"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 27

CHAPTER 27 

Silver Spring, Md

I take a seat across from Pen. There’s a lightness to my being, as if the weight of the world has shifted to somebody else. Pen looks at me and smiles. I relax a bit. Ah, therapy. A cocoon to climb into for the next forty-five minutes. 
       One thing about Pen’s demeanor which works in her favor, is the calm professional face she wears. I respond to that because it gives me a pretty good clue she’s learned to control her emotions and not react visibly to anything. That is sehr gut. I like people who are in control and don’t react to things. It tells me they’re not out to impress. It tells me they know how to react appropriately regardless of the situation. This is particularly important for a therapist.
       Of course, that doesn’t mean I trust her at all. I may be clueless as to what’s wrong with me, but I for damn sure know I don’t trust people in general. I’ve known that for years and years. Since I was a babe.

Anyway, I’m surprisingly loquacious answering her first question about how my week went. In fact, my mouth bubbleth over. “It was probably the best week I’ve had since I left the hospital, Pen. There were only a very few bad moments where I felt like I was going to panic and lose control. Even when my doctor called and said I needed a third pap smear because the first two didn’t take. Well, I laughed at her and said, what, are you kidding? Hell no, I won’t go. Then my husband’s ophthalmologist diagnosed him with macular degeneration in one eye and told him he needed laser surgery. Ok, no problem, I told myself. Shit happens, we’ll get through it. So, I’m pretty sure I’m handling all this well so far, and that’s a really good sign, Pen. My life is finally beginning to settle into a relaxed routine of normalcy. I think you were absolutely right. I just needed to work on this PTSD thing, which, btw, I did a lot of research on this past week, and I’ll be as good as new.” 

I finally stop, look and listen. Pen blinks several times. I stare innocently back at her for a split second before bubble mouth breaks a dam. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m just glossing over the bad part of my week and you’re probably wondering how I’m feeling about having to do a third pap smear in the span of three weeks. A little annoyed, frankly. You’d think they’d get the first one right. Barring that, the second. For me to do a third is insane. And as far as my husband’s eye is concerned, yes, that was very bad news because he depends on his eyes to earn a living, but so do most people. I felt badly for him, but hey I told him, you still got one good eye left when a lot of people have lost both. We’ll get through this. You see? Despite all this, Pen, I was able to do some journal drawing and not go crazy. I think that’s a positive sign. Don’t you?”

A scant few seconds later, Pen's strongly insisting I go through a third pap smear. I tell her no. I'm not in a good place right now. She doesn’t seem to get that. I further explain that it triggers panic to even contemplate doing another one. So, guess what lady? I’m not going to risk it. Put that in your damn pipe and smoke it. Then vomit. Then choke to death for all I care. Well, no worries on that score, because she's right in front of me still arguing about the importance of screening for cancer.

Finally I put my foot down. “Oh, didn’t I tell you, Pen? I’d much rather have cancer than live the way I do right now. In fact, dying of cancer would be a walk in the park compared to the living hell I’ve experienced over the last few months. Do you realize that if half the population of America went through what I just did, we wouldn’t have so many damn cars on the road?”

Wow, Pen sure likes to do that blinking thing. Well, she’s good at it. She couldah been a contendah for a Broadway sign. I’m so impressed, I back off a bit and tell her I’ll think about it. Psycho Voice, however, has another opinion. 

“Drop it lady! Jeezus H. Christ! Are you  dense? Do I have to draw you a road map here? Do I have to tell you how to do your f**king job?”
       How could Pen not have heard that? Yet there she sits, contemplating her next attack. I'm contemplating too, like, what are the odds that Psycho Voice remains forever buried inside my noggin?
       Not good.

       

Mamie Barlowe, Episode 2

I'm driving down Emerald Boardwalk Blvd, see. My 1940 pearl opal Chrysler Newport Replica roadster is a real showstopper; the kind of car that could lead a ticker-tape parade down Pennsylvania Avenue; the kind of car you don't take to lover's lane, see. Unless you're double-jointed. I'm not double-jointed. I thought I was once. I'm not. I have scars to prove it. Right now, I'm heading to the office. My beret is bouncing off my head like a baby clapping its hands. Emerald Boulevard is like its name. Lotta green. Golf course green, you know the kind, before a thousand beginners trample the fairway and kill the leaderboard. To my right is a beach with an ocean full of water begging for a date. To my left, strip malls and gin joints. Above my head, a blue sky worthy of poetic expression. If I liked poetry. I hate it. I shift gears in the Roadster, then hear a suspicious noise. I pull over. While I'm checking under the hood, my phone rings.

"Yeah, Vera." It's my secretary. Must be an emergency. She never calls. "What? . . . She did? . . . She didn't! . . . Ok, here's what you do . . . " I hang up. Yeah, I could've seen that one coming without glasses. I frown, then pull my Glock .22 out and shoot the 'E' and 'u' out of the word Evacuation, on the Hurricane sign a yard away. The call is bad news. Or not.

I'm fired. Roxy's second mistake. She made a third. She wanted a full refund. I have one solid rule about refunds; I deduct what my time is worth at the first meeting. Roxy didn't agree with my assessment. Vera put up a good fight, though. That's why she's my secretary, see. A swat team came busting through my door once. They stopped and asked Vera for her phone number. She gave it to them. My secretary has a real sexy, buxom way about her, see. Roxy Clumper didn't think so. She stomped on Vera's hair weave. It was still attached to her head. I told Vera to charge Roxy, then call Chill to pick the kookie dame up for assault and battery. Maybe next time, Roxy will think before a) hiring a private detective and b) wasting Mamie Barlowe's valuable time.

Chill Tornado is the bull I do business with on a regular basis, see. Tornado isn't his real last name. Chill changes last names like he changes eye color. Take the eyes. One year they're blue, the next black. Take the last name. One year it's Tornado, the next it's Cyclone, the next it's Typhoon. Next year, it'll be Derecho he says. All weather-related. Nobody know's Chill's real last name, see. He says if we did, he'd lose his balls and never get them back. Sometimes, he pisses me off. Then I want to investigate what his last name is. I don't, see. I chock it up to a bad day. We all have those.

