Читать книгу Junkfood Sexlife - Jessamyn Violet - Страница 8

“Right. So what makes you think this juice-making woman is a different story than the others, Auggie?” Philip leaned forward in his chair as he stroked his left mutton chop and tried to look pensive. Whenever he felt especially tired or bored, he made sure to pull hard in the opposite direction. He didn’t earn his $250/hour easily, that was for certain.

“I don’t know, man, Dr. Phil. You know, you just sometimes have this feeling like a lady is different than the others. Like she’s been through some sort of life tumbler that’s polished her into a rare gem.”

“Woah, Auggie,” Philip said. “That’s a bit idealistic for a stranger, isn’t it?”

“It’s true,” Auggie said as he leaned back on the couch, his arms clutching his knees. “Anyway, I just asked her out. I always thought she was taken, I don’t know why. I know it’s a little early to be talking about her. And I’m still seeing Stevia, who is a goddess but obviously very calculating, though I don’t think against me. I think she just doesn’t take me seriously, and that starts to weigh on your heart after a while, you know? Someone refuses to see you in a way other than ‘not good enough’ and you can only take so much of that.”

Philip stifled a yawn and felt his eyes water up. He blinked hard and attempted encouraging. “From what you’ve told me, you’ve been having a perfectly fine time with Stevia. An enviably good time, come to think of it. So what makes you suspect this? Has she ever actually said that you weren’t good enough? Or are you projecting that opinion on her? Is it you that actually doesn’t think you’re good enough?”

Auggie looked down at his big hands, which had found their way back into his lap. Auggie reminded Philip of an overly-suspicious hybrid of caveman, golden retriever, and bear. He had both a happy-go-lucky sensitive side and a dark depth that continued to surprise Philip, the former of which especially, since Auggie had done two tours in Afghanistan and had somehow not become a serious drug addict.

Philip genuinely admired that Auggie refused to take meds and he didn’t really blame him for thinking everything was a conspiracy. In fact, Philip kind of agreed with Auggie, there. He, too, felt like everything was a trap. And that even just thinking that was a trap in itself. Life sure was a long, glorious mindfuck, wasn’t it? That was why he’d become a psychologist: No shortage of demand, there, and he loved sitting on the throne of knowledge in the world’s most stupefying court. He’d be self-employed until he didn’t want to be anymore. That felt like a good enough life to him, even though he was mind-ironingly bored the majority of the time. He’d learned early on that the real trick to psychotherapy was asking good questions and letting the patient do most of the coming to conclusions.

Like now, for example. Auggie was shifting things around in his head, putting the self-portrait puzzle together for himself. Philip had to stifle another yawn while watching him sort it all out. He desperately wanted to check his phone to see if the cute brunette he’d matched with on LoveBug had written back yet. She’d had a quote from Philip’s favorite philosopher as her profile statement and he was practically dying to meet her. He pondered for about the millionth time if there was any feasible way to check his phone without being noticed or seeming rude during a session.

Nope.

Auggie rambled on, still stuck on the question it felt like Philip had asked hours ago. “You know what? I think you’re really on to something there. You’re right, maybe I never expected her to take me seriously so I presented myself to be someone who didn’t expect to be taken seriously, therefore causing her to not take me seriously. Makes total sense. One of those self-perpetuating things, right? Like everything else, I guess. So strange to think about that stuff.”

“Do you actually want Stevia to take you seriously? Are you in love with her?”

Auggie retreated to his brain again. Philip respected clients who took their answers seriously, but sometimes the answers took so long in the making he felt like Auggie was just really stoned.

“Do you smoke a lot of weed, Auggie?”

“Well, sure. Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t. Do you smoke before you come to sessions?”

Auggie stared at him and broke into one of his big-gummed grins. “Well shit, Dr. Phil, I didn’t know you cared about that sort of thing. Of course I do. It opens me up. Makes me more, you know, receptive.”

“You use pot every day?”

“I kind of have to. It helps me, um, exist. If that makes sense.”

“It does. A lot of vets use it to help with PTSD. I understand it can be a comforting lubricant for depressed or emotionally-wrought brains. But Auggie, if there’s one thing that marijuana also does, it makes you complacent. People stay content and stagnant in their situations.”

Auggie ingested that. “Hmm. Never thought about that before, but I think maybe I can see your point.”

“Do me a favor and try to not smoke before you hang out with Stevia. See how that changes things. See if you even want her to be taking you seriously. Examine how you feel with this juice girl—”

“Griselda.”

“Right, Griselda, see how you feel when you hang out with her as compared to how you feel with Stevia. What is the thing that juice girl –sorry, Griselda– possesses that makes you so excited? Is it anything other than the unknown? Because that tends to bewitch us time and time again, causing chaos and upheaval, only to later allow reality to kick us in the seat of our pants.”

Auggie laughed. “Well, there’s an expression I haven’t heard since my grandpa was alive.”

“And also, I’d appreciate it if you came here with a clear head next time. I’m interested in seeing the difference it makes.”

“OK, Doc. I guess I can handle that homework.”

“You’re damn right you can.”

Auggie grinned. “You’re a funny guy, Doc.”

Philip sighed. “I’m not, really.”

Two breaks between clients later and Philip had confirmed his dream date for drinks. He was depleted after the long day of back-to-back clients so he went for his own therapy: A long bike ride. Philip would step into his spandex suit and hit the path hard. He found it soothing to melt away the burdens of the day with the rapid, continual circular motion of pedaling. It was freedom, ultimate, infinite freedom. He could swear endlessly at the amateur assholes who would swerve into him, or those who were on their phones, or biking side-by-side while talking to each other. There weren’t a lot of bikers that didn’t piss Philip off, and it felt great to talk shit to exactly all of them. The best part was nobody could know who he was or be able to even get a response in as he sped by, a blur of spandex lightning on spokes.

