“I don’t remember my mother ever showing me any signs of affection. No hugs, no kisses, not even a pat on the back.”
“And were you hurt by that?” My pen was poised above my notepad in preparation for writing down Mitch’s answer.
“It bummed me out when I saw how touchy-feely some of the other moms were with their kids,” he admitted. “I figured that there was something wrong with me, something that made me unlovable. But when I got a little older, I realized that she was standoffish with everyone, even my dad. She never initiated any sort of physical contact with him and she froze up every time he went near her. My dad was always calling her ‘a cold fish.’”
“It sounds like your mother was emotionally repressed, and your father’s lack of sensitivity exacerbated her problems.”
“I told you they were miserable together,” he responded with a wry smirk.
“And with their dysfunctional relationship as your primary example of what a marriage could be, you’ve spent your entire adult life actively avoiding commitment because, on some subconscious level, you fear that intimacy will lead you to the same unhappy fate your parents suffered.”
“Wow.” Mitch blinked hard several times as he processed what I’d said. “That’s deep.”
“Does it ring true?”
“Yeah, yeah, it does. I never thought about why I am the way I am, but I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, Doc.”
“Furthermore,” I wasn’t through with my brilliant insights just yet, “you find it difficult to trust women and give your heart to them because you felt rejected by your mother, who was the most important female in your life during your formative years. So, you’ve cultivated this insouciant, love ‘em and leave ‘em persona in order to protect yourself from any more rejection. You figure that if you don’t get too close, or let anyone in, then they can’t hurt you like your emotionally distant mother did.”
Mitch frowned and looked confused. “What does ‘insouciant’ mean?”
“Carefree, easygoing, happy-go-lucky.”
“That definitely sounds like me.”
“But that’s not really you, it’s just a mask you hide behind to protect your wounded inner child.”
“And you’re saying that I need to drop the mask and let the real me come out?”
“Exactly. You need to stop playing the macho stud, learn how to open up to women, and show them what’s inside. If you do, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the response you get.”
I glanced down at the watch on my left wrist and was shocked to see that it was 5:00. “Look at that, we’ve gone ten minutes over.”
“Sorry to keep you,” Mitch apologized as he stood up. “You’re probably anxious to get out of here. TGIF, right?”
“It has been a long week,” I conceded with a weary half-smile. “I think that today’s session was a productive one though, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. You’ve given me a lot to think about, Doc.”
We strolled over to my office door together, and I was just about to reach out for its handle when Mitch said, “Please, let me.”
He opened the door, then gallantly stepped aside so that I could enter the waiting area first.
“Thanks.” I beamed like a proud parent. My man whore, uh, I mean my patient, had made a lot of progress. Slowly, but surely, he was becoming more courteous and treating women (or, at least, me) with the proper respect.
My receptionist popped up with an invoice in hand as soon as she saw us. Her purse was sitting on top of her desk, which signaled that she was ready to go. I felt badly for keeping her late on a Friday.
“Margo will check you out, and I’ll see you next Wednesday, okay?”
Mitch nodded, and I heard Margo inquire, “Will you be paying with cash as usual, Mr. Buchannon?” as I turned back towards my office.
I spent a few minutes straightening up and collecting my things, then I was off. It felt good to lock the door of my office on that particular afternoon, knowing that I wouldn’t have to return for 62 hours. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Mitch that it had been a long week. So much had happened and most of it hadn’t been pleasant. The fact that I hadn’t collapsed from the strain of dealing with my financially-challenged business, the demands of my family, and my screwed-up love life was a testament to either my fortitude, or my stupidity. I looked forward to going home and getting some much-needed rest. I fantasized that I would turn off my phones and lock myself in my bedroom for the entire weekend. I’d stay in my PJs (the old, faded-out leopard print ones that Izzy always made fun of), watch The Notebookrepeatedly (a good cry was always cathartic), and subsist on Cool Ranch Doritos and Snapple.
An hour later, I pulled into my driveway with that game plan in mind. I was hoofing it up the walkway to my little bungalow, noting the ankle-high grass and proliferation of weeds (Why had I hired Cousin José’s ‘lawn maintenance company” to take care of my yard? I paid him for weekly service, but I was lucky if a teenaged boy with a rusty lawnmower showed up once a month.), when my sister burst through the front door like she’d been shot out of a cannon.
“Hi, Pilar. Bye, Pilar,” she said as she zipped past me, acting as if there was nothing the slightest bit unusual about the way she looked.
“Woah, wait a minute!” I chased after Izzy, grabbing her by the arm when I caught up to her.
“What are you wearing?”
“This?” She ran a hand down her body, which was clad in a skintight black leather halter top and matching hot pants that barely covered her tight, 23-year-old butt cheeks.