Today is another. My car is leaking oil worse than a wine bottle broken over the head of an ugly mug. I call Triple X. Yeah, I have a towing service. Have to when you drive a classic. I sit in my car and wait. There's two kinds of waiting, see. The smoke-a-cigarette-after-sex kind of wait, or, the watch-for-a-particular-roadster kind of wait. Mine's the second. I'm constantly on the lookout for a cherry red 1953 Chevrolet Corvette roadster, with white wall tires, and tan leather interior; the kind of car that can outgun a cop kissing your taillight; the kind of car that can beat a roadblock without moving. The driver will be a raven-haired beauty. Sable Mink is her name. And as deadly as a viper crawling through the slats of a baby's crib. Her body is all hard curves, the kind of curves you take at O mph, or say hello to the morgue.

Sable and I go way back. To high school. She was the most popular. I was the most feared. She ran an extortion racket. I ran her in for felonious assault. A kid wouldn't pay, see. Sable took out both knee caps with a Remington double-barrel derringer. I stole the derringer and called the bulls. They rounded up Sable and her henchmen faster than a kid leaving the principal's office. Sable made it easy for the bulls. She always wore a solid-gold, derringer necklace. She was never the smartest kid in the class. But Sable has a gift.

She's psychic too, see.

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 26

CHAPTER 26 

Captain’s log, Star Date, May 31. Seated on keester daydreaming, instead of doing therapy homework. Rendezvous with Pen scheduled the next day. 

“Mr. Sulu.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Is everything ready to go?”

“Yes, Captain, except in the left rear quadrant.”

“The left rear quadrant? . . .  Scotty?”

“Aye, Captain Kirk.”

“Where the hell is the left rear quadrant? And more importantly, why isn’t it ready?”

“We’re having’ some prrrrroblems with the alpha base wiring, Captain. But we’re worrrking on it night and day, sir. I expect it t’be rrrready on the morra.” 

“Good. We have an important rendezvous with the Beta Centurions on Frrriday as you all know. Spock?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“That discussion we had in secret last week?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Keep it on the down low. If word leaks out, our negotiations with the Beta Centurions will be severely compromised.”

“Fascinating, Captain, and quite illogical, I assure you. As you are aware, I do not have any loose screws rattling around in my mouth. I quite fail to understand the need for a warning.”

“Ah, don’t get your panties in a wad, Spock. Just playin’ with your head.”

I giggle. Back to rrreal life, Liz. I start to draw. Ten minutes later, I’m exhausted, but pleased. Two pictures for this new book I just decided to write, “All I Ever Learned in Kindergarten was How to Draw and Take a Nap.”  

I look at one picture and decide to color it with Crayola crayons.

Desert landscaping is so pretty put together with mountains, turquoise sky, cacti and caves. A few minutes later: time out! What did I just draw? And why did I even bother? Looks like a second grader drew it. Two words come to mind. I won't repeat them here. 
       So, maybe it's time to watch, "The Amateur Psychologist Hour," starring . . . me. I can just hear Pen now, "What do you think these pictures mean, Liz?" And I'll say something like, "The cacti are phallic symbols, OR, they're actually cacti and I'm a really bad artist. Of course, I vote the second option. Cacti are indigenous to the southwest area of the US. The mountains are the Franklins, part of the Rockies. The lowest part. The blue car is what my first foster father owned. That's me behind the tree. What I'm doing there, I have no clue. And finally, graveyards in deserts are also indigenous to the Southwest area of the US due to the lawless nature of the Wild West!" 
     Nothing to see here, let's move on to the second picture.

By now, though, I’m way too tired to color. And why would I anyway? Cityscape is boring. The blue pen I used to draw the picture brings it out enough. I stare at the butt ugly drawing with its monster highway, bordered by small, medium and large buildings. The highway is covered with busy, busy cars going about their busy busy business. Wait. What do we have here, ma cherie, Liz? I squint at my drawing of a girly stick figure in the bell tower of a mission-style church standing on one side of the highway. Then, in another mission-style church drawn on the opposite side of the highway, a girly head floats in its bell tower. What means this? 

Before I can even contemplate an answer, and without any kind of warning, I slide out of the chair, and hit the floor. I curl into a fetal position and start rocking. After a few minutes, an excruciatingly familiar voice whispers, “Don’t you tell nobody what you saw, girl. You hear me?”

Psycho Voice totally loses it. “F**k this drawing shit, Lizzie! It ain’t working for you. It’s called very bad therapy.”

I don’t react, because I’m too busy fighting the nausea and the inevitable descent into madness . . . until . . . a childhood memory clicks on this film projector inside my head. I'm a passenger in a car. We're approaching a Spanish-style mission building which looms around a sharp curve of a busy highway. As soon as I see its gilded ivory round tower, I hit the floor of the car. And begin to tremble.
        You know what? I need to stop these crazyass drawings. 

And you also need to keep your mouth shut. ‘Cos if you don’t, it's gonna take a verrrry long vacation. Got it, Captain?”

Mamie Barlowe, Psychic Detective, "The Case of the Misplaced Husband." Episode 1

Her name is Roxy Clumper. She has short satiny blonde hair; the kind of hair you see on a mannequin before it slides right off; the kind of hair I could shoot a bullet at, and it would boomerang. Her cheekbones are angled so sharply, a mountain climber would stake her. Take the eyes. They are spaced far apart. It's a wonder she can look at me straight. Her nose and mouth practically kiss each other. With harlot red lipstick that's a no no. Makes me to want to reach for my Glock 22 .40 caliber pistol. Click the safety off.

In short, Roxy resembles a dime-store hooker holding up a lamppost after a rainstorm. But her clothes scream designer with a capital D. How do I know? You don't have to be Holmes, see. Take the rain coat: silk-lined pockets, with lapel flaps that stand at attention like two stiffs hanging from a meat hook. A single price tag dangles from her arm pit; the kind of tag I see on Modeo drive.  I shouldn't be looking at it.  There's a belt, loosely tied around her waist, but wider than a leather strap used to beat the snot out of people. A white-lace bodice peeps out at me between buttons lined up like soldiers in a drill. I think she's wearing a dress. I don't know. I'm starting to get bored.

