Attachment: A Novel of War and Peace

By m. e. Jabbour

Attachment: a novel of war and peace is historical fiction during the 2004 presidential election. Set upon the backdrop of the stunning Oregon coast and exhilarating Colorado Rockies, it weaves a colorful tapestry of global war, American culture, interpersonal psychology, and individual motivation and emotion.

"That is a very brave book you have written." Carla Perry; author/poet.
"Bought it, got it, read it, loved it!" Michelle Perkins; Exceptional Family Resource Center.
"The cat has definitely leaped out of the bag." Rhaine Gonzalez; student.
"A live coal." Sandra McRae; author, poet. "Ive started many a book, put them down and never finished them. Yours was read in two days - think that says something, especially since Im opposed to most (or is it all) of what Joe believes in." Judy Mangers. "A GREAT read, Mark... It caught me emotionally--POW--always a sign of
>> excellent writing." JoAnn Ray; feminist, university professor. "...the scenes with Bobbie and the relationship between Joe and his father -- particularly the memories of abuse -- how those scenes were done -- WOW WAS I IMPRESSED!!!!!!" Mary Collopy Southworth; Educator. "I read Attachment in two days. I enjoyed it. A good book." John Dicke; Psychologist. "this is one smart beautiful book." Murray Moulding; poet.
"I liked your book a lot! Well done." Laura Prichett; Author.

Read more reviews, or order also at: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1425710395/sr=1-1/qid=1153497973/ref=sr_1_1/002-7042274-7988054?ie=UTF8&s=books
And/or: www.myspace.com/mejabbour

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 16, 2006
• ISBN: 9781465324092

m. e. Jabbour

Mark Jabbour graduated from Fort Collins High School, Colorado, in 1968; and then attended Colorado State University where he majored in Anthropology. He left school and traveled the country before retuning to Colorado, building a house, and working as a bartender in Denver. Subsequently, he studied cabinetmaking at Red Rocks Community College; and took up cabinet and furniture making before going back, again, to school and getting an honors degree in psychology, which led to his entering the profession of mental health. He advanced his studies with the Graduate School of Social Work, at the University of Denver. In 2001 he opened Stories Bookstore in Evergreen, Colorado. He moved to Oregon in 2004, and began work on his first novel, Attachment: A Novel Of War And Peace. Mr. Jabbour now lives in the Colorado Rockies with his dog and cat, and writes.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SPEAKING OUT

Joe is an extremely bright boy, but he has a tendency to speak out of turn and disrupt the class.

Mrs. Moore, teacher

Fourth Grade

Junction Elementary School

I have spoken with Joe about his behavior problems, and I’m sure you will see an improvement.

Col. John Burns

USMC

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CHAPTER 1

SMOKE

The mountain was smoking, its head blown off.

I had spent nearly four decades living and loving the Colorado Rockies, but had never seen anything like this. Back in Colorado, a fourteen thousand foot jagged granite peak would barely be discernable, because right next to it would be another 13,960-foot mountain—and so on down the ridgeline. Spectacular, yes, but not like this. Mount Saint Helens took up the whole vista. It was all by itself, but didn’t have its peak. Its head was gone, and where it should have been—a great plume of billowing white vapor rose straight up into the sky, where it was compressed into a giant, gray shroud that blocked out the sun.

The mountain with its head blown off was not dead yet. That was a good representation of the world then, in October of 2004. Halfway around the world, Saddam Hussein, the president of Iraq had been captured, but the country was still smoking, and a lot of people were dying. What some called Bush’s War, had escalated into a horrid blood sport—tactics of terror competing for headlines. Was Shock and Awe (The War or Peace president’s—depending on whom he’s trying to influence—label for the blowing up of Baghdad) somehow not terroristic, but liberating? Does it matter how the head is separated from the body, by bomb or by knife? Is it the distance that makes the difference?

The political landscape in America was just as ruthless. Liars proclaimed they told the truth, and those that told the truth called liars. Truth was exiled. It was homeless… a refugee. Where it was, or if it would return, was unknowable.