“It’s my uniform.” She reached into the purse she had slung over her shoulder and pulled out two pieces of grape-flavored Bubblicious gum, which she unwrapped, shoved into her mouth, and began to chomp on noisily.
“Uniform?”
“Yeah, for my new job.” She blew a purple bubble that grew in size until it almost obscured her face
“What job?” I was at a loss.
Izzy sucked in her breath, making the bubble pop loudly and deflate. Twirling its sticky remnants around her index finger, she mused, “Did I forget to mention that I had a new job? Bruiser hooked me up with the manager at the club where he bounces. The guy took one look at me and said, ‘You’re hired. Get a uniform and come back tomorrow night at 7:00.’”
“This club isn’t one of those S&M places, is it?” Her ensemble did give off a dominatrix vibe.
“No whips and no stilettos,” she gestured down at her black go-go boots, “so you do the math.”
“And you won’t be dancing in a cage?”
“I wish! I’d make a lot more money doing that, but unfortunately, the manager didn’t have any openings for a dancer. So, I’m just a lowly cocktail waitress, making minimum wage, for now. Of course, if I can work this getup right,” she bent over at the waist and adjusted her halter top so that her breasts looked as though they might spill out of its low-cut front, “there’s no telling what kind of tips I might get. According to Bruiser, ‘the bigger the boobs, the bigger the bucks’ from the male customers.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” The feminist in me hated the idea of my sister making a living by flaunting her nubile, young body.
“We need the money, don’t we?” she queried irritably.
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing, I promised you that I would pay you back for my legal expenses, and I don’t want to be responsible for you losing this house or your practice.”
“I appreciate that, but there are other jobs that would be more respec—,” I cut myself off because I didn’t want Izzy to think that I was judging her. “Why don’t you take Solana up on her offer to work at the panaderia?”
“Yeah, right,” Izzy scoffed, “can you see me getting up at 4 a.m. to roll out bread dough for $7.25 an hour?”
“At least, you wouldn’t have to go to work half-naked.” I pointed out one of the benefits of a career in baked goods.
My sister chortled. “You are such a prude. I wear less than this to the beach every day. And I get my butt pinched in clubs every night, so I might as well get paid for it. Now, I’ve got to hit the road or I’m going to be late.” She spun around so fast that the ponytail sitting up high on the crown of her head smacked me in the face.
Sputtering, I brushed Izzy’s long, dark hair out of my eyes and mouth, then trailed her to the yellow Beetle parked on the curb.
“Isidora, what am I supposed to tell—”
“Afternoon, Pilar.” I froze when I heard a creaky voice call out to me.
“Hi, Mr. Cuthbertson.” I waved at the spindly-looking senior citizen in the floral print shirt and Bermuda shorts who was walking his equally decrepit Dachshund towards us.
In an effort to block his view of Izzy, I stepped in front of her while she unlocked her car door, but he must have seen something he deemed offensive because he shook his head disparagingly as he ambled by.
“Oh, great,” I grumbled, while Izzy climbed into the driver’s seat of her VW. “I’m sure he’s off to tell all of his cronies on the board about this outfit of yours, and it’ll be the hot topic of conversation at next week’s Homeowners’ Association meeting.”
“Who cares what a bunch of old geezers think?” she retorted, fastening her seatbelt into place.
“I do if they fine me, or raise my dues, because I have a houseguest who violated some sort of neighborhood dress code.”
“You worry too much. You need to chill, or you’re going to stroke out,” my sister blithely advised before putting her key in the ignition and starting her vehicle.
“What about—” Izzy pulled her car door shut before I could finish the question. I had to step back so that I wouldn’t get a noseful of exhaust fumes when she took off.
Trudging back to the house, I wondered what I was going to say to my parents and Ana about Izzy’s latest career choice. After several minutes of deliberation, I decided that keeping it simple would be the best way to go. Izzy got a job as a waitress, end of story. There was no need to embellish. If they asked, I’d say that she was working in a place near the beach (not a club, let them assume that it was one of those touristy restaurants where families from Iowa came to eat while they were in town on vacation), and I couldn’t tell them the name of the place because Izzy hadn’t mentioned it. Ha! Yes, perfect. I couldn’t tell them something I didn’t know. Oh, dear, why hadn’t I gotten the name of the club from Izzy? What if she never came home from work? What if she was kidnapped by some slave trader, or murdered by a leather fetishist who looked for his victims in nightclubs? I wouldn’t even know where to tell the police to start looking for her . . . Oh, my God! Izzy was right. I was turning fretting into a full-time occupation, and the last thing I needed was another one of those.
