking. In the second place, I couldn’t believe that I was having a casual conversation on Sixth and Central at a quarter past noon with Joy, the hot dog lady.
“I wish you the best of luck, Doctor,” she said sincerely. “Now what can I get you before I get slammed?”
“I’ll take a Polish sausage with either kind of mustard, some ketchup, and an Orange Crush.”
“Coming right up, Doc.”
Her use of the word Doc made me think of Toby. He hadn’t mentioned anything about Mary Bauer in our last conversation and I had not brought it up. I knew full well that it was too soon after I asked him to look into it for me for him to have any information. It would come at his own pace.
By the time Joy handed me my wonderful Polish sausage and Orange Crush, there were six people in line behind me. As I paid her $3 with a $1 tip, she said sincerely, “You always bring a crowd with you whenever you stop by.”
“I’m glad,” I said as I began to depart, smiling.
“Stop by more often,” she said.
I raised my hand with the Crush in it as if it were body language that said, “I will.”
Then I was in my car on my way to my new psychologist’s office. His office wasn’t far up the road, located at 8601 Fourth Street North in the same building where a dialysis center was located. I was there by 12:50. The office door was locked, so I simply sat in a nearby chair in the outer lobby and waited.
At precisely 1:00 p.m., I heard the click of the door lock and the office was open. I walked from my chair feeling confident, happy. I knew that doing this was the right thing. Behind the desk in the waiting room was Dianne. I quickly noticed on her name plate on the desk that she spelled Dianne with two Ns.
I thought I’d be a little playful. I said, “Hello, Dianne with two Ns. I’m Robert McKenzie with a capital M and a capital K.” She let out a good laugh and presented a pretty smile. We were instant friends.
“I’ll bet you’re here to fill out some paperwork, Mr. McKenzie.”
“I am,” I said, like a kid getting to buy a box of Good N Plenty in a candy store.
“You may not feel quite as frisky when you see how many pages there are.”
“I won’t mind,” I said, feeling that answer because I really didn’t want to sit there for an hour filling out forms like a young man enlisting in the service. But I knew the drill. As I thanked her for the forms, she asked me if I had a pen and I told her I had a couple of my trusted black Pilot pens. She said, “I like those too.” And then we were really good friends. Bonded in two minutes.
I took a closer look at Dianne. She was a strong woman with a well-set jaw. She looked like she might generally be a serious person, but her response to my opening introduction revealed she had a low giggle point. I guessed her to be about forty-nine; twenty years older than Amanda. She was probably about ten pounds heavier than her ideal weight. She was put together well and was still quite attractive. In that moment I was looking at her more closely, I concluded that her quickness to fun during life’s ongoing improvs is what made her substantially appealing. I took the small packet of paperwork with me to a leather couch across the room, sank comfortably into it, and began filling out the forms. They were not unlike the paperwork I utilized at my office. I did not have a single problem filling out the forms until I got to a singular question. Occupation? I agonized over it. I was feeling embarrassment, shame, and stupidity at being a tormented psychologist and not being able to analyze and conquer my nightmares. And the shame almost made me tremble long before I got to the question that asked me to describe in detail what was bothering me. I almost lied, making up a job that would fit a middle-aged professional-looking man like me, something I could easily bluff my way through if Banderas asked me about it. But even though I hadn’t seen the Big Book yet, I knew that honesty was a large factor in sobriety so I told the truth, reluctantly. As I expected, it took about forty-five minutes to fill out the paperwork. This was something I had deci
ded to pay for myself. Before I left the office, I had hoped that I would get a peek at Dr. Banderas, but I was not that lucky. I would have to wait until my first appointment.
“Do you have any questions before you leave, Mr. McKenzie?” Dianne asked me as I handed her my completed paperwork, upon which many of my life’s secrets rested.
“I do, Dianne. Most importantly, does Dr. Banderas see patients in the evening?”
“He does on occasion, yes. He often makes himself flexible for his clients’ needs.” I liked the way Dianne had phrased that sentence.
