Time For Reformation

“You know, I ain’t such a bad guy,” the smartly dressed businessman explained to his psychiatrist, Dr. Stephen Brightweasle. “I wasn’t always this tense, wound up like an overtightened clockwork toy, one tweak away from busting out everywhere. You follow?”

Scribbling a quick note onto his notepad, Dr. Brightweasle adjusted his spectacles before asking a stock question.

“How does that make you feel?”

Irked by the asinine query, the fidgety patient, scrunched his face into a frustrated-constipated expression.

“Is that the best you can do, Doc? How does it make me feel…” He mockingly repeated before attempting to leave the session. Sensing an air of hostility, Dr. Brightweasle appealed for tolerance.

“It’s a valid question, Gino. By confronting our personal feelings about things, we can carve out a path toward clarity. When that happens, healing often follows. Just talking about issues does not always provide us with the satisfaction that understanding our basic issues can… Please sit.”

The appeal successful, the wiry Italian nodded his head in seething vexation as he looked around the room, contemplating what looked suitable enough to pick up and throw against a wall.

“You know,” Gino acquiesced. “If this was the street and you didn’t satisfy my demands, I could whack yous myself. But I have to cater to your… guidance - in this here…”

The leader of the biggest crime family in New York City had sought out help for his quick-to-shoot personality. He sincerely wanted to be a better person and develop some empathy in his sometimes-hazardous line of work. In the past, anger had led him into regrettable decisions. Learning to control his emotions - he believed, would hopefully help him reach his goal. He understood emotional instability leads to chaos, chaos leads to feuding, and feuding leads nowhere. Controlling his anger was the key to the big boss office, and although anger management sessions with Dr. Brightweasle were a challenge to his self-control; he needed them to emotionally grow into a more respected boss.

“What the fuck is this room, anyway…?” Gino demanded to know. Looking around the room, his stress level began to rise.

 “You moved offices since we last met. It looks like an old art gallery - with all those sculptures on stands over there, next to that big skylight… and what’s with the wall full of old paintings. That one… above the group of men sitting around a table…? Is that a Lorenzo Monaco, Madonna and Child?”

“Do you know art, Gino?”

“Nah, my mother used to have a photo like that one, hung on the wall above her bed. As kids, me my brothers would have to pray at the foot of her bed every night with cupped hands asking her photo for forgiveness, an’ if we messed up our prayers, she’d wash our mouths out with carbolic soap. To this day, whenever I pass roadworks repairing the blacktop, I can still taste that fuckin’ tar-based soap in my mouth.”

“Well, to correct you – if I may. The Madonna and Child in the middle panel of those three triptic style paintings is by Martino di Bartolomeo - painted about two to three years after Monaco’s depiction.”

“Who’s the wise guys either side of her?”

“Saints, I believe. The one on the left holds in his hands the key to heaven while the one on the right holds a palm in his hand, depicting a martyred saint, most probably stoned to death for something he did.”

“Yeah? I prefer the quicker method… As a matter of interest, who are the guys around the table?”

“That’s Martin Luther and the Reformers.”

“…Is that so…? Great name for a band, huh?”

“I’d like to move along here. The clock is ticking…”

“Hold on a mo, Doc… These paintings… they’re copies, right?”

Dr. Brightweasle’s subsequent silence left such a gap in the session’s conversation, that Gino felt it needed interpreting.

“You know what I think, Doc…? I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“I used to be an art dealer before my current choice of profession. They became part of my collection.”

“Yeah, but some of these must be worth more than your hourly rate, no?”

“…Priceless… is the value.”

“…I never understood that term. If it’s priceless, then ain’t it worth nuthin’?

“Oh, they have intrinsic value. Priceless, in this context means irreplaceable.”

“You got any new stuff?”

“I only collect Italian paintings from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”

“You Paisano, Doc?”

“No, I’m of French descent, but have an interest in historical artworks of that era.”

“History is history to me, and mine torments me.”

“…Let’s talk about that… Why does it torment you?”

Gino’s temperament quickly changed to a brooding disposition as he brushed the back of his head with his right hand.

“…Look, I can’t help you if you don’t open up and talk about it.”

“What I say in this room, stays in this room, right?”

“Of course, Gino. I offer my clients the strictest of confidence.”

“Good, coz I’d hate to… you know…”

“No, I don’t know…”

“…Okay, let’s try it another way… Let’s say the cops come enquiring on certain things I tell you… in confidence.”

“It’s privileged information. By law, I can’t tell them anything or even let them see my patient’s files.”

“What if someone – not me – but say, someone of high profile confessed to… whacking someone, say - for instance.”

“You mean… kill someone?”

“We don’t use such a direct term. You never know who’s listenin’.

“Whatever is said between me and my patients, is confidential and bound by the hippocratic oath.”

“Hypocritic? That sounds like half the Catholic Church.”

“No, Hippo-Crahtic.” Dr. Brightweasle recited in phonetic dialogue.

“Oh yeah, I heard of that. You spill the beans, it makes you a hippocrat.”

Pausing to avoid any accidental outpour of condescending explanation, Dr. Brightweasle took a moment to digest the boyish joke.