My name is Mamie Barlowe. I'm a psychic. A real, honest to God psychic. In my line of work, that's a plus. I'm a private investigator, see. I work solo. I charge by the job: $10,000 minimum, cash upfront. I can afford to name my price. I work in the ritzy part of town where rents are high, and tastes run from caviar to champagne to gold bars to roadsters. The type of clothes I wear depend on the occasion. Today, I'm wearing basic widow black: jeans, button-down silk shirt, and shoes with heels considered to be weapons of mass destruction by law-enforcement. The bulls pick up a lot of ball sacks before I'm done with a case, see. Then they come tell me about it. Then they laugh. My thick, unruly hair, more blackish-blonde than red, is the length of a twelve-inch ruler, you know, the kind of ruler a nun carries for protection. I saucily sport a grey beret as a reminder to keep my wild hair in check. Otherwise, it's one pull and I'm flat on my tookus—advantage criminal. Oh yeah, I'm mostly always in a soldier-standing-at-attention kind of mood, too, with the patience of a doberman humping a sea turtle.

My wannabe client misplaced her husband. Those are her words. These are my thoughts. I lose things: a car on occasion, a cellphone, a wallet, a coffee machine, just to name a few.  I don't misplace them. Particularly a man.

"So, will you be able to find my Bertie, or not?" Roxy's sneer ends in a whine. Her thin eyebrows fold together like twin points of a star scratching its back. That's when I notice a one inch scar right above the corner of the left eye. Like she took a header out a plate glass window. I wish I had a plate glass window.

"Wrong question. Try again." I flap my lips on occasion. When I'm annoyed. And I'm beyond annoyed.

Roxy can pout with the best of French poodles. "I mean, will you take my case?" She can yap, too. "A simple yes or no would be appreciated. There are other Private Investigators, you know."

"They're dicks. I'm a psychic." Good thing I'm sitting on the softest leather chair imaginable. Keeps me calm. Picture a pillow floating by on a cloud of toilet tissue. My clients sit on rickety wooden, straight-back chairs I bought at a rummage sale for a buck each.  I don't want them comfortable.  My office walls are bare; no movie posters, clock, bass, fake moose heads, or photograph's. No fish tanks, nude sculptures, or knick knacks in the office, either. I don't want them distracted. It's just me, my chair, laptop, and desk, see. The desk is carved out of the finest mahogany, you know, the kind of desk that says all work and no play makes Mamie a menace to society. I don't like purses. Where I carry a gun is where I carry my valuables: wallet, cellphone, tissue, taser, and mint gum. The gum comes in handy. Like a torpedo in close quarters—sometimes dangerous, sometimes sexy. Don't ask."Ok, I'll find your Bertie. Be $10,000 cash. Upfront." This case is a cinch. With a name like Bertie Clumper, the man's sniffing his wife's mules, or he's dead. Either way, I get paid.

"B-but that's ridiculous," she sputters. "I don't carry that kind of cash." Her black eyes spawn twin tornadoes. Lethal. I'm sensing she's trouble. Trouble with a capital T!

I pull out the machine. "Or credit. A 3% surcharge will be tacked on." She stares at me like I got leeches coming out of my eyes. I steam toward Niagara Falls carrying a barrel. And it doesn't have my name on it. "Look lady, this isn't Value Mart. Are you telling me your husband's life isn't worth a plugged corpse with gold teeth and diamond-studded eyelids?"

"Of course, not. I love my Bertie. I'll do anything . . . pay anything . . . I just want to see him again." She pulls out a black Diva card.

Whoa! Exclusive club; the kind where people jet to the moon and back for dinner. If they could. I swipe it and hand it back over, but not without feeling the card up, the tops of my gold-painted fingernails flicking across the gold-embossed letters like it's a fine cowboy action .357 Magnum Ruger Vaquero, with an extra-long Bisley hammer. "Ok, so when's the last time you saw Bertie?"

"Yesterday. We went parachuting. Bertie likes to live on the edge, you know? Anyway, I landed, but he didn't. I mean, I never saw him land."

Either her eyes are misting, or mine are. I can't see through the fog of boredom. "And yesterday, birds were chirping. Today, it's raining. I would've gone bird-watching yesterday, capiche?"

"Well . . . Bertie does really odd things at times. I wasn't too worried. Until this morning, when he didn't return my frantic calls. That's not like Bertie."

"So, quick question, who let go of who first?"

"I-I'm not quite sure what you're asking . . . I mean, at some point we might've been together, but—"

"Together, you mean as in jumping out the plane together, or rolling out the plane together, or accidentally falling out the plane together?"

The color red is not a good one on this tomato. She takes blushing to an art form. If you like art. I don't.

"Is that question really relevant, Ms. Barlowe?"

"Yeah. I wasn't conceived in a parachute accident, Mrs. Clumper. My mom and pop did it right. You two, on the other hand, did it wrong."

"How dare you suggest what it is I think you're suggesting! I don't have to sit here and—"

"No you don't, but here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna leave now. But on your way out, you're gonna talk to my secretary, and sell her the whole salami sandwich. Don't lie. Don't leave anything out.  She'll give you a receipt for the ten grand, plus the 3% surcharge. Oh, and leave her something that Bertie touched recently." Roxy glances down at her chest quicker than I can slap her. I throw up my hands instead. "Those don't count." I stand up. "I'll be in touch."

If she were a chair, she'd have fallen over barreling out of the office like that. Instead, she knocks over my rummage sale special without so much as a goodbye!

People. Gotta love 'em. Or shoot 'em.

I'm good at both.

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 25

CHAPTER 25 

The next day, fresh off the latest therapy session, I wake up rational, and just chockful of peter piper purpose! In fact, I feel so Miss Perkypie confident, I dive right into the car and drive myself to the bookstore. With absolutely no driving problems. Nosirree, bobber. Every move I make is decisively decisive.

Once I’m in the store, I canter through the aisles like a show pony wearing a gorgeous hi-feathered pink hat. Whoa, slow down there, Liz. Time to research. Subject? The Art of Psychotherapy. After all, knowledge is power, power means control, and control means, I’m the leader. Always. In every situation. 