“I, like Dr. Banderas, am a full-time professional person. I usually work Monday through Friday from 8:00 a.m. until about 5:00 p.m., sometimes later.”
“Would you like your first appointment to be in the evening Mr. McKenzie?”
She hadn’t yet seen in my paperwork that I was a doctor.
“That would be greatly appreciated, if possible,” I said, thankfully.
“That way I’ll be able to get you a much quicker appointment,” she said as though she just moved Christmas to November.
She was scanning her schedule book with quick, skillful glances and within twenty seconds, responded: “How about next Wednesday at 7:00 p.m.?”
“Oh boy,” I answered, pretty much like a little kid who was excited at the prospect of Christmas coming early.
“Good,” she said, pleased that she was able to work out my first appointment to my satisfaction. “I’ll look forward to seeing you then. She was a consummate professional secretary with a nearly regal bearing, finesse, and a youthful flair about her. Dr. Antonio Banderas was fortunate to have her working for him, as I was fortunate to have Amanda working for me.
My behaviors were beginning to change. I hadn’t been to a liquor store in almost a week, hadn’t had a drink in four days, hadn’t hung out in my bedroom much, created a whole new approach to my evening work. I had begun to attend AA meetings and had made an actual appointment to see a psychologist who I could begin talking to about the devil and the Two-Knock Ghost because I wasn’t getting anywhere with either of them. As I reflected on the changes that were beginning in my life, I wanted to see Christine. I yearned to see her, thinking that finally I had something to tell her that was significant. I was beginning to change my life. I was proud of myself. But I wasn’t ready yet and I knew it. I had not conquered anything yet. I would have to achieve a great deal more than my first baby steps toward self-fulfillment in order to impress my tiny little dynamo of a wife.
I was on the right track. I may not have been in the right place to see her yet, but I would at least be in the right place to call her soon. I yearned to do that too. When it came to Christine, there was yearning everywhere … to call her, to listen to her voice, to be with her, to go out with her to an Italian restaurant, to hold her in my arms through endless nights, to recapture the glory of love that symbolized the wonder we had shared for over thirty years before she asked me to leave. I wasn’t sure yet what all the reasons were, why she had done that. How could I be with her without having the complete understanding of an answer for that question if she were to ask it of me? I had so much work to do. I wanted to do it and change myself for the better as much for Christine as for myself. That’s just the way it was. For each day of those thirty years, I had thought that everything I was doing in life was as much for Christine’s happiness as for my own. Somewhere along that long road of years, I had slipped up to the point of having hurt my darling wife immensely. I was only beginning to understand the nature of those slip ups and the depth of the pain that I had caused her. But knowing that I was only at the beginning of the path of my personal awareness of how I had injured Christine did not reduce my yearnings for her. In fact, everything I was discovering about myself made my yearnings to be happy again with Christine greater.
As I drove back to my office in the middle of the afternoon to see my last two clients, I felt the emotional pain of my separation from my wife. Suddenly I felt physical pain … and I wanted it to go away. I had work to do and two human beings who needed help in life were coming into my office within minutes. I wanted a drink. I didn’t want or need much, a half of a glass of rum and Coke would make me feel better. But I knew that I was crazy for thinking those thoughts. One moment I was feeling proud of myself for thinking I was beginning to accomplish something. The next moment I was falling apart.
* * * * *
The next five days were a blur. I kept myself busy with work and AA meetings, a couple of brief, no information about Mary chats with Toby, a singular stop to ponder God’s craftsmanship at the live oak and an interesting phone call to my youngest son, which I’ll tell you about in a moment. But all weekend long until I actually shook his hand, I looked forward to meeting Dr. Banderas almost as much as a college boy looks forward to going on a date with a pretty girl who he liked a great deal, which in my case had always been Christine.