“…Hmm, I’ll remember to tell that anecdote at the next psycho convention…”

“Psycho convention? That’s funny. Kinda like that Hitchcock movie title. Hell, if you want to go around stabbin’ people in the back, I’ll invite you to our next family get-together.”

“I hear you use humour to reduce stress. That’s a good thing; however, it only manages to… how can I use an analogy here… oh yes, using humour in a stressful moment is fleeting. It only covers up the cause of the stress. Once the humour has dissipated, the trigger is still active... To use a visual reference, let’s say there’s a hole in your bedroom wall.”

“I’d be looking for hidden cameras.”

“…Okay, that’s a good direction... Say, there’s a hole in your bedroom wall with a hidden camera in the cavity. You know it’s there, but instead of ripping it out and destroying it, you just shove a doll’s head into the hole, its plastic eyes staring into the lens - blocking the camera’s view. That’s like using humour to cover stress.”

“…So… what about my hypothetical question?”

Referring to his notes, Dr. Brightweasle was thankful to have jotted the earlier question down, helping him spring back from using analogies to being useful to his nervous patient.

 “…To ease your mind, nothing unveiled in the sanctity of my office by my patients can be used as evidence against them in any court of law. Nothing could pry it out of me.”

“Not even a pair of pliers to your manhood?”

“That would be inadmissible as it would be deemed extracted under duress.”

“You wear dresses, Doc…? Just kidding. I’m trying to lighten the moment, but for my peace of mind, swear on your life…”

“What?”

“…On your life… with Bartolomeo’s Madonna and Christ looking at ya from over there.”

“Yes… yes… I swear… on my life!”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“…Now, please let’s get back to the session. What part of your history torments you?”

“My father disappearing.”

Staring blankly at Gino, Dr. Brightweasle felt a slight shudder between his shoulder blades. Not anticipating the nature of Gino’s reluctancy, he hesitated at his own second-guessing of what was to be revealed. Taking a long, quiet breath of air into his lungs, before calmly releasing it, Dr. Brightweasle uttered his next words with extreme caution.

“…Go on.”

“Not long after, we had a new Daddy. He married our mother when we was all little, you know? All we were told was that our real Old Man left town after quarrelling with Daddy number Two. According to rumour, my real father turned out to be an upstanding pillar of society.”

“Oh, thank fuck!”

The Doc’s pleased outburst irritated Gino’s train of thought.

“Come again, Doc?”

“Sorry, sorry. I thought for a moment… well, I expected you to say that you killed, whacked… your own father.”

“I was a kid, Doc. Who whacks their own father?”

Trying to move speedily on from his embarrassing fubar, Dr. Brightweasle brought up Gino’s poignant reveal.

“…You just spoke of your father in present tense. Could that mean there is no closure with that concern?”

“…I speak of him that way because he’s what you people of education call a… metaphor. When I say he’s a pillar of society, I don’t mean he’s active and influential. I mean he’s encased somewhere in one of the many pillars supporting one of those skyscrapers you see out of this enormous window. The only Italian shoes he wears these days are made from reinforced concrete – so I hear. Capeesh?”

Wishing he hadn’t asked, Dr. Brightweasle nodded his acknowledgement, then decided to swiftly change tack.

“Ok, so I recognise an issue here. Your other father… to be specific, your mother’s second husband. How old were you when they met?”

“I wasn’t born, yet. None of us were.”

“She knew him before…? Was he…?”

“He was my father’s Lieutenant.”

“This quarrel between your two fathers. How did it lead to your real father’s disappearance?”

“It was whispered that number two pulled the trigger... and it wasn’t business, it was personal… You see, my mother wanted to be looked after – you know, a nice lifestyle, daily trips to the hairdresser, nail salons, Macy’s department store… She was what they call… high maintenance. Before husband Two became husband Two, he was just boyfriend ninety-three or such. A low-ranking soldier in the family… and dispensable, if ordered. He was sent down to Miami to take care of a certain business that we never talk about, and during the three months he was gone, my mother hooked up with husband number One. You can’t blame her. It was a career move in the right direction. She wanted her future children to grow up in comfort and not the abject poverty her own parents subjected her to. Not long after that, my big brother came along. When our man in Miami returned to find out his own flesh and blood was being raised by his boss, what could he do or say…? My father – a made man - held all the cards, so he just continued to do as ordered until he himself became a made man and head of his own crew – independent of my father’s orders. For my mother, it was just a case of out with the old and in with the renewed. They even shacked up together while the rest of the family searched desperately for my father’s whereabouts... So, there you have it. Am I happy to talk about it…? Yes. Am I still angry…? You bet your ass, I am.”

 “That’s quite a story, Gino. Thank you for sharing it. I do believe this is a breakthrough moment. Your resentment toward your… let’s call him Stepfather… It bubbled throughout your tender years and into adulthood... Your anger has never had a chance to understand its origin. It has violently materialised episodically, like it was just letting off steam but keeping the intensity simmering for the big explosion.”

“I see you like using metaphors too.”

“Perhaps not as graphic as yours, Gino, but being able to use similes in descriptive form, allows us to visually recognise our issues and find a way to deal with them.”

