Therapy Supremo

[Steven Hunley]

Therapy Supremo
by
Steven Hunley

You have no idea the state of mind I’m in. So desperate, so out of touch with the feminine side of our species I’m ready to start combing the pages of Plenty of Fish to hook one.

Of course, the process is arduous. It’s fraught with difficulties. But I do it. My psyche requires it. So I scan through the pictures and skim through the biographies and come across one that really sticks out.

“But what’s this? This distressing fact right here in the last paragraph.”

The pictures are beguiling but the bio is disturbing. It says she’s a therapist of some kind. Aye carumba! I don’t care much for this kind of stuff, for the simple reason I have a magician’s training, and as all magicians know, you take a magician’s oath to never give up your secrets.
Not by a long shot do I intend to give up the secrets in me. It will certainly make me lose my magic. I don’t intend to give up my magic. No earthquake or fire or tornado could possibly worm any secrets out of me.

It’s a case of Hall and Oates No Can Do. I can’t go for that.

But before you know it, I cave in and we start corresponding. Pretty soon we’re exchanging e-mail addresses and exchanging tons of information. Mega-tons of info is traded back and forth.

Not to say it is all good. Dump trucks of generic trash are interspersed with galleons of personal treasure. But after awhile, other indicators began to pile up.

“You have a daughter named ‘Nichole’? Me too, but we spell it ‘Nicole’.”

“You’re an English teacher? I was an English teacher!”

“You’ve been to Peru? Me too!”

“You sent me Rat Pack songs. My dad knew all the Rat Pack songs.”

“Hey, we’ve got a lot of synchronicity going on. You like Jung? Me and Carl are just like that!”

I cross my fingers but she can’t see, it’s over the phone.

“Carl wrote the introduction to my copy of the I Ching. You don’t know the I Ching? I’ll throw it for you one day, got the bronze coins and all.”

Next thing you know I’m sending her links to You-Tube, songs, and movies like Pather Panchali.

The reason I send Pather Panchali is because although the sequence shows children, it’s a sensuous sequence. It’s a clever way of being suggestive and tender too. That’s me, Mister Tender and Suggestive. Something about this woman brings it out in me.

Well' to be truthful, I’m lying here. Me sending her a link to Satyajit Ray’s film isn’t just an example of my masculine seductive prowess. Her mother is dying, and life for her is a collection of storms and hostilities. I intend to stand by her side and brave the storm with her, that’s what it’s really about. That’s the truth of the matter.

Of course, I have reservations. Any private no-admittance man with his head screwed on straight has reservations. So me, the clandestine me, the hesitant me, the covered-up covered-up me, has a sh*t-load of reservations. But her image is so compelling I have to go for the gusto anyway and make a date to have coffee.

Oh my God, and by the Beard of the Prophet, I suggest having coffee!

That’s me, Mister Bold and Reckless, Mister Take-A-Chance, Mister I Don’t Give A F*ck, because she’s so lovely I just hafta, making a date with a good-looking woman to have coffee simply because her image is so damn compelling. Mister Me, the Dude who doesn’t care to have anyone, and I mean anyone, peering around inside his noggin.

The rendezvous is at Starbucks in North Park. If I don’t get a true-love connection out of this, at least I can get a decent cup of coffee, most likely Columbian Supremo. Even romance can have a practical side. I jam out the door and fly up the street and figure I’ll arrive there about the same time she does, not a minute before, so as not to appear the needy bastard I am.

Sometimes I drip more neediness than a Van Husen drip-dry shirt, only twice as pathetic. She’ll probably take one look at me and hang me out to dry.

Well, I’m up here now at Starbucks and realize there are more white Lexuses than I imagined in this world and plenty of other cars that look similar too, especially since it’s dark. Scanning every white car for a good-looking dark-haired woman is wearing out my brain. After several impatient minutes, I give her a call and she answers.

“I’m here on the corner,” she says.

I’m so nervous I scan every corner in sight.

I cross the street in front of the wig shop and by this time I’m so keyed up I’m about to explode. Right then I turn around and see a woman getting out of her car. She looks up.

