3 Psychdaddy

Good morning Mr. Kindred. I see you're having the orange juice. It's not fresh, you know. We're a long way from anywhere, here. Bad oranges.

Shall we begin? Or should I say, continue? Will you let me look inside your notebook this time? No? It must be very special. A gift perhaps?

You are aware that I could creep into your room while you're asleep and simply take it? I am your daddy, after all. I live inside your head.

Now, tell me. Do you keep a list in there? I think you do. You're certainly no artist. I think it's a naughty list. Labels, digits, names.

You told me last time you saw your mother on a piece of toast. Have your seen your father in the dirt behind the gas station? Or in a cloud?

Yes? A cumulus cloud? A dense puffy cloud form having a flat base and rounded outlines often piled up like a mountain? Or a mushroom?

Are you religious, Mr. Kindred? Do you believe in a higher power? Have you seen evidence of Him upon this earth? In the sky? Is he here now?

What happened in New Mexico with your father? Why do you think he would not buy you a frozen treat that day? Had you been a very bad boy?

It must have surprised you terribly, what happened. No one could have foreseen an event of that magnitude, especially not a boy age nine.

You shouldn't feel guilty. You were an innocent bystander. It was not your fault. Let it go. Wrap it in paper and set it out on the curb.

I see you are doodling the number 12. Does that number have some special significance to you, Mr. Kindred? Twelve months of the year? July?

Is your room satisfactory? Good. Do you have enough fresh towels? Yes? Could you use another blanket? Is the cleaning woman to your liking?

She was carefully chosen. There is a lot to be cleaned in a motel like this one. Nasty surprises. Sudden spills. Blood on the walls. Messy.

You may find her one day standing on your toilet with her head out the window. Pay her no mind. She is claustrophobic and needs the horizon.

You're yawning. Are you getting enough sleep? The desk clerk told me you have been roaming the halls more than usual. Looking for someone?

Your mother was a virgin? What in heaven do you mean by that? What a strange thing to suddenly blurt out in the middle of a session.

Where is your mother now? In a trunk in the basement? In the garden? In the clouds? I could ask Mr. Culhane. Would he know where she is?

Why do you always order things 12 at a time? 12 potato chips from room service. 12 Budweisers at Tourette's. 12 stamps at the post office?

Why do you call me 'psychdaddy'? And 'docdad'? Are you mocking me? I will not be mocked. I am a psychiatrist, but I am not your father.

This has been a very productive session. I was going to say 'fruitful' but I did not want to remind you about the rancid oranges. Goodbye.

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