Jack-o-Junking

“I always had an unusual relationship with drawers. Especially the top ones, called offensively (and even defensively), junk-drawers. They are so far from being junky as is Japan from a second Pearl Harbor. But, I’ll leave the knick-knacks drawer peroration for another time. Good afternoon!”

He opened his notebook, ready to write the date and the name of the patient, when her out-of-the-blue opening stopped him in the middle of the word “August”.

“You know, I find drawers very loud, jam-packed, ideologically conflicting and overloaded with baffled subconscious pieces. I’m the queen of junk drawers. Give me screws and apples, sandals and nail polish, wood glue and expired popcorn, I’ll put up the best home-made future-proof drawer, just wait and see: a magical glimpse into the fancy cocktail of insecure youth and wise impotence. No need to clean it up, to purge it, to set aside grab-and-go objects for art projects with rusty forks stuck majestically in mountains of peas. In all my made-up drawers, the insanity walks barefoot to look for the frame of the baptism picture. Not for the picture, just the frame. Don’t stop on my account, keep taking your precious notes”, she finally addressed him with a teaching voice. Then, she took her hat off, put it casually on the desk, played with her ring, pushed her glasses up to the end of the nose bridge and sighed longer than any sigh logged in the Guinness Book of sighs.

“This full-blown summer day looks like a misleading promise. Here you go: title for our session. I always give you good ideas for your case studies, don’t I? I should charge you for copyrights”, her laughing melt into the word “copyrights” like she was trying to be suddenly serious and composed.

“Can I ask you a question you never answered to?”, he prompted with a flat tone, unusual for a question.

“Sure. Go ahead! I wonder what this special question I manage to avoid for such a long time is. You know what? I myself have a file with your therapy tricks, cases you mentioned, special little quizzes you casually dropped on me and especially things you forgot. In fact, the file’s name is “Forgotten Hats”.

“Why “hats” and not “things my therapist forgot” or “overlooked details”?

“Oh, no. The forgetting is yours, mine are the hats. And here you have an awesome overview of our patient-therapist relationship put into an amazing title. But, don’t keep me in suspense. Shoot the question!”, she opened her arms and let them fall limply, while rolling her head on one side, trying to mimic the sagging of a shot body.

“When you were a child, what did you want to be as a grown-up?”

“Indeed, you seem to have bad luck with getting this info from me. I know how important the patient’s childhood universe is for a therapist. You miss your professional purpose if I don’t crack my childhood door open for you. But I guess you worked enough for the key to my subconscious little tunnels and hidden nooks.”, her laugh gave a light Newtonian impulse to her breasts that started dancing freely under the shirt. She never wears a bra, he thought. Yet, she didn’t seem to need any. The obviousness of her nipples and the round firmness of the breasts would probably make the bra redundant, if not patriarchal.

“Ok, then, I think you deserve an answer”. The nipples' dance took a short break to help order her thoughts. "Odd how some unpadded nipples seem to participate in the cognitive process", he told himself, instinctively lowering the left hand below the desk level.

“Our time together stands proof of your right to take a peek into my childhood universe. I wanted to be a castle woman. Not rich or a blue-blood princess like all girls dream of, but just a free walker through high old rooms with spiral stairs and unmapped crannies. I used to see myself slowly pacing along corridors, entry spaces leading to secret libraries or dungeon-like medieval labs, cranking disguised levers that would open entire walls and tunnels lit by immortal torches that hang timelessly above passageways. As you can see, my childhood dream was nothing fancy, just the regular fantasy of exploring the big unknown in a time-and-space-depleted world.”

He was pushing the pen a little bit too hard against his upper lip; he should take some notes, should unfreeze, should snap back into the therapist hat. She was right: he was wearing too many hats. But, he was extremely short on heads right now to wear any hat on, especially given the multitude of hats he was trying to joggle. The pen against the lip was very close to break into his skin. His blood would gently drip along the pen on his fingers. She would look at it with the curiosity of a Pavlovian dog. No, she’s not a vampire or an iron-deficient creature. She’s just fascinated by the way this innocent liquid sprouts up off our so-not-innocent bodies when teased to free itself into the world. Blood sparked off religions, kinky and/or dark beliefs, created family lines and therefore wars, turned into number one life saver and life giver, became semiotically irreplaceable, just to end up being the mare object of her momentary curiosity. Will he pierce the lip skin and free up the red drop she was picturing on the pen tip?

They say blood is the essence of life. I beg to differ – her inner voice answered-: blood is the essence of our thoughts. And he’s about to lose some of them with the tiny blood drop ready to come to the skin surface.

“Does my imaginary childhood walks through Mobusian castles help you understand my state? Or is it just a therapy procedural step we have to perform according to your rule book?”

“I think you know very well the importance of childhood representations in shaping up personalities.”, he lectured with his most paternal voice. An old uncle at the family dinner table giving life advice left and right to the TikTok generation.