It was lunch time Monday when I was finally free to talk with my son, Shawn David. For yet another reason I have never been able to figure out, he and I were able to talk with each other easier than I could talk with my two older kids. Don’t misunderstand me. Talking with each of my children had almost always gone smoothly for me. They were all great kids, now pleasant and prospering young adults. But with Shawn I had always seemed more relaxed talking with him. As he grew into adolescence and adulthood I revealed more of myself to him than I did with his siblings. Perhaps it was because he was the easiest going of our three kids. He put the least pressure on himself. Oddly, and it was possibly because of that quality, that all kinds of things came easier to him, including more honest expressions from myself. There were few people who didn’t like him immensely, except maybe bullies who were jealous of his casual style and the fact that younger and older women alike flocked around him. Oh, how could I have almost forgotten to tell you this, he was a race car driver.
I had no idea where my lunchtime call would find him.
“Hello, Shawn.”
“Hello, Dad!” he answered with happy surprise.
“Where are you right now?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m in the shop having lunch with the guys. We’ve been working on the car all morning.”
“Is this a bad time for you, Shawn? Do you want me to call you back?”
“This is a great time, Dad. Let me grab my sandwich and soda and head into my office.”
He kept talking as he walked toward his personal quiet spot.
“Where have you been keeping yourself lately? It’s like you’ve fallen off the grid.”
“You know your mom and I have been separated a few months now,” I said, not hiding the shame in my voice very well.
“Right.”
“When I first left, I honestly didn’t know where your mom was coming from. That went on for some weeks, but now I’m getting a handle on things and I’m beginning to take responsibility for some of my actions, which I’m now certain hurt your mom.”
“That’s great, Dad!” he said, always the eternal optimist. “Do you want to share anymore specifics, or do you just want me to be satisfied with the fact that you’re getting a handle on things?”
There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He was being sincere, respectful in his way.
Here I went again, about to reveal my deepest intimacies with my youngest son.
“For me, Shawn, the biggest news is that I’ve admitted that I’m an alcoholic, and I’ve started going to AA. I’ve also taken steps to work on two other problems that have been plaguing me in my dreams—the devil and a Two-Knock Ghost.”
“A what?”
“A ghost who always knocks twice but never comes in.”
“And you’re afraid of it?”
“Son, if you knew the various contexts in which the ghost knocks, it might scare you too.”
“I understand, Dad. I’ve had some pretty h
orrible dreams in my life too—crashing dreams, ya know.”
“I do.”
“But I didn’t think you even believe in the devil or ghosts.”
“I don’t.”
There was a moment of silence between us. I was hoping he would never crash, and I thought that he might be thinking that you don’t have to believe in something in order to dream about it and have it frighten the wits out of you.
It was I who broke the dead air.
“Shawn, there was a deep reason I called you today. I’ll tell you honestly, I haven’t even seen the Big Book yet, but I know about making amends. Something’s really been bothering me lately. I am beginning to understand the various ways that I have hurt your mom and I’ll begin making up with her for those things soon enough, but I’ve worried about you kids lately and whether there were things I did that hurt you as a child.”
“Oh my gosh, no, Dad. I can’t even remember a single spanking.”
Hearing that made me feel good. It reminded me that I never spanked my kids. What I would do was sit them down and go through every step of a problem they were having, point by minute point, until they got what I thought was the full and proper perspective of a situation. I called it “logicalizing.” Sometimes, it was worse than a spanking.
“Dad, I can’t remember a single thing you did that hurt me emotionally. I do remember a myriad of things that you did that produced the opposite effects of negative emotions.”
“Like what?” I liked when Shawn would get on one of his complimentary rolls and right now, though I wanted the truth of how I might have hurt him, I also was at an intersection of my life where a little positive stroking couldn’t hurt.
“I remember great vacations and the board games we used to play when the days seemed to stretch out forever. We played Scrabble and Battleship and Score Four for hours on end. I still have a journal from when I was about fifteen where I kept a running record of who won and lost our contests. I remember all kinds of card games we used to play, that you and Mom taught us. We played a million games of 500 Rummy, Gin Rummy, Black Jack. But my favorite card games we played were Canasta with two decks and Samba with three decks. Do you remember those games, Dad?”
The Two-Knock Ghost Page 15