I pushed open my front door and dropped my purse and briefcase on the tile floor in the entryway. Without checking my mail or phone messages, I headed straight for the bathroom. Once there, I popped a jazz CD into my portable player, lit some votive candles, turned the tub faucets on, and examined my bubble bath options. I had a pack of lavender bath salts that I’d never used and I remembered reading an article about aromatherapy that had said the scent of lavender had a steadying influence on the psyche, so I dumped them into the tub. Shedding my clothes, I submerged myself in the deliciously warm water and sighed contentedly.
I could have happily laid there all night, contemplating a myriad of inconsequential things like “What season am I?” and “Who has the sexier accent: Chris Hemsworth or Michael Fassbender?” but after a half-hour, the water was cool and my fingers were all pruney. So, I wearily dragged myself out of the bath and dried off with a fluffy yellow towel. I searched every drawer of my dresser, but couldn’t find my leopard print pajamas, probably because they were in one of the ten piles of laundry I hadn’t had a chance to do in the last two weeks. Having no other options, I slipped on a cotton tank and some drawstring shorts that were comfy enough to sleep in, then I rounded up some edible goodies in the kitchen and settled into bed with my junk food feast.
I watched Jeopardy for a while, but got annoyed when Alex Trebek said that one of my questions was wrong. Why did he always have to act so smug? He only knew the question for every answer because someone typed it out on a card for him. He should try playing the game without any help from his staff, and then we’d see how smug he was.
I put The Notebook disc in my DVD player and set a box of Kleenex out on the bed because I knew from experience that I was going to need it. I always blubbered like a baby when Noah and Allie died in each other’s arms at the end of the movie. I must have fallen asleep some time before that happened because there were only a few soggy tissues strewn across my comforter when I was awakened by the sound of my cell phone ringing. Dazedly, I looked at the clock on my nightstand and saw that it was 10:34 p.m. I reached for my purse, which I’d brought in from the foyer and dumped on the foot of my bed earlier. In my groggy state, it took me a while to find the noisy cell, but I did eventually think to check the zippered pocket inside the purse. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I looked at the Caller ID.
Hal’s Bar? What the—?
“Hello?” I answered, sounding a lot crankier than usual.
“Roctor Alderez?” an inebriated voice queried.
“Who is this?”
“Iz me, Roctor Alderez. Iz Itch. Itch Brewchannon.”
“Mitch?”
“That’s what I said, Roctor Alderez. Itch.”
“What’s going on, Mitch? Why are you calling?”
“You gamme this number an’ you tole me to call it in case of a ‘mergency.”
“So, what’s the emergency?”
“I’m repressed. Noooooo, that’s not right,” he admonished himself. “I’m DEpressed. Yeah, that’s it. I am very, very DEpressed.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but—”
There was a loud thud on the other end of the line.
“Mitch! Mitch, are you alright?” I sat up straight, now fully alert.
“I’m awright,” he mumbled. “I just had to lay my head down. My head iz soooooooo heavy, Roctor Alderez. I think King Kong might be sittin’ on it.”
“There are no giant gorillas sitting on your head, Mitch.”
“Then, iz probably a melephant.” He chortled with drunken amusement. “Melephant’s a funny word, izn’t it? Melephants look funny, too. They have those big, floppy ears and all that wrinkly sk—”
“Hey, buddy. I said that you could use the phone for a couple of minutes. Time’s up,” a raspy, masculine voice prompted.
“Lea’me alone. I’m talkin’ to Roctor Alderez. She helps me.”
“Somebody needs to,” the other man snarked.
“Did ya hear that, Roctor Alderez? The people here aren’t very nice. I asked for a Scotch, and they wouldn’t even gimme one.”
“You’ve already had five,” the bartender reminded him.
“And they took away my car keyzzzzz.”
Thank heaven for that, he was obviously not in any condition to drive.
“Did you need me to come and pick you up?” I probably should have told him to call a cab, but Mitch was my patient and I felt responsible for him.
“I’d like that, Roctor Alderez. I’d like that very much. There’s just one liiiiiiiittle problem.” He must have cupped the phone receiver with his hand because his next words were delivered in a strange, amplified whisper. “I don’t know where I am.”
“Let me talk to the bartender.”
“Oh no, Roctor Alderez, ya don’t wanna talk to him. He’s mean and he’s really, really ugly. He’s got this big mole right on the tip of his—” I could hear the sounds of a struggle as someone tried to wrest the phone away from Mitch.
“No, that’s mine! Give it back!”
“He’s down here at Hal’s Bar on Washington Avenue,” the winner of the tug-of-war informed me. “We’re next door to the strip club, Slap n’ Tickle. You can’t miss the big pink neon sign that says ‘GIRLS - GIRLS - GIRLS.’”
Charming.
With a beleaguered sigh, I muttered, “Tell Mitch I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”