She ignored him, amused by the pen’s proximity to his near-bleeding skin.

“Yet, the sexual desire I seem to stir in both men and women has nothing to do with castles or pre-puberal dreams. Neither with my body shape or eyes color. Maybe I produce huge quantities of pheromones. I’m probably like a maple syrup bucket, hanging down a tree trunk and collecting gallons of pheromone water.”

She took the posture of Rodin’s thinker, attempting to clear some shady poetic notion that was rubbing against her forehead. His next question burst her thinking bubble.

“Do you dream of him?” Boom. Another one she managed to avoid answering for more than a year.

“You know what? I do. But not of him-him, as a being. It’s more like … marketing content. I’m very happy he doesn’t show up in my dreams. Last thing I need right now is fear, abuse and threats swarming in my subconscious.”

“What do you mean by marketing content?” His forehead lines seemed to have multiplied in overlapping folds, covering his face in a very odd way. He was there to help, understand, support, suggest solutions and eventually a treatment. Yet, on the other side of the desk, he felt just like any other male body who was receiving pheromones and was having a very hard time managing their effect. Did she notice anything? Is she aware of the consequence of her mere presence right here, right now, less than 5 feet away, exuding the essence of unavailable wants? He would run away with her in a blink of an eye - and in a blink of the other eye, if that makes if faster -. No more questions, no more past digging, no more repressed memories or buried traumas. Think! Think quick of something trivial! Like the garbage bin he forgot to put at the curb. Or of the unpaired socks left forever in the dryer. Or even of his brother’s trip to Bahamas. Yet, this stupid masculine exercise that saved him so many times before proved awfully futile now, especially under the influence of her freaking silent pheromones.

“I don’t know how to explain it. Imagine that you see your mother in your dream, telling you what a wonderful human being you became, but she doesn’t have a physical shape. She’s mostly an ad cut from the newspaper. I dream of him like he’s a warning product label, something along the line: Read carefully before using. Not for smart people or reasonable beings. Ego-fragile. Handle with care and reluctance. Choking hazard. Made in a gray matter-free facility. Do not intellectually challenge. Wash vigorously with lukewarm deception after each use. Store in forgotten places. Naturally unflavoured. Proudly made from leftover material. Best before: it doesn’t apply, as it’s never been any good. Keep all source of brainpower away from the product. In case of accidental interaction, call our hot line number 1-800-eff-my-ex.”

She lost him at “carefully”, simply because he misheard the word: “caressfully”. His fingers started translating the made-up word into gentle strokes above his pants fly. Her eyes pierced the desk with the fierce look of a Medusa. He froze. She cannot possibly know, he thought. The desk is not see-through. His fingers cringed. Her voice dropped two half tones and slowed down as if approaching a streetlight. His nostrils flared. Her mouth twitched and, after the longest 2 seconds in the history of humankind, she gave him a smile, sealed with a giving-up silence. His heart skipped too many beats. She leaned her torso towards the desk. He finally blinked, but blinking didn’t help. She heard outside a car shifting in a lower gear. He parted his lips in hope of a breathing miracle. 

“Air shortage is a global problem, not just individual”, she said philosophically as if reading his lung scan. “And oppression is not possible without love.”

What is she talking about? How would she know about the quantity of air his lungs were gasping for? What love has to do with oppression? Why can he simply press the eject button and throw himself out of the anthroposphere? Somewhere in a galaxy where breasts and sexual arousal haven’t been discovered yet?

“Still with me? Is my time up? Oh, yes. 50 minutes on the dot. Please put a note in your book for next time to talk about drawers. I feel like it’s a very rich topic. And from now on, you can ask me any inconvenient or unpleasant question. Green light to therapeutic unpleasantness. In fact, you had already asked me all sorts of unlikable questions, just that I avoided answering. I’ve always appreciated that you never insisted on squeezing information from me. Five stars for being a gentleman, tender keeper of my sacred secrets. You have a brilliant game plan: no hovering or circling questions. I know I’m not an easy subject, but who is? When you are therapy-subject, easy seems impossible.”

His hand was limp and unconscious, resting against the trousers fabric like undercooked pancakes. If she stops talking, I’ll be hard again, he realized with terror. How exciting her silence was! What a turn-on her soundlessness! He never wanted so much the peace of another human being. Her last word was like a dot at the end of an unbearably long phrase. Everything turned into thinking stillness and dangerous silence.

Referral. That’s it. He has to send her to somebody else, preferably a female colleague, invoking stupid unclear reasons. That would save him from his own misery. This ongoing torture needs a final chapter, he reflected while looking guiltily at his hand. She slowly waved like she was removing a spider net caught around her right eye. Last snapshot of her presence, a mysterious shape framed by the open door, ready to step into a Narnian wardrobe. And gone she was! Along with his pathetic tumescence. Yet, his breathing rhythm was far from being restored.