I heard the screech and clank of a log skidder from somewhere out of my sightline. Closer to me were other people—volcano watchers—camped out waiting for an eruption. They drank beer, smoked cigarettes, munched on pretzels and chips, and chatted. They lounged in lawn chairs, their bellies flowing over their belts, hiding their reproductive parts—the layers of fat cells always moving—shifting, seemingly replicating, slowly rolling like live lava over a languishing landscape.

Children darted between piles of slash and rotting stumps, Poppoppoppop. Poppoppoppop, spurted out of their mouths as they waved their stick rifles this way and that, gunning down the enemy. Poppoppoppop.

Standing there, staring at the flat-topped smoldering cone, I had no idea where my head was. I only vaguely remembered where it had been. How I wound up in the Pacific Northwest, I couldn’t really say with any certainty. Each day required effort. The state of the world and my inner state seemed linked; both were crazy.

I got back in my car, having come to no conclusions, but feeling better for having gotten out into the wilderness. I loved wilderness—it was my church. Shadow, my dog, seemed content. He likes adventure and shares my passion for wild lands. Once in the car, we drove south down Highway 101, back to Lincoln City, an economically struggling town on the central Oregon coast, consisting mostly of motels, vacation rentals, and second homes. Dozens of restaurants and gift shops competed for tourist dollars in a withering American Dream. Reality was competing, too, and had burst the NASDAQ bubble of easy money, exposing the multi-national corporation for what it was—a soulless front for greed. In addition, the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001, had awakened Americans to the fact that God, if on our side, apparently was not all that concerned with our earthly suffering.

I’d rented a small, falling-down bungalow, three blocks west of the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t much, but I didn’t need much. I was contracting, and wanted only some quiet solitude to think, read, and write. Lincoln City was perfect. It was just me, Shadow, and Ziggy the cat. Driving home, I looked west out the window and saw twinkling stars and white, sparkling breakers. They were gone, then back, as miles whirred by. The fog came and went. My travel companion was the dark tunnel of my mind. I tumbled, floated, and bounced off the concave labyrinth. What was I doing? I had no plan, but enough money to last me for a while. Money could conceal most anything—including lost souls and lies.

The past Tuesday, I’d lined up a date with Suzanne for Friday. She was the only halfway appealing woman at bridge class. (The only woman shy of sixty-five maybe.) Mostly old people lived in Lincoln City, retirees, and a few townies—to do the work of infrastructure and government—trying to keep the town afloat by making it appealing to outside interests, taking advantage of the ocean’s allure, selling its beauty and majesty as if they owned it.

I had sat next to her, smiled at her, checked out my understandings of the game’s rules with her, looked for a ring, and seeing none, approached her after class. She said okay to a movie. Woman, ha! She was younger than my stepdaughter, Katy.

My calendar was filling up. I couldn’t believe how easy life was, if you put forth an effort. What you can do if you just let go of all convention. Nihilism was back. Some people were desperate, others had given up—and a few were reaping the benefits, the capitalists. As for me—I’d spent years trying to be somebody, wanting to please people, especially my father and Sonja, my ex-wife. And then… things seemed to dissolve… and I found myself here. Here felt like absolute freedom: no structure, and no boundaries.

Living for me, on the Oregon Coast, required only money and a willingness to lie. It might have been the times—war, fear, and death lurking everywhere. Because of what? A president so confounding he had the whole world sucked into his craziness. (By craziness, I mean he was so out of touch and disconnected to what I think of, when I think of presidential. In other words, he was off his rocker. I guess ultimately the question is: How is that possible? How does such a person get to be the most powerful person in the world?) Then again, maybe it had always been this way and now, I was waking up to it?

I did have the beginnings of a plan: I’d Saddam Hussein’em: ‘Weapons, weapons? What weapons? We’ve no weapons of any kind that are illegal. We’ve no relationship with Al Qaeda.’ Was he lying? Telling the truth? Who knew? Not the people who were paid to know. Not the CIA, not the Iraqi expatriates, not the National Security Advisor, and not the president. But, He’s a dangerous man, right? Anything but what he was: a fading dictator turned sentimental. A romance novelist! It was an old trick, one of the devices of biological survival. Make your opponent, your competition, or a potential mate—believe you are stronger, prettier, wealthier, and cleverer than your rivals. Make the costs of disrespect appear greater than the benefits—instill fear. How do you do that? Lie and be convincing, be confident. So confident you believe it yourself. (It had worked for Hussein until the al Qaeda attack—he sure didn’t want that, knowing his nemesis Bush would probably link him to it.) Those are the best liars. It’s magic. Watch out, Watch out. We’ve raised the terror alert to orange. An attack could be imminent. Watch out!