The smoldering eyes, the dark stylish hair, the high-as-Everest cheekbones and expressive mouth curved in a tenderly delicious welcoming smile, oh please, Momma, please!

Let it be her!

I sprint like an Olympic ice-skater to her side and scare the you-know-what out of her when I screech to a halt, nearly knocking her down.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Nothing like a great first impression.

That’s me, King of Great First Impressions. It’s her, Queen of Style and Good Looks.

And speaking of good looks, I can’t wait to get her inside of Starbucks for a real-first rate reconnoiter under the unforgiving klieg light of ol’ stimulant coffee Arabica.

We hug a friendly hug hello. At least for two strangers, it’s supposed to be a rather casual friendly-fied hug, nothing special mind you, nothing suggestive. But I notice a certain warmth, a certain je ne sais quoi, and whatever the hell it is, I like it. I’m not supposed to like it that much, but I like it… that much and more. I can feel her smile in the hug and it touches me somewhere deep inside.

To be continued…

http://youtu.be/XiCOJAfjc-Q I can’t go for That

http://youtu.be/wnm7QP1JXgY Pather Panchali

©Steven Hunley 2014

[MANICHAEAN]

Mmmmmm.
Millionaire Matchmaker it ain't, but it's got my attention.

[Steven Hunley]

We slip into Starbuck’s for coffee. I shot the windows here one night and posted the picture. She saw it on Facebook. You’ve seen the place, it’s the McDonald’s of coffee houses. Cool, but not too cool, if you know what I mean. No artificial camaraderie like back in the day with Boswell and Johnson, not the back in the day like Elliot, Balzac, and Byron.

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons" - T. S. Elliot


"Tis pity wine should be so deleterious, for tea and coffee leave us much more serious" - Lord Byron

“Coffee glides into one’s stomach and sets all of one’s mental processes in motion. One’s ideas advance in column of route like battalions of the Grande Armée. Memories come up at the double, bearing the standards which will lead the troops into battle. The light cavalry deploys at the gallop. The artillery of logic thunders along with its supply wagons and shells. Brilliant notions join in the combat as sharpshooters. The characters don their costumes, the paper is covered with ink, the battle has started, and ends with an outpouring of black fluid like a real battlefield enveloped in swaths of black smoke from the expended gunpowder. Were it not for coffee one could not write, which is to say one could not live. - Balzac

It’s much too sterile for that and there is not one, not one I tell ya, stinkin' speck of camaraderie. Oh, there are plenty of people here but little interactions, they’re much too busy, playing with their 'smart' or 'dumb' ‘devices’.

We’re the only two that are interacting, and I’d say that exactly but no, we were nowhere near acting, but somewhere closer to the home plate of Reality Central. You’ll think it’s crazy what I ‘bout to say… but it’s true! On the surface I’m calm! Her kindness is soaking into me!

My soul is steeping its bag in her strange brew!

Funny, because when I was still at home, I was nervous as all get-out. I was pacing so much I wore a trench in Jim’s rug. His two dogs, Morgan and Stanley, where scared out of their doggie-wits. I even e-mailed her last minute:

“If this doesn’t work out with us, I have nothing.”

OMG, OMG, if I'm not Desperation personified I don’t know who is. Oh. Jesus, I’m a desperado! Saints preserve me, Antonio Banderas is gonna be jealous.

And the best line I’ve come up with so far is, “Your eyes are two different colors. They’re crazy eyes.”

When what I meant to say was, “Your eyes are magnificent, like a birds-eye view of a tropical island thousands of leagues distant, dominated by flourishing coconut palms and surrounded by a green peaceful lagoon.”

And she’s not wearing a white lab coat and neither does she take notes on a yellow legal pad. I bet she doesn’t smoke a cigar and wear glasses either, like Sigmund You-Know-Who. I mention this observation.

“Sometimes I do but now I have contacts in.”

Oh, Jeez, she’s soooo sweet and honest.

