Immediate Things

“I’m overwhelmed with immediate things,” Paula explained.

            “Many people are overwhelmed with immediate things,” her therapist said. His name was Clyde, and Paula didn’t like him. This was their second session together and, so far, they had discussed little other than the basic highlights of her backstory. Clyde seemed intelligent enough and he had some worthwhile insights. But he was smug and, worse, he drove a flashy car. He also made a point of dropping the name of his alma mater whenever he could. “When I was at Brown,” he would say. Or, “an esteemed professor of mine at Brown once told me….” His diploma was carefully framed and hung directly behind his chair – slightly up and to the right so as not to obscure visibility.

            Paula didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she studied his well-appointed office. It was very haute-culture: mid-century, clutter-free, minimalist, expensive. There was an enormous, sparkling espresso machine beneath the plate-glass window. To Paula, it looked like a complicated engine built by a NASA engineer. Something that Elon Musk would have commissioned – something that would reside in a space station.

            “Do you ever use that thing?” she asked, gesturing toward the espresso machine.

            “Of course,” he said. “Every day. But let’s not engage in dodge tactics.” Paula crossed her arms and looked at him pointedly. What an asshole, she thought.

            “You’re thinking that you don’t like me very much,” Clyde said. His expression was completely neutral.

            “You’re right,” she answered. “Not when I buy my coffee at the gas station. Is that where my money is going? To your chrome-plated, stand-in barista over there? Are your coffee beans helicoptered in directly from Columbia?”

            “Whether or not you like me is irrelevant,” Clyde said. “In fact, it’s sometimes helpful when my patients are wary of me. If you can believe it, it allows for greater trust over time.” Paula snorted.

            “Call me crazy,” she said, “but it seems to me that like and trust go hand in hand.”

            “Not true. Truths are often hard to hear,” Clyde said. “Maintaining some distance by not getting too close makes it easier to state truths.”

            “Oh, so you’re a truth-teller, are you?” Paula snapped. “An omniscient speaker of absolutes. God-complex, perhaps?” Clyde smiled patiently, knowingly – as if he had been confronted with these accusations before.

            “Are you aggressive with your own clients?” he finally asked.

            “My clients don’t come to me for advice, Clyde, they come to me for companionship. Very different ball of wax.”

“Is it, though?” he asked.

Ah, the rhetorical question, Paula thought. Meant to make you sound intelligent, but it’s really just a sidestep.

“Let’s talk about these immediate things,” Clyde said after a few moments. “What are these ‘immediate things’ that overwhelm you?”

Paula sighed deeply and made the conscious decision to back off a few notches. She knew she was being aggressive and part of the reason she had decided to come see Dr. Clyde was to develop some skills in being less reactive. So far, she was off to a bad start.

“I guess that the whole of my life is the immediate thing that overwhelms me. I can’t escape it – it’s always there,” she explained.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Clyde asked. “That your life is there every day for you to live?”

“Yes, it’s a bad thing when life chalks up to nothing more than a to-do list. I mean, if that’s the case, what’s the point in living? Makes it seem that life is just a chore.” Paula looked at him pointedly, as if she expected him to answer her question right there and then.

“Let’s review your to-do list,” he suggested.

“Care for my sick mother, remember? Do her shopping, cook her meals, clean her condo, help her with her bills. Basically, take care of all her personal shit as well as my own.”

“How is her cancer treatment coming along?” Clyde asked.

“Good enough, I suppose. Her condition is reportedly stable.”

“Well, that’s a blessing – something for which to be grateful.” Paula looked at him, nonplussed. “What else?” he continued.

“Yesterday I had a flat-tire. Day before that the plumbing in my bathroom exploded. Two days ago I lost my cell phone – all my passwords gone, evaporated. I no longer know how to access my online bank account.” Now it was Clyde’s turn to look nonplussed.

“These are common irritations, Paula. You are simply experiencing a string of them all at once.”

“Sorry my problems are so banal,” she retorted.

“Your mother’s cancer is certainly not banal. And neither is your underlying frustration. Do you have any idea why you’re so angry?”

“I thought that was your job to sort out. You tell me!” Paula’s words came out in a rush, in a flash of bitterness.

“Let’s explore that a little – let’s talk about our respective jobs. What it is you imagine it is my job to do, versus what it is you believe it is your job to do.”

“Easy,” Paula said. “We both listen and talk. But your job as a therapist is sanctioned in ivory towers. You have a framed diploma to vouch for your credibility. See, there it is - directly behind you ‘lest anyone doubt your breeding.”

“And yours?” he asked, sidestepping the insult altogether.

“I certainly don’t have a credential,” she retorted. “Or initials behind my name. All I needed to get my job was a sultry voice.” Clyde smiled, but said nothing. A few quiet moments passed during which Paula let her gaze wander out the window. “But it pays pretty well,” she finally said. “That’s why I took it. I couldn’t pay my mother’s medical bills and my bills on a preschool teacher’s salary.”

“That’s a pretty big swing,” Clyde said. “From preschool teacher to…to what it is you do now.”

“Can’t say it, can you?” Paula taunted. “No problem, I’ll do the dirty work for you. After all, I’m used to it by now. I’m a sex talk operator, Clyde. A sex talk op-er-a-tor.” She said her title slowly, enunciating every word and syllable with express deliberation as though Clyde himself were a preschooler. “Yep, I work from my couch, in my pajamas, headpiece strapped to my ears. No idea who my callers are as they dial-in to an 800 number.”