I buy four books, make it back home safely, and spend the rest of the afternoon reading, reading and reading. One book is especially helpful: The Heart of Psychotherapy: A Journey into the Mind and Office of the Therapist at Work, by George Weinberg. Easy to comprehend. Best of all, the insight it spouts, makes me feel like I could be Superman to Pens inner Freud. I know! I'll use ex-ray vision to see into her mind, to read the tricky dicky questions she'll ask to trap me! Then, I'll literally freeze her with my answers! Aren’t I clever? 

On the other hand, should I really feel as if I’m Superman about to go to war? “Yes, you freakin’ moron. You’re ABOUT to get shot down in cold blood. Unless . . . you do the shooting first. He he he . . .  I don’t feel so good all of a sudden. The cliche, sweating bullets comes to mind. 

As the week passes on by, I begin to notice a few blips on the professional career radar. One occurs while I’m practicing the Mozart Piano Concerto in D minor. Usually I can play the piece practically blind-folded, but now I stutter through it like my hands are tied together. And sometimes, when I come to the end of the piece, I forget what I just played. Instead, I think, gee what a beautiful concerto, I wonder who wrote it? So I look at the cover.  Holy cow, there’s a message written on it! From the great master himself, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He wrote, and I quote, “You, madam, are an idiot!”

More blips occur during piano lessons, like blanking out at inconvenient moments, so that the simple basics of music theory slip beyond my comprehension. In other words, I can’t remember how many sharps or flats are in what key signature. I don't know the scale of a piece a student is playing, or what note he’s butchering over and over. When I speak to students about the life of composers like Mr. Mozart, I forget where the man was born, or what he wrote. As for the three mega composers whose last names are thusly, Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach? Now they’re Benny, Beavis, and Butthead.  And wasn’t Bach the one who had 100 children, 10,000 grandchildren, 100,000 grandchildren, and not one could read a note of music?

As I sit and ponder these worrisome problems, I’m blindsided by a flashback.

Place: Texas

Time: Early 1980’s

Location: Recital Hall. Seated elegantly or slatternly depending on your viewpoint, at a Bosendorfer grand playing Chopin’s Funeral March in front of an eight-student master class. All the other students are anxiously waiting their turn of the screw, and probably aren’t listening to me at all. However, Dr. P, as always, stands ready to pounce on the overall performance of the piece. That’s the way he is. Nice enough guy, but terribly neurotic and very finicky. Without warning, I switch to a major key, and the Funeral March becomes A March Into Zion.

“STOP! STOP! STOP! Miss ET, what in the name of all that is holy are you doing? This isn’t the First Baptist Church of Heaven.”

In a fog, I look out over the miniscule audience of little people all cloaked in dark shadows, and eek out, “Um, I don’t know. It . . . I . . . it’s a bit of a memory slip, I guess.”

“A LITTLE! You changed the whole damn piece. You just murdered Chopin. Which is hard to do seeing as he is already dead. Are you alright?”

“Sure . . . I mean, no.” I clear my throat, feeling my spirit detach from my body. “I-I don’t feel so good today, Dr. P. I’m sorry.”

“Well, for God’s sakes why didn’t you say something before you marched us all into the Twilight Zone! Go home.” He clears his throat and yells, “NEXT!”

Damn, I'd forgotten about all those master classes that ended in disaster for me. Sigh. I need to concentrate on the present. Can't teach like this. It's getting downright embarrassing. Should I practice more? Maybe reread my music theory and history books? Argh! Well, I’ll bring it up to Pen. She should have the answers.

“Riiight, Lizzie. Keep tellin’ yourself that, hon. And then guess what? There’ll be lots and lots of questions she’s gonna wish she never asked. Book it, Dano!”

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 24

CHAPTER 24 

Back in Pen’s office a week later.

“So Liz, how are you doing? Any anxiety or panic attacks?”

I lean back in the chair and take a deep breath. Tough question. Not really. “Went pretty well. A few rocking moments, but nothing bad. You were right. The panic attacks are decreasing. AND I can rock without falling to the floor. Yea!”

“The rocking is actually a coping mechanism to help relieve anxiety, Liz.”

“Ok. But how lame is that? Definitely infantile. There’s got to be other ways of relieving anxiety besides rocking or taking meds.”

“Are you on any medication, Liz?”

“Valium sometimes, if I get to the point that I think I’m gonna sail off a cliff.” I cross my leg, square to the floor. Tap, tap, tap, goes my footie. Drum, drum, drum go my fingers. Speed varies.

“What happened to your fingers, Liz? That looks painful. And you left so quickly last time, I didn’t have a chance to ask you about it.”

I glance down at the bandaids surrounding all the fingers of my right hand. The tapping and drumming stop. Time to go on high alert. I'm not sure why. “Oh, just broke a glass and got careless picking up the pieces. No big deal.” 

But despite my protestations, I notice she gives me a searching look. I return the scrutiny, and wonder if all therapists do that staring thing. Like as if the client’s gonna suddenly spring out of the chair and bite them in the neck or something. The tapping and drumming begin again.

“How are things at home? Have you been able to resume teaching?”

“Yeah. I started back up last week. But I had to reduce my workload by fifty percent. I don’t have the stamina anymore. Since I got sick, anyway.”

“Have you had anger problems?”

“Not really. I don’t think my anger is any worse than it was four years ago when you and I met the first time.”

I start to get a little impatient with all the questioning. “So, Pen, what’s the diagnosis? You got one yet. I’m in a hurry, here.”

She cracks a smile. “No, Liz. As I said before, it’s still too early in the assessment period. But, I’ve got a tough question for you now . . . Do you ever hear voices in your head?”

I uncross my legs and lean forward. “Do you?” Suddenly I giggle. “Sorry, Pen, the doc asked me that same question in the hospital. So, I’ll you what I basically told him. Any voice that speaks inside my head is my own. See, I have these huge editorial conferences with myself every single day, every single hour, right down to every millisecond. Because every single person on this earth has a continuous flow of dialogue going on in their minds. Probably in different languages, though." A cheshire grin appears.

Pen doesn't reciprocate. She gives me another searching look. “Do you suffer from any depressive episodes that tend to last longer than is normal?”

“No. I mean, sometimes I get a little down. But again, most people have those kind of moments.”

“Do you drink at all, Liz?”

