In Session 3
“This culture is a pool of piranhas beneath a statue of Mother Mary” (The Layman)
“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.” ― Groucho Marx
I was watching an MSNBC segment just now and shut it off. There was a clip about a woman calling for the impeachment of Joe Biden, and I thought, of course she is. It’s the equivalent of a desperate comedian farting into the microphone to try and get a laugh. I saw a vague television image of piranhas eating meat and knew this would connect with the flow of events. Sure enough, my four o’clock was with a Latin woman named Maria Piranha.
“I am conflicted,” she began, hesitating before choosing one of the Danish leather chairs. She kept her handbag in her lap. A good sign. Her identity was in that bag and she composed it in time and space alignment with her sexual chakra, the source of psychic communication. She leaned back into the chair, pulled out an oval mirror framed in amber, and divided her attention between the reflection of her left eye, inverted front to back, and her right eye focused on me.
“Of course you’re conflicted,” I said. “I’ve given you a contradictory name, combining the impulse to nourish with the impulse to devour. And look what I’ve done to myself for god’s sake. Huge as a house, atavistic behaviors, and never getting to attend a psychiatric convention in St. Louis or Birmingham, because I don’t have a professional degree. I’m a lay psychiatrist.”
“A big dog with no papers,” she mused. She put the mirror down. “Why did you summon me?” “You made the appointment, lady.” That perked her right up. “So now it’s lady! I see!” She became sexually excited in anticipation of entanglement. I could feel it in my chakra. “Do you know what a lady is, Layman? A lady is distance that has to be crossed, and sometimes it’s a great distance.” “I understand,” I said. “And you are indeed a lady, from a distance.” I could see her squirming with delight, her eyes brightening with bits of wit addictive as chocolate, but I’m not being paid to flirt. “You said your dog has left you? For another woman? Another dog?”
She met Roy at an outdoor cafe. He wasn’t allowed inside.
She reluctantly put away the eyes and spoke with a sweet confidence. “I suppose it’s silly to come to a lay psychiatrist about losing the affections of a dog,” she began. “But Roy is not an ordinary dog.” “They never are. Why don’t we start from the beginning. Where did you meet Roy?” “An outdoor cafe. He wasn’t allowed inside. Some health department rule. He came right over to my table and humped my leg. It was right out of Ayn Rand. The next time I went to that cafe I had some bacon in my purse.” “Did you know this dog was five years old?” “I didn’t have time to think about it. It just happened, and he was looking at me like, ‘I want to lick you all over.’” “And being a lady, you were delighted with this kind of behavior from a Pit bull.” “Pit bull mix,” she corrected. “I lured him back to my flat with the bacon and gave him a bath.” She hesitated, waiting to see if I would judge her. I gave no sign. “I bought him dinner and he had a few drinks.” She sat silent for a long time before I began to ask the hard questions. “Did he roll over on his back and expose himself?” She flushed and looked to her left. “Yes.” “And you scratched his belly?” “Yes, yes, and those eyes, lids almost closed, the slack jaw, he was so … vulnerable.” “And the next day he just left?” “He was gone when I awakened. I think he knew I was going to put a tracking chip in him.” “You said this is the same way you lost your husband? Do you want to talk about the tracking chip?” Maybe you know that moment you really feel it, and you can’t talk. Can’t even breathe. That’s shame that had no way to leave because it got locked inside. She was feeling it now. Treating her man like a dog and her dog like a man. I let her cry. Some guys think they should run over with a box of tissues or something, comfort the client. Not me. Those tears are carrying away the toxins, and purifying the emotions like a hard rain on Juarez street. “He’ll come back,” she said. “Your husband?” “No. Roy.”
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