| When
I first decided to open up my own psychotherapy office, it
wasn’t out of some deep want or dream to be a psychotherapist.
Nor was it the result of any learned knowledge, schooling,
or real desire to help people. The truth of it was, the writing
thing really wasn't working out and I'd always had an odd
Alan Thicke fixation. (Which is, until now perhaps, far less
known or all encompassing as my Michael J. Fox obsession,
but still exists quite prominently in my little life.) Whilst
watching my Japanese bootleg region free complete Growing
Pains DVD box set, I began to dream of being like Thicke's
famed "Dr. Jason Seaver." He never had to commute
to work as his office was at home. He was always seen basically
chatting with people and then glibly telling them what to
do and collecting, from the looks of said home, a pretty fat
paycheck to boot.
My first hurdle was my complete lack of education. Not just
in the field of psychiatry (Or is it psychology? Which one
deals drugs?), but in any field whatsoever. I've had no formal
education. It's a scandal, I know, but there's no time or
reason to get into it now. That was easily remedied by telling
people the "D” in "D.J." stands for "Doctor"
as in "Doctor J. Kirkbride." Shockingly, it was
that easy to get me my first patient.
Obstacle number "B" was to get me a nice, oak room
like that of Jason Roland Seaver. (Yep, I know his middle
name. Deal with it.) That proved impossible due to my paltry
monetary status, so I had to settle for this little bit of
extra space in the kitchen where my ladyfriend wants to put
a "table" with "chairs" where we can "eat
without the television like 'adults'" or some such ballyhoo.
Once I had my psycho-chat space, all I had to do was rock
the look. JC Penny was out of my price range, so I scored
some decent plaid shirts, pleated khaki pants, and sweater
vests from the local Goodwill.
BOOM! I was a psychiatrist... or psychologist. Well, I'll
just say therapist. Actually, no. I won't. That’s a
disturbing looking word. How bout "Head Shrinker"?
("Shrink" for short.) Done and done. "Dr. J.
Kirkbride, Head Shrinker" was in business with shockingly
little effort and absolutely no credentials whatso-friggin-ever.
My first patient, making an appointment after having seen
my hastily made sharpie on lined-notebook paper sign taped
to my front door, was an odd bird. Really interesting first
case... or patient. Or whatever.
See, this fella, I'll call him "Zippy the Square Footed
Boy" (or "Zippy" for short) not due to any
Hippocratic oath of confidentiality clause but more because
I can't for the life of me remember that damn kid's name,
told me he'd been haunted with a mental malady that caused
him to think he had square feet. My first reaction was, "Whoa.
That’s three kinds of weird, chief." But then I
decided to be more Head Shrinker-y… or “ish.”
His feet, while gross like pretty much ALL FEET IN THE WORLD,
were fairly normal. Maybe a little wide, but nothing too freakish.
My uneducated opinion didn't convince him, though. Believing
I was a real "Head Shrinker," he wanted "help"
or "advice" or "drugs" or whatever. Never
one to admit I'm in way over my head, I coughed thoughtfully
and told him he was suffering from the fairly uncommon but
not exceptionally rare mental... thing called "Squarus
McFootus." I scribbled on a napkin some nonsense and
told him to take that to the pharmacy. When pressed for more
information, I told him it was a prescription for "Glutos-maximus
Prime," a new drug that helps people not think their
feet are square anymore and live happy, normal lives. Well,
not "normal" because of the "happy" part,
so... better than "normal" lives. Possible side
effects for my made-up drug, I cautioned, were itchy nipples,
gas, and total limp dick.
He was worried about that last one, but I was all, "Hey,
cube foot, you wanna be sane or not?" He agreed it'd
be better to be sane and think your feet aren't squares than
to be able to get a boner. I couldn't believe that. (Didn't
say anything, though.) Then I told him I only take cash--American.
When he asked how much, I paused. He was wearing moderately
expensive looking clothes and seemed clean enough, so I highballed
it at twenty smackers. When he asked me if I had change for
a "fifty dollar bill," I told him he was a damn
liar. That they didn't come in fifties. But they do, apparently,
as he showed me his. I snagged it and said, "That'll
do. That'll do."
 Then
he sat there. Turns out the greedy bastard wanted advice to
go along with my imaginary miracle drug. So I told him to
wear banker’s boxes on his feet instead of shoes to
take attention away from the squareness of 'em and to close
the damn door on his way out.
Satisfied, Zippy split. Then I realized he'd be hot-pissed
when the overpaid drone at "Drug Land" or whatever
wouldn’t know what to do with my napkin prescription
for my non-existent drug. Panicked, I tore my "Head Shrinker"
sign down, wrote "Drugs/Rx" on the other side, and
then hung it up on my back door, yelling, "PERSCRIPTION
DRUGS! GET YOUR PRESCRIPTION DRUGS HERE!!!" as loud as
I could, hoping Zippy would hear me. Before I knew it, I saw
him, walking towards me. "Hey square feet! Need some
pills?" He squinted at me and said, "Dr. J?"
I then realized my plan to pose as a pharmacist to the same
guy I just posed as a "Head Shrinker" for was problematic
at best. Thinking fast, I took off my glasses and grew a mustache.
"Nope, just the local pharmacy... guy," I said,
now suddenly no longer bespectacled and now mustachioed, pointing
at my sign.
Noting I lacked the glasses of Dr. J and also had a mustache
that he/I didn't, he handed me the napkin. "Hmmmmmm...
Glutos-maximus Prime, eh? Some strong stuff. You a junky?"
He insisted he wasn't and said the prescription was legit.
I nodded and said I had missed Dr. J. Kirkbride's signature
at the bottom. "Kick ass psychologist," I said.
He was confused because Dr. J. is a psychiatrist since he
had given him a prescription. Shit! Always get those two confused!
I nodded again and went back into the house. I snagged a bottle
of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet and wrote "GLUTOS-MAXIMUS
PRIME" and “Take two a day after meals!”
on the label with my trusted Sharpie.
Zippy asked ho much the prescription was, and I said "fitty
bones," hip to his fat wallet this time around. All he
had was a five and two ones. I took it and told him he might
not ever get hard again on this medicine but that, by God
will his feet no longer look square! He thanked me and split.
After all that, with a cool $57 in my pocket, I realized that
being a fake "Head Shrinker" was hella work and
that Zippy was hella dumb. Maybe even completely and utterly
insane. It was time to retire. So I popped my Growing
Pains season three, disc two into the ol' DVD player
and wondered how the hell Kirk Cameron went from being the
cool-as-ice Mike Seaver to the weird, agent of confusion,
making documentaries about how homosexuality is "wrong,"
father of fifteen Bible thumper that I read somewhere he is
today.
Then I shaved my unsightly mustache clean off and made a mental
note to avoid any jackasses wearing banker’s boxes for
shoes just in case it was Zippy and he wanted a follow-up
session. |