“Oh hell no. Never have. I'm a control freak. And before you ask, I don’t do drugs for the same reason.”

“That's good to hear, because therapy will go quite a bit faster if your mind isn't clouded by drink or drugs.” She shifts in her chair and clears her throat. Change of direction, I betcha. “Now, I’ve spent some time going over the first journal entry you gave me, Liz. I have some questions about that.”

“Ok, shoot me.”

She smiles again, and brings out the copy of my first journal entry. “Can you tell me what you were thinking when you wrote this paragraph?”

“Well, I can tell you this much. I had no idea what I wrote when I wrote it. And I couldn’t comprehend what I wrote a few days after I wrote it.” 

“I’m not sure I understand what you just said, Liz.” 

“Well, what I meant to say was, I wrote the entry on auto pilot, and when I looked back at it later, it didn’t make any sense to me. Still doesn’t.”

“So, you don’t know what this means, “My thoughts are outside of me now . . . and they remain invisible and elusive so I can’t grasp them and put them back in. Which is really what I need to do to become whole again . . .”

“No, have no clue what I was writing there.” My breathing gets a little more labored.

“What about the pictures you drew with the entry? Give me your thoughts on them.”

Long pause. Oh breath, wherefore art thou? “Well . . . I have drawn the conclusion that I can’t draw, if that’s what you mean.” She smiles at the little joke but waits me out. “Honestly, this is all Greek to me. But if you want me to take a stab as to what I think the pictures mean, then—” 

“Yes, I do. Give it your best shot.”

I stare at her. She seems to be shrinking. How weird. I blink a few times and try to focus. “Since I’m a musician, I’m going to guess this humpty dumpty-like fella is a conductor with a baton. The wrapped box is a present. The empty box means it was opened. And voila! we have ourselves a Freudian moment, right, Pen?" 

She looks at me oddly this time, before scribbling down some notes. While she’s doing that, a quick glance at my watch tells me my time is up. God Bless America. I stand up and salute the flag. 

We set another appointment, and Pen tells me to continue writing in the journal. I nod in agreement and practically fly out the door, though not without a deep sense of foreboding that something wicked this way comes!

"The Return of Daisy Duke: The Case of the Shoebox Corpse!" Part 2

This is Daisy Duke, reporting live from KHEL. I'm standing outside the Cicada Seasons Hotel waiting to interview one of ten ex-wives of the late shoe magnet, Mr. Fanard T. Clegs. As our TV audience may or may not remember, five months ago Mr. Clegs' body was found in a shoe box the size of a small galley kitchen. The cause of death was suffocation due to being crushed. In fact, a great number of cardboard pieces were found embedded in the man's mouth, nose, eyes, forehead and brain. What was left of them, that is. The shoe box lid, of course, was totally destroyed. Interestingly enough, forensic examiners also discovered epithelial cells belonging to a pachyderm type animal on Mr. Cleg's body, leading me to believe that it was probably an elephant who was coaxed, or trained to step on the shoe box while Mr. Clegs was inside. And possibly still alive. This is certainly the most bizarre murder I have ever encountered.

I've always been curious as to why it took police so long to find out who actually commissioned the shoe box to be built. Which brings us back to the Cicada Seasons Hotel. It was actually Mr. Cleg's seventh wife, Rhonda Tugs, who put in the order. The police questioned Mrs. Tugs extensively last night, but she walked out of the police station with her attorney this morning, a free woman. I did some checking on Mrs. Tugs, and she is now the wife of the wealthy fantasy broker, Minnow G. Tugs. Stay tuned for my interview with Mrs. Tugs after the station break. Back to you, Bonnie and Clyde.

"Ok, PEOPLE, where is makeup. I'm literally melting out here! And my face itches like hell!"

"Daisy, we don't know where makeup is. Did you bring your own?"

"Did I WHAT? Screw you, Dave. GO FIND MAKEUP! NOW."

"Ok, ok, Daisy. Calm down. I sent Roland to find the girl. He'll be back any minute."

"I don't have a minute, shithea— "Yoohoo, oh Mrs. Tugs? . . . Mrs. Tugs? I am Daisy Duke with—"

"I know who you are, Ms. Duke, and I have no comment. Please leave me the hell alone!"

"Mrs. Tugs is it true you hired a shoe salesman to build the shoe box that ultimately killed your ex-husband? You were also spotted at the circus two days before your husband was killed. What do you have to say about all this? . . . . Please Mrs. Tugs, the people want to know—" OH MY GO—N-!!!"

* * *

"Tranny, what does OH MY GO—N- mean?"

"I think it means we just lost our star reporter again . . . at least for awhile."

"Well, she did say she was melting, Tranny. And I really meant to send Roland out to find the makeup gal. I just forgot."

"Yeah, wasn't your fault, Dave. If she hadn't been so determined Mrs. Tugs was the murderer, she wouldn't have melted like Frosty the Snowman sunbathing in the Bahamas. I also think she would've seen all the cables strewn pretty much everywhere."

"Ah well, don't think she'll need makeup for a long time, Tranny. What do we do, now? I'm thinking she can still do field work even if she has to undergo facial reconstruction."

"Who'd a thunk a fall like that would be so devastating, Dave."

"Face plants can be downright scary."

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you, Dave? Did the memo about WitLiz Yada's impending arrest for the murder of Clegs get to Daisy?"

"They're arresting WitLiz Yada? Are you sure about that, Tranny? I thought she had an alibi."

"She did, until the police discovered she checked herself out AMA from Green Acres Happy Farm the day of the murder. And her fingerprints are all over what's left of the box."

"Oh wow! Yes, Daisy read the memo, Tranny. I was at her desk when she got it . . . You know she did sort get this mustardy tint to her face before she snorted and crushed the memo. But I didn't say a word because she would've clawed my eyes out and used them to play bingo! She loves that damn game."

"Yep. Well, let's get on over to the hospital, Dave. Tell her she still has a job, because I have a hunch WitLiz Yada didn't commit this murder. She's way too nutzo balls. Added to the fact she never knew the guy."

"How do you think her fingerprints got all over the box then, Tranny?"

"Don't know. But if Daisy ever thought WitLiz Yada had committed the murder she'd a been all over that. Daisy hates that woman with a passion!"