War is great! At least it’s real, and that’s its seduction. Live or die—now! What you do matters! Was dying more courageous than living? Test yourself. And the first weapon of war… lying. In an atmosphere of deception and fear, anything goes, and no one wants to know truth. People just want to believe it’ll be all right. Security matters. That, and that somebody cares about them, as opposed to "Who cares?" which is what I feel most of the time, and I suspect most everybody else feels—that no one cares. In war—death matters. Be somebody.

I could be an agent: Special Forces, or Homeland Security. Keep it a mystery. The gun works wonders. It sells the lie. The gun is power. The gun is security. That’s what women want. Oh, and the money, the restaurants, a powerful cock. I was anxiously looking forward to engaging Suzanne. It had been a long time. Thank you, Mr. President.

On my action list was an appointment with Bobbie Beauprez, a therapist. Why? I did have doubts about the reasons I ended up traveling in this dark, empty tunnel and here, in this gray world of the great northwest. I was: a middle-aged white guy, with no attachment to any person, place, or thing; and that was abnormal.

When I met with her for the goodness-of-fit interview, she played with a pendant that hung from her neck. It was a Tiger’s Eye, a gemstone that protects your soul and aids clarity, so it is claimed. She looked sad. Her brows were straight, arrow-like lines that pointed to her ears and she had a hesitant smile. Her hair was reddish with flecks of gray. I wondered what her story was. Mid-life crisis—divorce—back to school to get a degree in the Recovery field? Helping other middle-aged, divorced women cope, or young mothers just starting out, overwhelmed with the challenges of parenting, whose husbands now seemed so different?

Everything so confused. Fortunes could be made in times like these. I didn’t think she would call my bluff because of the money. (The bluff being my mask, my toughness, my armor.) What I wanted was a friend—someone to talk with in confidence, without consequence. A surrogate partner. It was sad that I had to buy it, but well, there was an honesty to that. I’d pay once a week, cash. If I was resistible—dead presidents were not.

It’s possible that I am crazy, in a clinical sense—diagnosable. I have an honors degree in psychology, graduate studies, too, but quit all that. I had my reasons. There is manic depression in my family. My uncle Henry and a cousin had both been diagnosed with it. Then again, maybe it’s a personality disorder that haunts me. Wasn’t that Bobbie’s job to figure that out? If she sent me to an MD, he’d for sure start me on medication. Backdoor diagnosis I’d call it. Start the client on a low dose of the latest mood-elevating drug, and keep playing with different doses and drugs until something works. Fix the corresponding label that goes with the drug—everybody’s happy, the drug companies, the researchers, the politicians, the insurance companies, the taxpayers… me—with a false smile and my legal high—but no; she wouldn’t do that, not with my paying cash. And, she could have fun with someone like me. Real, authentic unfettered psychoanalysis. I wondered what her ethics were? Did she have supervision? I didn’t think she’d want to share me, except maybe with a girlfriend. Maybe I’d ask her about that. Press her a little and watch as she played with the pendant. Yeah, I thought, this just might work out, maybe this time the geographic cure would fix things.

All the old social rules were out the window. Thanks, Osama. I was home before I knew it. Shadow, go find Ziggy. The house was damp, cool, so I lit the fire in the fireplace. That was one thing that sold me on the bungalow, the fireplace. Ugh! There was a message on the answering machine. I wanted no part of the outside world, not at that moment. I wanted to enjoy myself—the warmth of the fire, some wine, some music. I liked being in control. I liked living alone. Alone, that is, with Shadow and Ziggy.