“The big explosion hasn’t happened yet.”

“So, your stepfather is still…?”

“Breathing, yes.”

“Well, that’s an encouraging reveal. Do you think that is why you are here talking about it?”

“What, that I haven’t whacked him?”

“No, that you have questions about your true feelings for him. He’s raised you from a young age. There’s no previous mention of mistreatment, so he must care for you… What is it you want from these sessions?”

“…They’re helping me to decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether there is a need to disappear him, or a greater need to become a better person and try to forgive him.”

“We all aspire to being a better person, Gino. It’s embedded in our psyche, our daily conscious thought. It’s very admirable of you and positively invigorating that you’re pausing for thought at a very volatile crossroads in your life.”

Uncomfortable with his conflicting thoughts, Gino fidgeted beyond normal tolerance, prompting Dr. Brightweasle to attempt to relax him.

“Please… stand if you must. Take a moment to walk around the room and explore the many distractions on display.”

“Sure, Doc. I thought your profession liked stationary stooges.”

“Not when they sit looking like they need to pee.”

“I’m good, Doc, but you’re right. I could do with stretching the pins.”

Slowly moving around the room, Gino was drawn to an old bugle dangling on a nylon tether stretching down from the ceiling rafter.

“You a horn player, Doc?”

“That’s a sixteenth century bugle I picked up in Lucerne… Switzerland. It’s only one of three still in existence.”

“…Don’t tell me… it’s priceless.”

“Irreplaceable.”

“You know, Doc… I think you’re helping me see things a lot clearer now… and before you ask me how that makes me feel, I’ll tell you… You like that TV show, The Sopranos?”

“Yes… I see some similarities in you.”

“It’s a great show, don’t get me wrong, but real life ain’t like it is in Tony Soprano’s world. Similar, but real life is scarier. We all love Hollywood writing about us. It’s like a… parody, a caricature of how we live… The Godfather… now that was a great take on our world. You see that one?”

“Yes, great film.”

“Wouldn’t have gotten made without families like ours giving their blessing. They even used one of the family members in the movie, did you know that?”

“No, I…”

“You see, there’s one thing our business gives us and that’s a nose for making money. A sort of exploitation of opportunity. We get a kind of sixth sense for things. If there’s anything we know, it’s when something ain’t quite copasetic – you know, they ain’t quite right. You follow?”

“No, I don’t believe that I…”

“Doc, come on! Look around you. This room is filled with hot property. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re looking to be nabbed. You want my advice? Don’t take on any clients who are cops, because it don’t take an admirer of art to know these priceless, irreplaceable works and objects weren’t exactly acquired through legal means.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Dr. Brightweasle unabashedly smiled.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now, I may not know a lot about art, but I do know that no art dealer ever owned art from the Reformation era. These are museum pieces. What’s your game, Doc? You wanna get caught?”

“…That’s what my therapist says.”

“Wait… you got a therapist?”

“Everyone in my profession has someone they confess to.”

“What is this, the Catholic fuckin church? Priest confesses to priest who blabs to the cardinal who passes on the juicy bits to the Pope to gain favour…? Sounds like organised crime!”

“It’s a normal part of our profession. A chain of therapeutic healing.”

An onrushing feeling of betrayal sent Gino angrily hurtling at Dr. Brightweasle. Yanking him from his chair, Gino grabbed the Doc’s jacket lapel in one hand, then slapped his face several times with the other.

“It’s a chain of everyone knowing my business… Now I’ve gotta make a list of who might need whacking… Someone up your chain will want to profit on what they know about me. It’s human fucking nature!”

“I don’t discuss all the details and I never use your name. I just need to unload my own hang-ups.”

“What do you need a shrink for?”

“…Look around you.”

“You sad fuck…! You know, I should just relieve you of all this stuff. I’d fetch a fortune at the auction houses for it.”

“These can never be sold. The minute you advertise even the smallest item, you’d have the Feds and Interpol climbing all over you.”

Shoving Dr. Brightweasle back down onto his armchair, Gino felt his adrenaline waver, so sought the comfort of the office couch to collect his thoughts. After a few deep breaths, his reclaimed calm was interrupted by the beeping of Dr. Brightweasle’s watch.

“I’m afraid that’s all I have time for today,” the Doc proclaimed. “I really believe we’ve made some progress… Same time next week?”

“Just a moment, Doc,” a contemplative Gino demanded.

I ain’t no shrink but this display of Reformation era antiquities. These are all visual metaphors of you wanting to change your ways, right?”

“That’s insightfully correct, Gino, yes.”

“So… essentially, your subconscious is preventing your conscious desire to reform by not conforming. Subconsciously controlling you to steal more works of art from the Reformation era to highlight the fact that you are not a reformer.”

“That’s a very accurate analysis of my predicament, yes.”

“You’re a complicated man, Doc… but… we’ll talk again… I’m gonna take the bugle with me. My eldest boy has band camp this weekend, and I promised him a trumpet… By the way, lose everything else before our next session. I don’t want to be found guilty by association… and I ain’t paying for this session, Capeesh?”

“…Capiche…”