She’s wearing a black coat with purple trim and a purple tank-top under that and soft creamy shoulders under that. Her hair is cut fashionably shoulder-length and she has this dark-hair-light-skin thing going on, that’s rare, makes her exotic, makes her hard to resist. Makes it easy to have romantic ideas concerning her and no one else. She gives me a fond look and notes,

“I saw in your pictures you had black hair and blue eyes. I used to have a crush on a guy with black hair and blue eyes. We met during Easter Break one year up in Newport. Balboa Island.”

Oh, I’ll be damned, she’s been to an island.

We exchange mega-tons of information and calculate that Debbie died at nearly the same time her divorce became final.

“How old was Nichole when her mom died?”

“I’m not sure. Nunny hadn’t graduated high-school yet, maybe junior, maybe senior.”

Mom shows disapproval but Doc retains her balance and professional demeanor.

“You mean you weren’t emotionally present for your little girl? Was she a senior, a junior, or what?"

"I don’t remember. I wasn’t emotionally there for myself.”

She gives me a look of condolence and understanding. I’ve never seen more celestial understanding in a down-to-earth human face.

We talk about her work and about things in general and before you know it I excuse myself to the men’s room. Coffee, ya’ know how it can be. Like roughage for your soul.

I wash my hands and splash water on my face and catch my head and shoulders in the mirror. I gave my image an unforgiving look.

“This isn’t making it, not measuring up, not working out. I’m too laid back, not making an effort, not talking about things that matter. I’m struggling to understand what’s she’s saying about a concept it took her years to understand and she’s much smarter than me!

What if I can’t change? What if the old dried-up Chameleon Man can’t change? I don’t see how that’s possible. It took change to get me here, wherever here is, so why isn’t it possible to change in the other direction?”

I’m fearful, apprehensive, on edge, and becoming more guarded by the minute. So you know what I do?

I take a breath, screw up my courage, and strut back out there for round two.


To be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2014

http://youtu.be/Y-cHZroriZs Happy

[WolfLarsen]

I read the first one, didn't read the second one.

The writing here has something unusual, something unique. Unique is good.

But maybe you need more unique. It would make it more interesting. I mean it's interesting enough, but more unique would make it more interesting, yes?

[DATo]

Hey Steve !

Thought I'd wait for part two before commenting. I like this a lot. I think you've captured the essence of the main character beautifully. By the very way he narrates his story you've managed to convey the personality, the mindset and the emotional status of this character.

I have virtually nothing to criticize or offer as improvement to this piece. You're doing a great job and I'm looking forward to reading part 3.

[AuntShecky]

Hi-Ho, Steverino!

I'm dating myself with that greeting, not courtship-wise, but you know what I mean. Long live the memory of Louie Nye and the great "Steverino" himself.

Those are pop culture references, albeit blasts from the past. No writer -- at least no NitLetter -- has such a command of pop culture, past and present, as you do, dear Mr. Hunley. I mean that as a compliment.

What is most striking about this particular bifurcated piece is the narrator's strong "voice," speaking with authority as well as uncommon self-knowlege. It's also good at "showing" (rather than "telling") in that he never has to come out and directly state "Gee, I hope this woman and I hit it off." We can detect and empathize with that emotion which every sentence he utters.

As you know, I'm no fan of the present tense, but that's mainly because it often comes off as pretentious and/or watered down, pale imitations of writers such as Raymond Carver. But in skilled hands, the present tense can effectively display immediacy and urgency.

As ever, a good one, Steven.

Auntie

[108 fountains]

It's entertaining so far; I really like the concept of a guy who is full of self-doubt having a first date with a psychologist. You have an interesting style and an engaging storytelling ability, but I feel like it's been all introduction so far, and I'm waiting for the story to begin.

[Steven Hunley]

I sidle back up to the table.

We start prying information out of each other like professionals. Like car thieves who always carry a screw driver in their back pockets and scan parked cars for opportunities.

“Tell me something about Deb.”

I take a sip and then a breath.

“In my family, Deb was the one to make up nick-names for everyone. Michelle was first, and after a while we just called her Elle. I told her years later they named a fashion mag after her. And Sean became Mister Shaboombombs.”

“Mister Shaboombombs?”

