Commitment Issues

This is a quirky story about an overzealous therapist. NYC therapists are known for enforcing strict adherence to appointment schedules. It's all about commitment.

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There is a “knock” on the door - somewhat - because it’s really more like a tap followed by desperate sounding scratches then some indecipherable smoothing noise.

He opens it and smiles. It is a broad smile that reveals a lot of teeth. They are oblong and uneven and several bear stains of the various obvious addictions steeped in smoke and drink.

“Judy, so nice to meet you.”

“Thank you Doctor Hurst.” He waves her into his office with a massive arm. She is de minimus and scurries underneath the limb as if it were a fly swatter and she a gnat. She clears the small hallway then freezes, staring into the room dumbfounded by the furniture.

“Let me assist, this one is yours.” He says this in a kindly manner with his big teeth showing while gesturing her to a cushy brown leather couch. Opposite the couch is an immense armchair of faded gold with crimson and blue pinstripes into which he nestles his bulk. He is an extremely oversized man and fantastically rotund and the old chair blurts out a pained noise from the nestling. She seems momentarily stunned by everything in the room including the couch, lowering herself onto its edge with undo uncertainty and her huge designer bag crimped into her lap.

She manages to speak. “Doctor I should tell you, this is my first therapy session sooo . . . I don’t actually lie down do I?”

This absolutely kills him – he is overwrought with delight! A deep throaty guffaw trumpets from his mouth causing a thick layer of skin on his neck to ripple walrus-like. “You cannot imagine how many times I get that question!” His mirth is infectious and a thin high pitched squawk sounds from her mouth indicating laughter.

“Lying down is certainly not protocol but I do like my clients to relax! Please, settle in.”

He checks his notepad, which in fact has nothing on it except a doodle of what looks like a tootsie roll. She slides back into the couch’s plushness clinging to her bag as if it were a life preserver while her feet lose contact with the ground. She is smartly dressed in the standard garb of a city professional including a tiny navy blue blazer and tiny suit pants, a colorful tiny silk scarf and teensy-tiny low healed practical shoes. She wears oversized - relative to her tininess- round framed tortoise shell glasses that bespeak studiousness.

For a moment there is utter silence broken only by a steamy hissing sound that comes from an old painted radiator by the window. His office is small with an aged coziness, dimly lit by an antique floor lamp emanating warm yellow light across plaster walls painted sage green. The decor includes several distinguished looking paintings of still-life fruit and a large oak bookcase crammed with books of his trade.

Looking at the fruit she feels more at ease and thinks of a fruit cup.

“So Judy, before we begin I’d like to get one administrative formality out of the way, if you’ll permit.”

“If it’s about insurance I believe I told your secretary . . .”

“Not at all. We confirmed the insurance. Regarding scheduling though, you cancelled the first appointment . . . ”

“I’m so sorry about that, you see . . .”

“No need to apologize. I just wanted to make sure this day and time work for you.”

“Yes, Tuesday afternoons are generally free for me. My boss works from home on Tuesdays, so . . .”

“Ahhh, and when the cat is awaaay!!” He howls thunderously and slams his meaty hand on the arm of his chair which makes a crackling sound as if the wood has splintered inside causing her to flinch and drop her bag on the floor. He lunges toward it with surprising deftness for a man of his dimensions. At such velocity his sheer mass is appalling. Like a frenzied linebacker recovering a fumbled football he scoops up the bag while she chirps out a high pitched fear noise, anxious that he might stumble and crush her. His fat neck is beet red. He takes a moment to steady himself.

They calm down as the radiator hisses.

Why don’t we place this right over here on my desk,” he says civilly.

She says, “Oh, well . . ..”

There is a pause.

“If you don’t mind, I’d feel more comfortable if we kept it here with me on the couch.”

A longer pause.

“Really.” He seems hurt.

She nods, not knowing what else to do.

“Very well then, here you are,” he says dropping the bag onto her lap as if discarding a bag of slimy debris down the garbage chute of a five story walk-up. She’s almost certain she hears “trust” mutter from his lips. He marches to a thermostat mounted on the wall behind his armchair studying its little digital face and toys with its buttons then settles back down into his armchair. He grabs his pad and scribbles “cancelled last week ☹” next to the tootsie roll.

“So . . . Tuesday afternoons are good then right?” he asks.

“Yes they are.”

“Great, because commitment is vital.”

“Yes.”

“Commitment to your health, right?”

“Yes.”

“Commitment to better health!”

“Absolutely!”

“It’s all about commitment!” He points at the ceiling while his enormous body jolts off the chair as if someone has flicked a switch sending a deadly electric current through his thick loins. When he lands back down his gold wire-rimmed glasses bounce off his face. She stares at them on the floor and then up at him blushing, her mouth frozen in a little “O”.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters, reaching for his glasses then fumbling to center them on his nose. “You see it’s just that . . . I so look forward to working with a new client who’s committed to achieving better health. I hope you understand.”

“I . . . that’s fine . . . I understand doctor.” She waves her fingers back and forth fanning her face.

“Is it me or is it getting warm in here?”

“Why don’t we begin.”

They settle into it, spending time on the usual preliminaries, she going over the whys and how longs and with whoms: “break up just last month”; “true my mother was controlling growing up”; “he gave no reason whatsoever.” He nods and scribbles away on his notepad while she goes on, back to the past, forward, in the middle, as of yesterday, and he scribbles and prods and she reveals and he deciphers and explores and she concedes and he seethes. It is an incredible introduction to psychotherapy, she becoming readily self-absorbed in her own story and he becoming furious in his notetaking. It is as if their very souls - his enormous and unwieldy and hers microscopic and constrained - have melted from their temporary lodgings and drained into a single mucous-like puddle on his office floor, salvaged. They are one.

The process goes uninterrupted except for a moment when she removes her blazer, feeling droplets of sweat gather on the edge of her hairline.

“It does feel extremely warm in here.” She fans herself some more, her face shiny and flushed.

“Continue,” he implores.

“Yes, where was I . . . right, it ended with absolutely no explanation . . .. ”

And so on and so forth. After forty-five minutes they complete the session.

“Wonderful Judy. I believe we’ve accomplished a great deal for a first meeting.”

She removes a designer handkerchief from her bag and wipes sweat off her face.

“Thank you Doctor Hurst. It was quite wonderful for me as well.“

“So I’ll expect you back next Tuesday at 2 p.m., yes?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Oh jeez, wait a minute, I just remembered we have a department lunch next Tuesday. Can we . . . ”

“Judy, I thought we had a commitment.”

“Oh. Yes, well . . . I can do next Wednesday.”

“And yet you committed to Tuesdays.” There is a stare down of sorts, she looking bemused, he looking lost. The room becomes absolutely quiet except for the radiator’s steamy hiss. He gets up from his armchair and picks up her bag, handing it to her gently.

“Commitment is trust, Judy.”

“Yes I understand it’s just that next week . . .”

“I’m so sorry but this won’t work for me without a commitment. It’s essential. I do hope to see you next Tuesday.”

He walks her to the door and gestures her out to the hallway. As he shuts it on her she hears the radiator’s soft hiss barely audible over his whisper, “Commitment is sweat and tears.”

He turns from the door and removes his blazer. He is positively drenched and his beige dress shirt clings to his huge pink torso. He walks to the thermostat and checks the temperature. 84 degrees. “Perhaps hotter next time,” he muses, and then again “Sweat and tears.”

By Rob Plunkett

From: United States