Shadow is a dog I’ve had with me for twelve years. He was actually Zeke’s dog. Zeke is my son and at university in Colorado. Sonja, Zeke’s mother, got the dog from the shelter after she’d split. I don’t pretend to know what that was about, her leaving, or their getting the dog. Regardless, I wound up with the dog, which was the last thing I wanted. But I grew to love him. Shadow is one I can count on to always be there for me, and always love me no matter what I do, or don’t do. He’s an Australian Shepherd mix, a herder by nature. Smart. Stands about eighteen inches at the shoulder, most of which is body. He’s got short legs, built close to the ground for quick maneuvers. He still loves to play, even at his age. I’m the cow, or the sheep, or the goat. He’d herd me around on the beach when feeling frisky. He hates the water, never gets his feet wet, doesn’t go in for fetch, could not care less about who’s doing what. I can take him anywhere, and do: crowded bookstores, hotel lobbies, and even restaurants. He never begs, hardly barks. He’s got a wonderful disposition. And beautiful. Oh my! He looks like a small black bear from a distance, but cinnamon colored, like a grizzly.

He’s got an intelligent face, long nose, bright eyes, and floppy ears with long, silk-like hair. His curly mane is an assortment of colors that women would pay a small fortune for: feathered lengths of auburn, black, purple, and brown. I love to wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight, nestle my face in his soft fur, then toss him about. His stubby tail twitches when he’s happy. It starts slow, but when I talk to him, it picks up speed and momentum until his whole rear end is going.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll. Sometimes we dance.

Okay, he’s not perfect. He’s got one bad habit and a hygiene defect. He likes to eat cat shit, and his breath is potently foul. So there’s no kissing on the mouth, ever. But, he stays off the furniture and never climbs into the bed, so that’s not really a problem. A shove will keep him away at the beach, when I’m sprawled out on a dune. He’ll snuggle up next to my legs or dig a burrow behind a log. He does guard me so that no one can sneak up on me. Twenty feet is our personal zone when I’m napping. Stay outside of that and he’ll pay you no mind.

Ziggy is precious. I named her Ziggy because of her striped fur. She’s a small, tawny, shorthaired calico cat with pure, flat, emerald eyes. A girl named Sabrina turned me on to her, and I almost named the cat after her. I think I loved Sabrina, or could have. Is that possible? She had fiery red hair, a cute upturned nose, freckles so thick they darkened her face, and a disarming laugh. Ziggy was wild, having been turned out and abandoned in the resort town of Grand Lake. I liked to think Sabrina was wild, too.

I was catless at the time and desperate, as mice had taken over my house. I’d run into Sabrina at a farmer’s market. She was selling home baked pies (if I could rewind my life) and we got to talking, and it comes around that there’s a batch of wild kittens living out behind her cabin and she’s captured one. Would I like to come up and see? I did, and Ziggy took a liking to me, hopped right up on my chest and began to purr. That was that.

Ziggy was a mouser. In two weeks she had cleaned out every rat in the house and was working on the entire mountaintop. Sometimes she’d drag them up to the tops of the pine trees that surrounded the place, like she was a mountain lion, toss them about and leap after them, limb to limb. She’s a killer, but sweet. She’d go on hikes with Shadow and me, doing her own thing, but always close by—making mad dashes from tree to tree.

I was worried about the move out to Oregon with her. I didn’t know how she’d take to traveling and a new home, needlessly, as it turned out. Once I let her out of the cage in the car, she was fine. That was the end of her anxiety. She curled up and slept on the floor, purred with the hum of the engine. When we hit the Columbia River gorge, it started to rain, which is fairly common in Oregon; and she got up on the dashboard and tried to catch the wipers. She is a treasure. Once there, she made short work of the local rodent population, some of which were almost as big as she is.

Both Shadow and Ziggy are affectionate, but not too much. They almost never demand attention, but appreciate it. They are my friends and my comfort.

I heard Shadow scratch at the backdoor, went over, and let him in. Ziggy darted by trilling, and all three of us bee-lined for the bar; Ziggy for a drink of milk, I for a glass of wine, and Shadow because that’s what he does—shadows me. I still drink an occasional glass or two of wine, or a couple of beers, but not like I used to. I grabbed a bottle of Beaujolais, pulled the cork, and clicked on the stereo. I unlaced my boots, and put my feet up on the table. The wine was good and warmed my belly, but I couldn’t relax.