“He was always getting into accidents. I took him for stitches plenty of times. Sha-boom, this would happen, sha-bomb, that would happen. Hence, Mister Shaboombombs.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“Nichole became Nunny. Maybe because she was always so proper and good and upstanding.”

It was her turn.

“My dad called Nicole, Schmizal. He saw in on the side of a truck. It said Schmizal Plumbing”

The sound of it enchanted me, and I liked how it rolled off my tongue, like a bite of cheesy Jalapeño bagel.

“But she didn’t like it. Later, when she was a cheerleader, the kids started calling her Bip.”

“Bip?”

She adored the Padres and one of the team was a guy named Bip Roberts.”

“Bip, Schmizal, what a great history."

I couldn't wait to kid counselor Bip/Schmizal about it.

“What about Allison? Did Allison have any names?”

“Just Alley Cat.”

“I suppose that was enough.”

Pause for effect. So now I begin to see an opening. I decide to get bold and let her rip.

“I got a nick-name.”

I’ve decide to tell her the nick-name story. It’s a funny story. She’ll like it. I want her to like it so that she’ll like me. I gotta have her like me, it’s a case of do or die.

She better not tell me No Can Do or I’ll think of Hall and Oats. I’ve been thinking of Hall and Oats too much lately, especially Wrecking Ball with Joe Walsh.

Wrecking Ball, story of my life.

“Tell me all about it,” she says, all clinical-like but with a smile on her lips sweet as royal jelly.

She puts six packets of Sweet and Low in her coffee and gives it a stir. Some non-offensive muzak is playing but I dunno what.

“When I used to work for Sears, Division Ten, and on that loading dock I was the only one who was allowed out there, the girls in the office weren’t covered by insurance. So I’d have to go into the office to collect my paperwork. At home, Deb and I would spend Saturday afternoon watching old black and white movies from the thirties. I got into the Thin Man.

“Mirna Loy, William Powel, Asta?”

“That’s it. The Thin Man, After the Thin Man, you name it. Deb started calling me the Thin Man. But after a while she shortened it and started calling me Thinny."


“Thinny?"

“Yes, Thinny.”

She smiles again and crinkles her eyes.

“So one day I’m getting ready to leave and I get a call from the window to come pick up papers and I stroll in the office and make the rounds of the secretaries desks, all eight of them, and start to bid them goodnight. And one, this older lady named Anne, accosts me just as I’m leaving. She’s real sweet, in fact she gave a killer recipe for brownies-from scratch. She shouts out,

“Oh, and Deb called, and said to pick up some pan dulce on the way home.”

“Oh, OK. See ya.”

I’m right at the door with my back turned, about ready to make my Great Escape.

“And don’t forget the milk….Thinny.”

The whole office exploded in a bubble of laughter. Eight desks full cackling women, a regular laugh riot. Public humiliation at the work place, there’s nothing like it to sear your brain and leave a lasting impression.

We both stand up and decide to take a stroll down University Avenue towards 30th Street and watch the crowd pass by. It’s a packed as a can of Yuppy Sardines any day of the week, and on Friday, as busy as Disneyland on Date-night.

To be continued…

http://youtu.be/o6dbf3A4Sl8 Wrecking Ball Hall and Walsh

©Steven Hunley 2014

[Steven Hunley]

Now that she’s smiling it’s alright, I feel assured for a few precious seconds.

There’s a funny thing going on with her mouth. It turns down in the corners like a sad marionette. But when she’s happy it turns upwards towards the heavens and her eyes crinkle like an angel’s wing. So when I see her smile, it’s like I’ve won some kind of tangible trophy.

And it’s not the brass or silver medal like in the Olympics. It’s not even the gold medal, as pure as it is, but something beyond value and measure and even more enduring. It’s the promise of long-term happiness leaking out the corners of her exquisite mouth.

Oh my goodness, I am of two minds about this woman! On one hand I’m attracted like a magnet, and on the other hand I’m repelled and getting nervous! Oh my goodness gracious!

She’s getting to me! She's under my skin! Cole Porter would understand my situation.

