Out From Under

Ron’s greeting was a high-energy handshake and a glossy smile. I was encouraged and put off at the same time. He certainly had more life than the first therapist but he seemed too…polished. Like he’d been a televangelist in a previous life and had fallen into counseling as a backup plan.

“So, Greg,” he said as he settled me into a chair. “May I call you Greg? You can call me Doctor Ron.”

“Uh…all right.” Doctor Ron? Is this Sesame Street? How about you call me Patient Greg? I said none of that.

He listened for, oh, maybe five minutes. Then he held up his hand, leaned back toward his bookshelf, and whipped a copy of his latest book into my lap.

“It’s called The Black Hole of Money,” he soothed. “I wrote it for people like you who can build their fortunes but whose mindset won’t let them keep it. You can purchase it from the receptionist.”

“Great.” I put the book on the side table. “That’s only what’s been going on recently.”

“Please.” He waved beneficently. “Continue.”

I talked about my prior marriage and the moves I’d made between jobs and cities. He leaned back again, never breaking eye contact and mmm-hmmming while his fingers located a DVD. He snapped the program into my lap like a Frisbee.

“Here’s my seminar on change,” he said. “I call it The Black Hole of Security. It’s about how we think new things are dangerous but they can actually be open doors to opportunity. A therapeutic bargain at $49.95.”

“Uh…OK.” I put the DVD on top of the book.

He waited but I refused to read the blurb. No doubt it was a lovely blurb that he’d paid some overpriced marketer a thousand bucks to write. I still wasn’t interested. That polished gleam looked strained.

“Please,” he said, “continue.”

“The real problem,” I said, “is about my brother Kenny--”

A CD sailed through the air.

“The Black Hole of Brotherhood,” he crowed, “a wonderful lecture about brothers. I have another that deals with sisters. Do you have any sisters? You can get a discount when you buy the pair.”

“My brother,” I said while placing the CD pointedly on the growing stack, “committed suicide.”

“Ah.”

His brow wrinkled. His hands pressed together. After the tiniest of moments, he leaned toward the bookcase on his left and gently fished out a shrink-wrapped package.

“The Black Hole of Suicide,” he said quietly, “a book and DVD set for those mourning this terrible act of self-harm.”

Somehow he reached the exit before I did. “I’m here for you, Greg. My DVDs and books can be there for you any time, day or night. Oh, and we take credit cards.”

He can kiss, I thought, the Black Hole of My Ass.