            “Do you ever have repeat customers? I mean, are you ever able to get to know someone?” Clyde asked.

            “Not usually,” Paula said. “Sometimes. There are a few regulars who call in so frequently that I’ve had multiple sessions with them. You get to know a little about those clients, I guess.”

            “And what’s it like for you?” Clyde asked. “Talking with strangers on such an intimate level?”

“Probably the same as it is for you,” Paula snapped. Clyde didn’t respond, just waited patiently instead. She sighed. “It doesn’t turn me on, if that’s what you’re getting at. I multi-task while dirty-talking. Paint my nails, catch up with filing, order groceries for my mother online. Once I even gave the dog a bath. Told the client it was me in the tub – getting off to the sound of his voice while I lit candles and massaged my thighs with bubbles and, eventually, played with the shower head. Your run-of-the-mill bunch of bullshit. Luckily the dog stayed quiet.” Paula laughed heartily while Clyde remained neutral.

“I bet you wish you could do the same,” Paula suggested. “Knock items off your to-do list while your clients drone on and on about their personal problems. Maybe you should consider moving your practice to remote phone sessions only.”

“It’s helpful for me to read facial expressions and body language,” Clyde explained.

“Well, I sure as shit am glad that I don’t have to read facial expressions and body language,” Paula said. “I can’t imagine anything that would make me lose faith in humanity any faster than watching a bunch of lonely, sad men ejaculate all day long.” Paula shuddered and then turned her attention to examining her fingernails.

“But you can hear them?” Clyde asked.

“Gross,” Paula said. “Yes, of course I can hear them. Why would you ask a question like that? Cut me some slack, please, and spare me some dignity.”

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend you. But why do you think hearing men exclaim at that particular moment strips you of your dignity? Seems to me that their passions might have very little to do with you. You might just be a vehicle.”

“Oh, kind of like you?” Paula asked. “You’re in a similar boat you know, listening to strangers share their deepest darkest secrets. And don’t tell me that they aren’t strangers. You already said that you keep your clients at a healthy distance.”

“I wasn’t going to say that, Paula. It’s true. I am also a vehicle by which people can better express themselves.”

“Yeah, well, you get to boast at cocktail parties about your profession. I have to hide mine.”

“Have you ever thought about being open about your job? Maybe people would react differently than you presently assume.”

“And maybe a cute little Christmas gibbon will fly out of my ass,” Paula retorted. To her surprise, Clyde laughed.

“You don’t miss a beat, do you?”

“Probably not,” Paula said. “So what are you gettin’ at, Doc?”
            “I think you’re your own worst critic,” he answered. “I think you need to cut yourself some slack. You don’t need me to do that for you, though I think you may feel you need my permission to forgive yourself.”

For the first time since their session started, Paula found herself with nothing to say and this made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Cornered, even. To her incredible dismay, she felt tears welling up behind her eyes.

“Damnit,” she said. “I don’t need your fucking permission for anything.” A tear slipped down her cheek and Paula wiped at it furiously, as though it were the enemy. “You got any tissues?” she asked. Clyde gestured toward the box at the side table. Paula yanked at a tissue and blew her nose. “Look,” she finally said. “you’re a bit too invasive for my taste. I’m not sure all this psycho-babble is for me.”

“On the contrary, Paula,” Clyde said, “I think you’re finally releasing a lot of pent-up emotion. I think expressing some passion might be clarifying for you. You have a lot at stake here. Caring for a mother with cancer while taking care of yourself. And you’re going it alone, right? You don’t have siblings to help you, or a partner. I’m not sure about your friends. I hope you have some that look after you.” Paula started to cry again. Hot tears that kept coming and coming. Her nose began to run and her face turned a deep red.

“And it seems to me that you’re incredibly conflicted about your job,” Clyde continued. “That you’re wrestling with it on a deeply philosophical level. You doubt your integrity. You question your own purity. You feel shame when perhaps you don’t need to. And these clients that you talk to, day after day. You’re shouldering the burden of their loneliness while simultaneously having to shoulder your own. That’s a tough gig.”

“Please stop talking, Clyde,” Paula begged. Her face had become swollen in the strenuous effort to fight back her tears. She practically gulped for breath. Clyde conceded and fell quiet. He looked at her with an expression full of warmth and compassion, and part of her hated him for it.

“This is just too raw and intense for me,” she finally said. “I need to leave.” She stood up, clutching her purse.”

“I’d like it if you stayed, Paula. Just another 15 minutes before your session is up. Give yourself at least that much time.”

“I’ve given myself enough, thank you,” Paula spat. She dug in her purse, took out her check book and scrawled out Clyde’s fee. “Isn’t this ironic?” she muttered while shaking her head. “I bet you’re fully aware of the irony, aren’t you? I’m just like my own clients. Presented with a bill after a big release. Only I have to stare you in the face while I make the monetary transaction. I don’t get to hide behind an anonymous 800 number.” She dropped the check on the side table and spun on her heels, making a bee-line for the door.

“Paula,” Clyde called after her. But she ignored him and shut the door. He listened to her footsteps fade as she made her way down the hall. He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he stood up and made his way over to his espresso machine. He pressed the on button and stared out the plate-glass window. He listened as the machine churned and then with a burst released a jettison of espresso into his porcelain cup.