Old Pal, New Pain

Cosmetic Addictions, New Breasts - Part 8

Dee and I stood up to leave. I helped Dee with her coat. It’s odd purple color, her harbinger of Spring, clashed with my khakis and traditional blue dress shirt. My leather belt and loafers clashed. Only the solid white shirt buttons matched her coat. How could she wear this purple color so well?

As we walked across Dr. Marty’s office, Dee squeezed my arm and said, “You’re getting a car.”

I put my hands in my pockets. I fiddled with my keys.

Dr. Marty rose and said, “And one other thing. I can’t believe I almost forgot. Tom, any progress on naming your character?”

“I’m calling him Face.”

“Face. Huh,” Dr. Marty said.

“It’s just a name.”

“Yeah.” He put both hands in his pockets.

You’re a shithead.

Shut up, Fuck Face.

Looks like Dr. Marty is mimicking you.

What?

You’re playing pocket pool. He’s playing pocket pool.

He’s the shithead.

You’re an ass.

Go to hell.

I took my hands out of my pocket.

“Face. Actually, that could be a fun name. Can you tell me a little about him,” he said. “Who is he, or who he reminds you of?”

Another failed escape attempt.

“Not much to say.”

He let his shoulders slump. Dee fumbled with her coat buttons. Face was ready to resume badgering me.

“He’s long in the face.” I continued. “Not so much glum, but doleful. He’s lost most of his hair so he has a big forehead.”

Dee interrupted, “You’re losing your hair. It’s funny watching you clean it out of the shower after you squeegee the tile and glass door.”

“Come on, Dee.” I said. “We’re trying to finish up.”

“He’s so defensive about his hair,” she smiled at Dr. Marty.

Dr. Marty asked, “Have you tried Rogaine?”

“Why?” Dr. Marty needed a drug to grow brains.

“Cosmetic Drugs. Your magazine, you see?”

“I like balding,” I said. “In American Gothic, Face is almost bald. He has glasses, not Lasik.”

Dr. Marty said, “Face - maybe he’s a long-time friend or a mentor or someone from your past, and you need to get reacquainted. He sounds smart, like you, so kind of your equal and in other ways your rival. You probably have some common interests.”

Go to hell.

Shithead.

“You might think of him as your old pal.”

“Marty!” Dee jumped.

“What!?”

“Bad idea,” she said. “Old Pal was one of Tom’s best friends.”

“Well, maybe we can help mend the fences.”

Good fences make good neighbors. That’s not what Robert Frost meant either. He had such power with irony and silly aphorisms.

“Patch up the break,” Dr. Marty continued. “Maybe Old Pal would like to hear from Tom again.”

“He’s dead,” Dee said.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. Are you alright, Tom?”

Dr. Marty was contrite, but frankly, he’s just an asshole.

“Yeah,” I said. “We need to go.”

“That reminds me,” Dr. Marty said. “I’m glad I didn’t forget this because I almost did. Would you two care to join me and my friend Mary for dinner. My treat.”

I spoke before Dee could, “I don’t want to overstep boundaries.”

“Don’t worry,” he said.

“I thought our work stayed in this office.”

“Of course. I treat all my client stuff with confidence. But this isn’t a big deal.”

Dee said, “We’d love to go.”

“You two will like Mary.”

“Great,” Dee said.

Where’s the damn fence?

Mary.

Another Mary. Hell.

I’m going to enjoy this.

Dee’s high.

“She runs a department that I do consulting for. It’s similar to what you do Dee. She and I are writing a book together. Tom, you’ll like that part. Just social, not life coaching stuff or anything. Fun. And it will be a better way for me to say I’m sorry, Tom.”

… continued

——

Cosmetic Addictions, New Breasts

Part 8: Old Pal, New Pain
Part 7: Elective Pharmacology
Part 6: My Car, Her Breasts
Part 5: Next Action?
Part 4: Dee On The Desk
Part 3: Clacking
Part 2: Smell The Writing
Part 1: Detail, Time Square