"Uh huh. You know Tranny, I think it's kinda sexxxxy when Daisy hates something!"

"If you like your ass being slashed apart by verbal razors on a daily basis, then yeah, a case could be made for kinky! "

"Wellll, appears her mouth won't be a problem anymore, Tranny."

"Says who? The woman has remarkable healing powers. Remember the time she fell into that toxic waste swamp? And the time her body gave new meaning to the words, skin peel?"

"Holy cow I'd forgotten all about that, Tranny . . . Uh oh, my phone's vibrating. Better take this call . . . it's from the hospital. "Yeah . . .  No shit!. . . I'll tell him . . . Thanks." Ok, Daisy is MIA. But it turns out most of the damage to her face was caused by some kind of toxin in the makeup. She went bonkers when she found out. Got to find that make up girl or else—"

"We need to get on the first plane to anywhere, Dave."

"And hope it crashes!"

"Sucks, Doesn't it?" A Memoir, Entry 23

Chapter 23 

Silver Spring, MD

B and I are zipping off to the second therapy session. I’m lying down in the back seat holding on for dear life. My senses are overloaded again, so I can’t look out the window, or listen to the radio. Every little decibel of sound is magnified to a painful degree. I can tune into only one station right now, and it's currently located inside my head.

As I walk into the outer office, I park B inside the waiting room. I’m going it alone. Taking a seat next to Pen's desk, I'm pleasantly surprised to learn that, not only are my senses back to normal, I'm riding the confidence train. Confident with a capital C, as in no anxiety, and therefore no panic. In fact, you could say, I’m almost cocky.

 I take a quick time out to study the newest version of Pen more closely. She hasn’t changed much. Still rather dowdy looking and quiet, but her aura screams competency. I look closely at her credentials displayed on the wall; something I hadn’t done before. She's a pastoral counselor? What the heck is that? Suddenly, I have this picture of me and Pen decked out in puffy blouses, embroidered skirts, white silk aprons, and straw hats with ribbon hanging from the brim, t'walking, (pronounced tawalking, [therapy + walking]) about the Swiss Alps, trailed by nanny goats, bluebirds, and Julie Andrews singing, "The hills are alive with the sound of music!"
        Pen asks me what I did during the break. I relax a bit and bring out my journal to show her the family circle I’d done.

She peruses it over very quickly, and asks me point blank to tell her about my childhood. I opt for the short version.

“I was born in Virginia, moved to Texas at two, in foster care by five, out of foster care by twelve, out of the mater house by eighteen, back in the mater house by twenty something, work and college for seven years, married by twenty-eight, three children by thirty-six. I’m forty now and living in Baltimore, Maryland. Boring, Pen.”

“How many siblings do you have, Liz?”

“Six.”

“What number are you?”

“Four.”

“Tell me what it was like growing up.”

I shrug. “Not much to tell. Apart from what I already said.”

“How was the relationship with your mother.”

“What I can remember, seemed fine. Had the normal spats, of course.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“I don’t remember him at all. My parents split when I was real young.”

“So the relationship between your mother and father was—”

“Rocky, obviously. But I never had any feelings of resentment toward either parent for the divorce. And I never wasted time fantasizing about having a father when I was a child, like so many people do. Which is probably why it seems to be a common trope in writing and movies. Bor  . . .  ing. Not to mention what a colossal waste of time to dwell on stuff like that.”

Pen nods and shifts position. “Is there any history of psychiatric illness in your family that you know of?”

“No. Mater has mentioned in passing that our family line on both sides was healthy, mentally and physically. Goes back many generations, too. We’re from strong stock.”

“And did you know your grandparents?”

“No. Both sets long dead. I do remember that my maternal grandmother used to send me five dollars every birthday and holiday. And I think I even remember meeting Grandmother once when I was eight or so. But that’s sketchy. Now my cousin, who is my age, had the honor, or the bad luck depending on your viewpoint, of Grandmother moving in with them for about a year when she was four. Said Grandmother scared her so much, she went mute. Eventually, my cousin recovered, but it took a year or so.”

Did your cousin ever explain why your Grandmother scared her so much?" 

"Basically said that Grandmother didn’t like her being so shy. Sounds like Grandmother used the wrong kind of psychology to bring my cousin out of her shell. She was from an era where mental illness was not only a stigma, but horribly misunderstood. Mantra back then was “buck up,” and “mind over matter.”

I stand up abruptly, tired, and cranky. Without any farewell fanfare, I make another appointment and leave. And breathe a sigh of relief. 

“And whistlin’ a happy tune. Don’t forget about little ol’ me, Lizzie.” 

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 22

CHAPTER 22

The next day, fully restored to sanity, I march straight to my desk, open the journal, and stare at the drawing. The page begins to darken, as if I’m rapidly approaching a tunnel.  I blink several times and the tunnel disappears. But as I continue to stare at the drawing, the distance between the two of us seems to lengthen. I lower my head to focus better. Hmm . . . the drawing now appears to be disappearing down a rabbit hole; sort of like swirling water flowing toward a shrinking drain.

I float my bum into the chair, bend my head over the drawing to the point my nose is practically pasted to the page, and fill out the incompleted circle. Not one scintilla of emotion do I feel. Afterward, I dress, get the kids off to school, and run my errands for the day.

In the past week or so, I’ve been able to get out and drive to wherever I needed to go without any problems. But today’s driving doesn’t go as well. For the first time, I notice I’m slow to react to things like light changes, and stop signs. As in, I don’t move. Horns honk at me. In the parking lot of the grocery store, I drive around in circles trying to decide where to park. I pull in one spot, change my mind and pull out of it. I do this for about ten minutes. In the store, I randomly put items in the basket until I fill it up. When I go to check out, I get in line, stare at the items in the basket, and realize half of it's junk. Seriously annoyed with me, I abruptly abandon the cart, leave the store and head for home. To an empty refrigerator. Just great, Liz.

At home, I tackle the mundane task of washing the dishes. I giggle as I remember a commercial that used to fascinate me as a little girl. It featured the dishwashing detergent, “Joy.” A Katie Couric lookalike without the brains, is elbow deep in yellow gloves and soapy water. With one swipe of the sponge, her butt ugly pots and pans rise out of soapy water looking brand spanking new. You can even see the makeup lines of Miss PerkyPie’s face reflect off the silvery bottom of the fry pan. Then she flashes a dazzling smile to beat the strength of ten suns.