“Mom? I need a ride! Can you come and pick me up?”. Anna’s impatience transpired through all her text messages. You have to be ready to answer the same second she hit the send button. Otherwise, a chain of attention seeking messages would follow: mom? You there? Hello! And a grumpy emoji to emphasize a form of urgency. “Sure. On my way. Give me 20 minutes or so. Everything ok?”, then no answer. K’s worries were of no urgency to Anna. No answer means “Perform your duty and stop asking questions!”. And she did perform the duty without the slightest regret: drove mindlessly while calling her bridge partner to cancel the game. “Hi Richard, family emergency. I won’t make it tonight. Sorry for cancelling.” Richard never answers his phone, reads his emails once a day in the morning around 6am, doesn’t hold grudges and plays bridge impeccably.

Anna got in the car, without even looking around, her eyes super-glued to the phone screen. “Hi, mom!” she said only after the car pulled out. Anna was alright: no broken legs, no teenage tears, no frustration or disappointment, no evident injury and no explanation. Then, why did she need to be picked up during her dance class? Where will she be driving to? Instead of taking the highway, she headed off through a residential area, admiring flower beds and houses, toying with the idea of a new property, smiling at a golden retriever who seemed to enjoy the walk so much more than his leash-holder. No GPS to keep her company, hence no chance of putting herself anywhere on the map. In fact, she had no clue where she was. Getting lost was her #1 quality. She could get lost even in her own kitchen. If there was a losing-your-way competition, she would be the champion. Not even necessary to defend the title. Orientation skill – negative. Intention to recover the geolocation parameters on the GPS – zero. Anna’s frustration grew by K’s indifference in worrying increments.

“What the heck, mom? I have to be connected in 10 minutes and we are not even close to a decent computer!” Anna’s tone changed from upset to desperate, while punching “home” in the “where to” field of the GPS. The ETA displayed by Waze diminished a little bit her sudden frustration. “I don’t really understand how you managed to get in here! We have smart devices for a reason. Why don’t we use them?” She wanted to continue, but gave up. Sarcasm won’t shorten up the driving time. K kept rolling without paying any attention to the GPS.

“Maybe I’m driving in Narnia’s wardrobe! All the smart devices we have these days won’t stand a skimpy chance to the wardrobe’s complicated cartography! Take this, lousy GPS! Map the wardrobe and point me to the next available computer!”, she thought, mocking Anna’s remark. But she didn’t say anything out loud. If she keeps driving aimlessly, maybe she ends up on the other side. Any other side would be as fictional as the junk drawers or Narnia. She wished for a split-second Anna’s game was real and she could hide safely in one of its corners, away from therapists’ practice and dirty looks.

“What’s the game you need to be home for? Something with an antique name!”

“Carthagonia, mom! I told you million times. Do you ever listen to what comes out of my mouth?”

“Fine. Carthagonia, here we come, through mud and shattered time to save you from the Roman Bad Wolf!” K chanted, hoping to get something else from Anna than annoyance. They passed by a cherry tree and a colonial house, a band of joyful squirrels, turned left – as the GPS coldly indicated – and saw in the distance the service road.

“We won’t make it on time!” Anna mumbled. “I don’t know what’s happening to you! But you have to snap out of whatever you are in.” Suddenly, she realized what K said. “How do you know about my game? Did you search my browsing history?”

From frustration to annoyance and back to frustration, Anna raised her eyes and looked at K for the first time since she got in the car.

“Can I have your phone for a second?”, she asked.

“What for?”, K’s eyebrows moved up to their highest point.

“Need to check on something. Your Spotify account.” She’s such a cheap liar! Yet, K decided to play along. Anna took the phone and began “investigating”.

“Where are all your pinned apps? Why do you have 137 tabs opened? Who’s this weird user you are connected as, Hannah Dessik? And why do you receive so many text messages from…. Xegonia? What kind of name is this? Every half an hour, this Xegonia woman sends you shit.” Anna’s fingers swiped to all four cardinal points on the little screen as if she was starting a war against the entire emoji generation. “Mom, your phone is worse that an old man’s junk-drawer.”

K didn’t even blink or glimpse at the phone. Anna was obviously reading the messages, browsing and skipping, rounding her eyes almost to the point of turning into a Japanese manga character. Sailor Moon redivivus in a mission impossible to uncover her mom’s unknown life.

“In fact, Xegonia is a man. He’s my therapist.” K stated casually with the tone she would address the waitress when ordering from a plain menu.

“You have a therapist? And I assume Holiferna, Gloriana, Exingua… are all men? Like Xegonia, the male therapist? Actually, I don’t even want to know. I just hope you don’t entertain more than one therapist - an army of psychology experts, on its knees, ready to serve your complicated narratives. You are the Jason Bourne of therapy. Take back your junckaholic phone”, and she mounted it quickly on the magnetic stand, somewhat afraid the "junkaholicness" of the phone might be passed on to her.

Five minutes later K pulled in the driveway.