Sometimes I think I’m making the ponderous humorous. You have to be really neurotic to do that. I think I’m inching my way there, thought by crazy thought. Grab neurosis by the balls and ride it like a mechanical bull in a cowboy bar. Do it just like Clint Eastwood, a beer-drinking cowboy who hoots and hollers about it later, after he’s survived the hang-over, that’s what I say.

I’m getting schizoid about her. I got to relax. Calm my *ss down. There. Now what do I say?

How about,

“Let’s go outside. Let’s blow this joint. Let’s vamoose.”


“Sure. Let’s.”

Outside we turn east and walk toward 30th Street. The bus stop on the corner has benches that look like turned over wooden-toy blocks. Trees on the sidewalk are wrapped up with LCD Anaconda lights like in Disneyland’s Main Street. It’s the North Park I grew up in but it’s gentrified as all get-out. Times change and people with them. We check out the blue and white tiles on the entrance to the old Woolworth’s store. Every single couple surrounding us is holding hands. What's wrong with me? Have I lost my dating game? Not by a long shot. I deftly use the opportunity of crossing 30th to take hold of her hand. Even after we reach the other curb, I don’t let go. Like Sade, I’m a Smooth Operator.

Now Mister Nervous is magically transformed to Mister Bold and Cool. Oh gosh, thank god for small miracles. But take advantage of them, they don’t always last.

So when I slip behind her and take her side, facing the street, doing the old Gentleman comes between the Lady and the Horses flicking Mud on her Dress Thing, at the same time, and not a second or half-second behind that move, I touch her with the tips of my fingers on the small of her back, gently, you understand, gently as a diaphanous butterfly wing. It's one of those touches that can be perceived as light, but if you do it inexpertly, without the proper degree of suavity, is reacted to like an unwanted ton of Valentino's sexual menace.

Not now. Not this magic moment.

She reacts as if it was the most natural move on the face of the earth. Oh sh*t, this is beautiful stuff. I love it. Somehow she sends me to my comfort zone instead of to my room.

Just look at her gorgeous mug, here under the street light. The pale luminous skin, the coal-dark hair, the crimson lips, so wet, so luscious, so inviting.

Oh gosh-golly, by George and all that. Momma, oh sweet Momma, come save your baby boy. He’s about to lose his virginity...again.

Life is suddenly fair. Life is suddenly sweet. Life is at once deliciously sanctified and caloric.

To be continued…..


http://youtu.be/_XCVnV5CGh0 I've Got You Under my Skin- Frank Sinatra

http://youtu.be/4TYv2PhG89A Smooth Operator-Sade


©Steven Hunley 2014

[Steven Hunley]

We pass shop windows and peer inside. They’re all so hip now, and there are many more restaurants and coffee shops here than when I was growing up. Now that I’m mature it hardly seems fair that the lovely setting seems only reserved for the young. Well, Barbara and I are young at heart, and maybe that counts for something.

She looks in a vintage clothing shop and spots a floppy hat and I point out a black sequined dress with a radiant butterfly patterned on the back. I recognize beauty when I see it and beauty always seduces my eyes first. If it’s true Beauty the rest of me comes later.

Next to that is Streetside Thai Chicken so we drop in and I’m silently praying we make it in by happy hour. We do.

We order a bottle of Saki and they deliver the goods in a discreet black ceramic bottle with a lip. Around the neck is a bow tie made out of a paper napkin. The bottle is hot so the napkin saves your precious fingers. Clever Orientals anyway, if they’re not saving face they’re saving fingers.

Now the words are flowing like rice wine. It’s Friday night and Streetside Thai Chicken is stuffed full of people and you have to get close in order to hear each other. Every phrase becomes a close encounter. Every casual glance speaks encyclopedic volumes. My lips brush against her hair and almost touch her ear. With every point she makes she touches my arm and smiles.

It occurs to me that something unusual is going on here. We share instant rapport. It’s like Uncle Ben’s Converted Rice. It’s takes but a flash to prepare! It’s unexplainable! But then again, maybe it does have a scientific explanation.

I know what it is. Frank Sinatra told me once. I shoulda remembered. It’s witchcraft! She’s witchcrafting me! I’m being witchcrafted!

