Nuclear Cynicism

Darren glowered venomously and tossed the gratitude journal onto the small glass-topped side table. He sank deep into the office's large recliner and briefly considered the effort that would be required to lunge at Colette and strangle her. Just climbing out of the chair would be troublesome enough, and clearing the side table would give her plenty of time to react defensively. Of course, she had to be a good fifteen years older than him. Perhaps her reaction time would prove insufficient.

Colette blinked, still wearing her professional, neutral smile. "You've only had the journal for two weeks," she said. "I think it's a bit early to give up."

"I don't pay you to give me homework," he said gruffly, folding his arms. He glanced around the clean, spartan office. It was a tasteless medley of white and glass furniture decorated sparsely with neutral knickknacks and generic art.

"Studies have shown..."

"What kind of studies?" he interrupted. "I'm sure idiots just love writing all about the things they adore about their pathetic lives." He adopted a high-pitched, mocking tone. "I'm grateful for my bed and my garden and my partner..." Darren rolled his eyes. "The bed will burn, the garden will die, and the partner is cheating. You have to be pretty naïve to benefit from such a futile exercise."

Colette failed to hold back a tiny twitch in her left eye and pursed her smiling lips for a moment. Reaching for the journal she'd given him last session, she said, "well do you mind if we review what you wrote?"

"Be my guest," he said dismissively. He leaned back in the chair and clenched his jaw.

Colette took a deep breath, still smiling politely, and cracked the journal open, flipping to the first page. "Let's see," she hummed, sliding her reading glasses into place. "Day one, you wrote alcohol." She glanced at Darren over the glasses, emotionless and cool. "OK, do you want to talk about that?"

Darren shrugged. "Who doesn't like it?" he asked.

"What do you enjoy about it?"

Darren grinned, his thin, wiry lips pulling into a weak half-smile. "It helps me forget about all the morons I have to deal with every day."

She blinked, either waiting for him to continue or giving herself a moment to process the information. Glancing back down at the book she moved to the opposite page. "Day two, you wrote narcotics." She looked up at him, then looked back down and turned the page. "Day three. Lung cancer." She stared at it impassively.

Darren was impressed, though he wasn't sure why. He supposed he had expected some kind of reaction from her, but she was a stone.

Finally she looked up at him. "I'm curious," she said. "Why did you write this one? Aren't you a smoker?"

He smiled. It was a dry, tired smile. "Yeah," he said. "It's how I want to go. With any luck it'll strike soon and put a big strain on my insurance company before it eventually takes me."

Her brow furrowed a hair before she looked back down at the page. "Hm," she said. "STDs?" Without looking up she turned the page. "Day five, capital punishment." Her eyes peered up over the rims of her reading glasses and she closed the book. "Darren," she said. "Can you think of anyone in your life who has helped you? Someone who has made you feel grateful?"

Darren feigned the act of pondering, but only briefly. "No," he said flatly.

"You've never had a mentor? Tell me about your first job."

"My first job?" he repeated. He laughed softly and bitterly. "Let's see, my dad helped me get my first job," he began.

Colette's eyebrows lifted expectantly.

Darren rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Dad had decided to kick me out so he convinced a local farmer to take me on as a stable boy. I shoveled feces for six months while my father threatened to throw me out on the street."

Colette opened her mouth.

"I was twelve," Darren said.

She closed her mouth and exhaled sharply through her nose. "OK," she said. "What about your job now? How did you get to your current position? Has anyone helped you along the way?"

Darren smiled warmly and leaned back, settling into an old memory. "Ah yes," he said. "David. I had been working at a fast food joint when he invited me to come interview for a position at his company as a sales associate." He grinned, but it was a poisoned, forced grin.

"Sounds like he gave you an opportunity when you needed it," Colette offered.

"Sure," Darren said. "Then he spent the next five years pilfering my clients, stealing my commissions, taking credit for my ideas, and eventually sleeping with my wife."

Colette took off her reading glasses and blinked. "I didn't know you were married before," she said. Then, quickly, she asked, "what about pets? Have you ever been grateful for a pet?"

"Never had one that didn't defecate everywhere or die prematurely," he said. His gravely, deep voice was beginning to sound exhausted. "Look," he said, "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not going to work. Nobody has ever done anything for me. My grade school teachers were all cantankerous and apathetic. My parents divorced before I knew their first names and neither of them wanted me so I ended up with an aunt who spent more time high than sober. My career has been a series of betrayals laced with deception and guile. I have spent my life surrounded by criminal incompetence, malicious ineptitude, and profound selfishness. No one on this overcrowded planet deserves any of my gratitude. Nothing I have is worth a second thought. With any luck we'll nuke ourselves into oblivion before long and put an end to all the stupidity, madness, and cruelty in the world."

Colette held a steady gaze in his direction, though she seemed to be looking just past him, through him.

"Oh," Darren said. "That reminds me." He held out his hand, asking for the journal.

Colette handed him the book, subdued curiosity filling her eyes.

He took it and pulled a pen from his coat pocket. He opened the book, turned to the first blank page, and scribbled something furiously at the top. Then he snapped the book shut and handed it back to her, pocketing the pen with sly satisfaction written on his face.

She squinted at him as she opened the book and donned the reading glasses again. Looking down through the lenses, she quickly read the new entry and closed the journal, gently folding her hands on top of it and cradling it in her lap. "Darren," she began. "When we talked two weeks ago, do you remember what you said you wanted to accomplish in our sessions?"

He stared at her, momentarily stunned by the unexpected question. "I remember that I told you I was stressed and miserable."

"I'm giving you another assignment," she said. Her tone was terse.

Darren could feel the session coming to a close. "Fine," he said.

"I want you to get a dog," she said.

"But I don't like dogs. I like cats."

"Why do you like cats?"

"They're assholes." He smiled.

"Get a dog. Don't call to schedule an appointment with me until you have a dog."

"But..."

"A dog, Darren. Preferably a puppy."

Darren stared at her. Was this punishment for adding nuclear weapons to his gratitude journal?

Colette set the journal down on the glass side table and stood up. The appointment was over.

Darren glanced at the journal. "Does this mean I don't have to..."

"I'll assign the journal again next time. Get a dog, then schedule a follow-up appointment."

Without any pleasantries or even a handshake, she herded him out the door.