Maybe I can be a Miss PerkyPie, too. Let's try it. But alas, when I swipe the blackened-bottoms of my pots and pans, they stay that way. Even worse, my dazzling smile to beat the strength of ten suns? Would cause a baby to howl worse than a werewolf caught in a lunar eclipse. I cackle at my silliness. Ok, Liz, remove head from ass, and stay in the present. A few seconds later, “You hear me girl?”   Fear slices through my heart decapitating everything in its path, the life-blood of my being! I drop a piece of glass. It shatters into a few thousand shards of crystal shower, spraying matter helter skelter, and hither and yonder. Dropping to one knee, I stare numbly at the reflections of glass winking up at me from my tennis shoes.

“Like your damn life now, huh, Lizzie? He, he, he . . .”

I reach down and pick up the larger pieces of broken glass, paying no heed to the sharp edges as I toss them into the trash. Teardrops of blood follow my every movement. Drip, drip, drip.  And the more I wipe, the more I drip. I can't keep up! Panicked, I dip crimson fingers into soapy pan water, and begin to scrub. It isn't long before I don my Mother Goose hat.

Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub, and who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Turn them out, knaves all three. 

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 21

Chapter 21 

I’m staring at a picture I just drew in my new journal. And it isn’t a circle as per Pen’s instructions. Hmm . . . ok, now that’s just plain weird, Liz. Valium induced? Has to be. Who draws this kind of crap? A toddler maybe.

In less time it takes to count to one, Psycho Voice replies, “You pathetic little wimp, Lizzie. Still can’t connect the dots? I leave a trail of bread crumbs all over the place and all you do is eat them. What more do I have to do to get your f**king attention?”

I ignore the insults, and start scribbling as if my life depended on it. Words, words, words, mere words. Still, I write fast and furiously, feeling oh so very disconnected with the process. When I finally put the pen down, I read over what I wrote.

        My body is an empty vessel. My Blood runs dry. My spirit has departed … for now. My thoughts are outside of me now … and they remain invisible and elusive. So I can’t grasp them and put them back in. Which is really what I need to do to become whole again. See, some of my thoughts are attached to my spirit and instead of plasma my blood contains some of my thoughts. My body is home to all my thoughts and if they’re gone what’s left in my body? Isn’t that what happened in the hospital? I Lost all my thoughts at that time. Went into Mental shock as it were. So now begins the titanic struggle to fill myself. 

         Is this some form of poetry? Check that; some form of baaad poetry? I took poetry in college. Maybe this is the type of abstract poetry where you toss a bunch of words onto a page, then wait and see where they land. Good thing I’m not an olympic gymnast; a score of 0.0 for missing the landing and bouncing off the wall!

A few minutes later, Oh boy, this is fun. I’ve drawn a big fat circle on the next page. I’ve written the word ‘ME’ in the center of the circle. WHOOO ME? I giggle, yes you, bucket head.  But as I begin to fill in the tabs outside the circle with the names of every parental figure who had ruled my childhood with an iron tongue, my mood shifts dramatically. I hate, hate, hate this writing shit. Worry intrudes, a silent tormentor. I drop the pen. My stomach starts to churn like holy water in a barrel of moonshine. Let the unraveling commence. Only this time, a husky malevolent whisper slithers into my mind to finish me off. “You hear me, girl?”

       I slam the journal shut, the bile rises to my throat, and I hit the floor. The voices pour out of my mouth again, this time, crying, “No, Lizzie . . . stop, stop, stop, stop!” For an hour I wail and crawl. My husband tries to get me to take the valium, but a childish voice refuses. “Me’cine bad, bad, bad.” Finally, out of total exhaustion, I collapse to the floor and mercifully fall asleep.

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 20

Chapter 20

Silver Spring, MD

Déjà vu. I’m sitting across from Dr. Penguin, rocking nervously. Gee, I'd sure like to stay off the floor and not lapse into a hundred voices. And knowing I would be in such a state at the beginning of the session, B was prepared to be the initial speaker. In anticipation of that reality, I had dictated on the drive down what I wanted him to say, and not say, having failed to do that when we went to see Dr. Cuckoo. Not that it would’ve mattered to Rip Van Winkle as it turns out.

However, prior experience with Dr. Penguin has taught me that she will most definitely not sleep through the session. On the other hand, I also can’t trust her not to go all female on me if she learns of my self-destructive tendencies. Women are so damn emotional. I don’t care if they are trained therapists. You just can’t take the woman out of the therapist. Simple.

As I listen to B, I’m relieved he only gives the barest details of what has been going on. Eventually, he winds down, and she addresses me.

“Liz, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening since you’ve been out of the hospital.”

The rocking subsides as I hear the gentleness in her voice. “I’m not sure. One minute I’m me, the next I’m some crazy lunatic crawling around on my hands and knees wailing in childish voices I can’t control.

Nodding sympathetically, she carefully replies, “About the voices, Liz. Are they angry, sad, scared . . . what?”

“Hmm . . . scared. Then again, it’s mostly childish babble. But sometimes, I’ll find myself singing stupid nursery rhymes. Really weird stuff.” I pause, as my senses suddenly go on high alert, like a wolf surveying its territory. Narrowing my eyes, I say brusquely, “That’s it.”

She smiles warmly, and I relax a bit. “Well, it’s too early to assess what’s really going on here, Liz, but I can already see that you’re exhibiting many of the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A few years ago, I started to explain what PTSD is, but you left before I could work you through it.” She hesitates. “This time, we have to dig deeper in order for us to get at the bottom of these terrible panic attacks.” She hesitates again. “Why didn’t you come back to therapy a few years ago, Liz?”

I shrug. “Didn’t think we needed to explore my childhood. Nothing really bad happened to me when I was growing up. Maybe a couple of minor incidents is all. Anyway, what’s done is done. It's simply a case of mind over matter now.” I rock a little harder, then mutter, “Problem is, if you don’t have a mind, all bets are off.” Louder, I continue, “So, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get back on track. But I gotta be honest here, Pen. I don’t think PTSD is the main problem.” I explain about my breakdown at twenty-one and what Dr. Bow Tie Freud’s diagnosis had been. “Do you think he’s right? Am I just a walking mental case?”