Finally the place is ready to close. Our conversation is carried on outside on the way back to her car. My defenses are so far down I’m ready to answer anything, and truthfully, do you hear, truthfully. I’m ready to be invaded, ready to hoist the white flag and surrender. So then she comes up with this one.

“Did you ever cheat on Debbie?”

“I never cheated on Deb, never. But on Kristina, plenty.”

She says nothing. She hesitates. She pauses. She waits and then says,

“You live close. Want a ride home?”

“Sure.”

We hop in her car and head west. Left turn at Tobacco Rhoda’s and we’re there in five minutes. There are so many palm fronds on the street due to the storm she has to park a couple of places down under a street lamp. I look over to say goodnight and decide a hug goodnight might be appropriate.

It turns into a kiss. Let me say right here that for me, first time kisses are usually like exploratory operations, you never know what you’ll turn up. They can be awkward affairs, after all, they are first-timers and you haven’t had an opportunity to exchange notes yet. Not this one, not this kiss.

I could say it was ‘like falling off a log” but it was far better than that. You see I can’t swim. So for me, that’s a close image but a bad simile. There wasn’t any danger attached to this kiss.

So it was as easy as falling off a log, but for Johnny Weissmuller. For Tarzan Johnny Weissmuller, falling off a log into a calm cool pool of crystalline water on a hot African afternoon, and knowing all along you could swim like crazy and hold your breath forever.

It’s didn’t matter if there were crocodiles, ‘cause you were Tarzan. You feared nothing. You felt good. Tarzan King of the Jungle good. Fear no Evil, Hot Monkey Love good. Jungle Love Get down Boogie Good.

At least that’s how it felt. Actually, I’m lying. I’m fabricating. Words fail me on this one, that’s how good it was. But writers? All we got is words.

After I got out of the car I motioned for her to roll down the window.

“Call me when you get home, so I know you made it home safe.”

“I will,” said with her sparkle and a crinkle and a smile.

I went in and got undressed. I put my Hugh Heffner’s on and tucked myself in. About forty-five minutes later she called and we talked. I don’t remember one word of the conversation. I was in a daze. When she hung up I tried to go to sleep. I attempted to rewind the events of our meeting and replay them on my brain screen. Even that was obscured by mist.

I would have attempted to try to imagine what it was like to kiss her, but I’d already done that! The next step was to imagine some sort of sexual fantasy. But it was No Can Do! My cranium was chiding me with a I Can’t Go For That!

I pondered this a bit and wondered what the hell was going on. Then my mind went blank as a frustrated English teacher's white board. Empty. Erased. Nada. Nothing. Zip.

Next thing you know I’m so very submerged in myself I’m almost convinced I’m falling asleep and the oddest sensation occurs. Only people that have been to the Pacific Ocean during summer could appreciate this. You know how, when you to go to the ocean and step into the water, just up to your ankles, how the waves make it lap up against you?

You remember, don’t you? It kinda caresses your ankles, and you, being the analytical human you are, realize that if you stood there long enough you’d be able to feel if the tide was going in or out, because the warm water would eventually inch its way up or down your body.

You don’t know where the tide's at just now, but you can feel it marking you, making a subtle natural impact.

Well, I had this feeling creeping up from inside me somewhere and I recognized it. It was a kind of protective feeling, the one a man has for his wife or daughter. And I knew if I stayed there long enough it would cover me up head to foot. But I didn't fear it. You must understand.

Instead, I wanted to drink it, to inhale it, to drown in it.

That’s when I understood I wasn’t falling asleep. I was falling in love.

©Steven Hunley 2014

http://youtu.be/oFmNgiEgPoQ Witchcraft Frank Sinatra

http://youtu.be/9O3vC8tDj1M Jungle Love Morris Dayi

[DATo]

Still reading, still enjoying still anticipating. Great stuff Steve !!!

EDIT: Love the style of your writing in this piece.

[Steven Hunley]

Why I didn't thank you earlier than this is a mystery to me. Thank all of you for the comments and suggestions.