The new therapist’s handwriting was…what was the word? There was a word.
The word is kinda gay sounding, something you’d see on a stupid greeting card. Something…
Cheery! That was the word.
Greg Duscombe was happy he remembered the word, even though he didn’t like it.
How do you learn to write “cheery?”
There were big loops, and some of the letters threatened to turn into smiley faces, and they kinda matched the therapist’s face.
She got serious too.
Jeanna. But it sounded like it had a Z in it somewhere and rhymed with sauna.
Never been in a sauna.
Greg looked at the paper, which he had unwittingly crumpled putting in his pocket.
It was a list of three things to focus on.
They weren’t tasks, Jeanna said, they were guideposts.
Things about himself to think about before he used again.
She has a nice smile.
The smile was pleasant, comforting, seemed natural.
He walked, looking at the list, written on colorful note paper, muted purples with some yellows, some abstract shapes.
The colors, the shapes were probably supposed to be comforting too.
It seems kinda phony.
He imagined a catalog for shrinks that had shit like Soothing Notepads for Junkies. 14.99 a case
He shoved the note back in his pocket, felt it crumple more against his house keys.
Pulled on the door of Thai Garden.
Nothing. Locked. What the fuck time is it?
2:14. They should be open.
He tried to look in the window, saw the handwritten sign.
Sorry. Out of Business. Thank you for Nine Wonnderful Years!
They had the best iced tea, Greg thought.
Fuck. Dammit. I just wanted some goddamn iced tea, like the Thai lady makes.
Greg was pretty sure he was violating number 2 on Jeanna’s loopy, cheery list.
He crossed Delta at Commodore, thought about getting Mexican at Ranchero.
Decided against it, walked, head down, looking at his feet as though they weren’t attached to him.
Looked up a few times, girl being walked by a pitbull, guy fixing his car underneath two cinderblocks balanced so poorly Greg wouldn’t trust them to hold up a case of beer.
Saw the white house at 23rd.
Wrought iron fence.
Greg cracked his knuckles.
It was kinda early but…
One of the guys, Cardo, he would let ya watch monster movies in the basement while ya smoked. Then you had to buy more or leave out the back door to the alley side.
Sign said “no violence” on the wall next to the big flat screen while Gamera and Rodan fought above Tokyo.
Greg had enough for two twenties.
He liked monster movies.
He liked the new therapist too, with the smile and the cheery handwriting.
But it’s not enough, man. It’s just not enough.
***
It’s more complicated than most people think isn’t it?
Written from experience?