“Like I said, Liz, it’s way too early to assess what may be wrong, but I’m glad you told me that.” She scribbles something down and looks at her watch. “For the next session, I’d like you to start a journal. I want you to begin by drawing a family circle, listing parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles. And then write a brief synopsis of your relationship with each, good or bad.” She smiles.

B asks her how often I should come to therapy. She replies firmly, once a week. I ask her if these panic episodes will lessen. She says yes, in time they will.

I stand up feeling very relieved, thank her and set another appointment. As I walk out the door, I also feel real hope that I’ll eventually be normal again, and this whole last couple of months of nightmare will fade away leaving nary a scar on my psyche. 

Unfortunately, that warm inspirational fuzzy lasts all of five seconds, before Psycho Voice emerges and tosses a grenade in my direction.

“Hey, Lizzie, once upon a Greek myth, Zeus gave Pandora a jar with all the evils of the world in it. Then he tells her not to open it. I know, stupid right? ‘Cos of COURSE she opened it! Then guess what? All hell broke loose!”

Sample Friday, Excerpts From Pilot, by WD

INT. CALLAGHAN'S SPORTS PUB —— LATER THAT AFTERNOON

Callaghan's interior is filled with booze, golf games, and waitresses in tight referee shirts. Zack is sitting at the bar, which is fairly full with a much older crowd, minus a HOT YOUNG RED-HEADED FEMALE, who is sitting across the room. Zack's talking to the bartender, JACKIE, a dark-haired female in her early fories. She's cleaning glassware while listening to Zack.

JACKIE

So you slapped him.

ZACK

Yes! I was a man possessed by rage, frustration, and anxiety. Topped off with a splash of hunger.

JACKIE

You're never had an asshole customer? One who, despite your best efforts, never seems to appreciate you?

ZACK

I have. But this time was different, somehow. My manager said that maybe it was time for me to move along. Perhaps he's right. Maybe I'm just ready for something different, you know?

JACKIE

Zack, I can tell you from experience——20 goddamn years of experience might I add——you do what you gotta do. Maybe being forced to find something new is a blessing in disguise. Here's my thinking; I like to imagine that all of us are here for a certain purpose. If restaurants turn out not to be your calling, then there's something else waiting for you. Look at me. Look at my surroundings right now. Someone has to take care of these poor, lost, ancient souls. See, I figured out a long time ago I'm their goddamn Pied Piper. Guiding these old motherfuckers with my wise and soulful flute. Until they all drop like flies.

ZACK

You're the embodiment of the American Dream.

JACKIE

We can't all be Rockefeller's.

ZACK

Who?

Jackie walks over to the service bar area to make a cocktail for a server. She's mumbling, but anyone can hear her.

JACKIE

Goddamn kids. Wouldn't know the difference between a smart phone and a thumb up their ass.

The ATTRACTIVE RED-HEADED FEMALE slides into a stool next to Zach, much to his surprise.

ATTRACTIVE RED-HEAD

Hey there. I'm Anna.

ZACK

Zack.

Anna looks at Zack's beverage of choice, a lager.

ANNA

What are you drinking?

ZACK

A lager. I drink it from time to time.

Zack nods his head in the direction of Anna's drink.

ZACK (CONT'D)

Vodka?

ANNA

Fuck vodka. That's not my style. Gin and tonic. It's vintage; a classic.

Anna orders another drink through Jackie. Jackie points to Anna's drink.

ANNA

No, something different this time. How about a lager?

Zack's face lights up.

ANNA (CONT'D)

I'm a girl who likes trying new things.

INT. CALLAGHAN'S SPORTS PUB —— LATER

Zack and Anna are buzzing from their drinks.

ZACK

I'm sorry to hear that.

Zack looks uncomfortable, but hides it well from Anna. He thinks she's hot enough to deal with any amount of crazy she might be carrying.

ANNA

(visibly upset)

I'm not too surprised. My dad has always been this whole "everything has to be done in a certain way in a certain order" kind of guy. He's very big on structure. My mom is kind of the opposite. She feels that all his rules, and his Ward Cleaver persona, are strangling her, figuratively speaking. And me too!

(MORE)

ANNA (CONT'D)

Did you know that on my very first date, my dad showed off his gun collection?!

ZACK

Maybe somebody just needs to tell him——

ANNA

I love him to death, but it's easier said than done. Especially since he just earned a promotion, which is great, don't get me wrong, but it also means he'll be stuck in his job more than he already is. And I don't know how much longer my mom can take it. I feel terrible for saying it, but I kind of wouldn't blame her if she left him.

Zack takes all of this in. Maybe there is a little too much baggage, but . . .

ZACK

I was fired today for slapping a man.

Jackie, talking to nearby patrons, overhears Zack and bursts out laughing.

ZACK (CONT'D)

Tips are fantastic, Jackie. Also, they're not mandatory.

Jackie turns her head away. Zack resumes his convo with Anna.

ZACK (CONT'D)

I work across the street. Or did, anyway. I bartend, and today we were balls to the wall busy. This guy came in, was just a real asshole, and normally I can handle people like that. Not this time. I snapped; it was like I stepped out of my own body. What do they call that? Out-of-body experience, or something to that effect.

ANNA

That's why I've never worked in places like that. I would've like, totally broken dealing with that crap.

ZACK

There's nothing to it. I've been working in restaurants for five years.

ANNA

Wow. I mean, is that your career goal? That's kind of cool.

ZACK

Oh, god no. No, no, no.

(quietly)

No.

(beat)

ZACK (CONT'D)

What I really want to do is write.

ANNA

That's seriously awesome. I, myself, took a few creative writing courses back in school.

ZACK

Oh yeah? Where at?

ANNA

Chapman University out in Southern California.

ZACK

No way, I used to live real close to the O.C. Right in the Balboa Bay area. My parents took me to the beach all the time when I was younger.

Zach's phone rings. On the other end is his brother, RANDY.

ZACK (CONT'D)

It's my brother. I'll be back.