Philip needed a few drinks during and after his shower to fully recover from all the active people-hating. It always surprised him how little empathy he was capable of feeling. He probably needed to work on his empathy skills, especially with women.

Philip dressed smartly for his date. They were getting drinks at the Otherroom, where it was dark enough to get away with kissing and groping and snorting and plenty else in there. Philip wasn’t sure it was the right choice. He’d forgotten it was typically his go-to second-date location, since it had been so long since he’d had a second date. But it was too late to shift plans. He didn’t feel like making excuses. He polished off his third beer and belched loudly. In the mirror he saw a guy who looked like he was holding his face in an expression that didn’t quite fit.

He never knew what the fuck to do about that.

After grabbing his “professor” jacket, he was out the door and walking the three minute walk to Abbot Kinney.

Nebraska was waiting on the corner, gazing into her phone like everyone else who refused to just observe the world around them for a minute while they waited. Great. He hadn’t even met her yet and already he could write her off. He pondered turning around.

She looked up and their eyes caught at that moment.

No matter how many people Philip met, he still got a satisfaction out of reading people’s eyes. He felt it was a sort of Braille, as contrary as that was to say— a reading with a different sense, one that went far beyond the 3-dimensions of sight. But he knew not everyone operated like that. Not everyone read people as deeply or quickly as Philip did. That was why he had trouble staying interested. He’d speed-read people, front to back, and be ready to move on to the next, searching for a real challenge, a twist in a plotline he could never have seen coming.

Sometimes, Philip considered himself a borderline sociopath. But he figured his awareness of it made it equally as likely that he wasn’t, if that made sense.

Which he wasn’t sure it did.

Regardless, he’d never put himself in a therapist’s office to get a second opinion.

Nebraska seemed happy to find “Gio” better-looking than his dark and somewhat obscure profile pictures. He pictured himself through her eyes at that moment: Tall, slim, with gelled, silver-blond hair, wearing a dark blue sweater and creased dark gray pants. A successful, well-put-together, handsome career man. Philip was also happy to find Nebraska as self-advertised: A slim slice of sweet prettiness-with-an-edge. Her eyes weren’t all cyborg. A part of her was, in fact, very human, bright and warm and present in the moment.

“Gio?”

“Nebraska. Hello.”

She smiled and put away her phone in her cow-print shoulder bag. “My name’s not actually Nebraska. I just use that for my profile. I’m Cassandra.”

“I understand,” Philip said. “Good to keep that initial degree of distance. Shall we have ourselves a drink?”

Ten minutes later, they were seated side-by-side in the back of the bar. Cassandra seemed very comfortable in her own skin. Philip was having a hard time being able to tell what her issues were right off the bat. None of the obvious insecurities upfront. And she looked familiar. Very familiar. He hated that about Los Angeles. If someone looked familiar, one never knew if it was because they were famous to some degree, or they’d met them before, or if the person was going to be famous soon. It all translated the same way.

Much to Philip’s surprise and delight, Cassandra ordered beer. There was nothing more intriguing to him than someone unpredictable. He’d had her pegged for a rosé kind of woman. Or maybe he just had them all pegged as that.

“So, Gio, what did you do today?”

He settled back and composed his “at ease” face.

“I saw eight clients.”

“Wow, you must be exhausted!”

“Well, in the beginning it was exhausting, but by now I’m pretty used to it. Our job as therapists is to have a detached attitude towards taking on emotional conflict so that we can be as effective as we can be efficient. And after my workdays I go for a long cycle. It really helps.”

Cassandra’s face twisted up.

“Wait… so, you’re, like, a psychological cyclist… or a cycling psychologist?”

He almost snorted his drink up. “A psychological cyclist. That’s rich.”

They laughed about that for a minute. Philip couldn’t remember the last date who’d made him laugh like that.

“Damn,” he said when they’d calmed down a bit. “How am I not going to think about that on my rides now?”

Cassandra grinned and pushed her dark hair away from her eyes. “Sorry! I think in catchy song lyrics.”

“That must be annoying,” he teased. “Why do you think like that?”

“Quit analyzing me!” she said immediately. He was stunned and then felt an immediate rise of anger when she again collapsed into laughter. “Kidding! Bad joke. Oh, I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. I’m sorry.”

“Some sour previous experiences with that accusation,” he mumbled, feeling sheepish and exposed.

“Obviously,” Cassandra said. She rested a light hand over his for a moment. He pulled away, hating that he’d lost his composure. Philip made a mental note that dating younger did not always mean he would necessarily be in control. This woman seemed to have a peculiar humor that unnerved him.

He suddenly craved a cigarette.

“I messed up,” she continued.

“It’s alright. So, let’s move on. What did you do today?”

“I’d love to tell you what I did today. I managed the rental rooms in my house – the usual, making sure the place is clean, the renters are happy, all has been communicated, etcetera. Then I went to yoga. Then I wrote a song. Then I came to meet you.”

“Sounds like a pretty good day,” Philip said, struggling for back-to-normal.

“I can’t complain,” Cassandra said. “I owe it all to my father, he left me his gorgeous house on the canals. And thanks to Rentaroom, the place funds itself as well as my bank account. It’s basically my own motel. I should start calling it ‘Cassie’s Corner’ or something.”

“You could probably think of something a little catchier than that,” Philip said, attempting playful.

She just nodded. “The name hasn’t come yet. It’s like naming a band, it’s no big deal and yet it’s somehow everything.”

“I get it,” Philip said, though he really didn’t. The only thing he’d had to name in his lifetime was his practice, which, surprise surprise, was Dr. Philip K Parker, PhD, Psychotherapist.