I went to the phone and pushed the play button. It was Katy, my stepdaughter, she wanted to talk—I didn’t. I’d call her later. I sat back down on the couch with the wine. Ziggy leaped up on my lap, curled into a ball and began to purr. I scratched her behind her ears and thought about my upcoming session with Bobbie. What I would say? I didn’t know.

CHAPTER 2

TRUST

Bobbie’s office was really an addition to her residence. It was attached to the main house by a breezeway, but you entered on the opposite end, by way of a stone footpath that led to a cottage door opening into a mudroom. Through the mudroom was a large rectangular room that had the appearance of a typical family den. Three couches arranged in a U, with a woodstove at the open end dominating the space. An old wooden coffee table in the middle anchored the setting. There was a TV and VCR in one corner, and a blackboard on the far wall. Next to the blackboard was a door. A sign on the door said, Please knock. I did.

Come in, the voice said from behind the door.

She sat behind a desk in the back left corner of the room. She was reading something in front of her, but I took no notice, and instead, surveyed the room. A computer screen and keyboard were pushed to one side on the desktop. On the floor in the center of the room was a colorful, circular braided rug. Arranged around it were a couch, an overstuffed chair, an end table made of driftwood, and a Frank Lloyd Wright, straight-backed chair—set in front of three large double-hung windows. The desk completed the circle. I bumped into the end of the couch, and held onto it. Behind the couch along the wall, was a long, beige countertop with a porcelain sink in it—a water cooler, coffee maker, and microwave sat on its polished surface.

Bobbie looked up at me, and I looked back at her, and then continued my surveillance. She said nothing. The cabinetry was custom built, frame and panel base cabinets with glazed uppers. The glass in the cabinet doors reflected the forest scene out behind the straight-backed chair: pine trees and rhododendron shrubs. Birds flitted about feeders and wind chimes swayed. In the corner next to the desk was a file cabinet, faced in deep, dark-grooved barn wood (the wood had to have come from the interior, for all the wood on the coast was gray.) Fully packed bookshelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling behind the desk. A small boom box and a collection of CDs were squeezed in among the scores of orderly books. There was a door leading out to the breezeway adjacent to the counter. (An emergency escape route?) The space felt relaxing, cozy, a blend of indoor and outdoor, warmth and coolness, lightness and dark.

Bobbie came out from behind the desk, picked a yellow legal pad off the corner, gestured to the couch, then sat down in the straight-backed chair. I sat on the edge of the couch. She waited a moment, watching, and then spoke.

So, Joe, why don’t we begin by you telling me about last night. Just as a jumping off point?

That took me by surprise. But, it seemed convenient, considering the night I had had.

Well, I said, my depression woke me up this morning. I don’t know, about 2:30 or so. Not a dream, just thoughts. And I didn’t want to get up, to face the day. This. I was going to come in and lie today. But now I can’t, I feel too rotten. I need help.

Lie? Why would you want to lie? Her head tilted slightly and she scribbled on the tablet—which I was to find out, was a rigorous habit of hers.

I considered her question, and then responded, "I haven’t had much luck with the truth. The truth spells trouble, at least that’s been my experience. You see, that’s the big lie: ‘Tell the truth. Honesty is the best policy,’ all of that. That’s the status quo making up the rules. The authority, the power that is. Sure, they want you to tell the truth. They want to know what you’re thinking, in order to plan their defense. That gives them the advantage, they lie, you tell the truth. They got you. The famous ‘open door policy.’ You hear that—best keep your mouth shut and your head down.

"Freud saw that, talked about the commandment, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’; and how that was impossible—but if you did it, or adhered to it—you were at a disadvantage to those who ‘cheated.’

"The same thing with love. I tell the truth… nothing but trouble. She says: ‘Talk to me.’ Wants me to tell her what I think about this, that. ‘Tell me what you’re feeling,’ She says. Then she’s got me. Like this. Tell a girl you miss her and that’s fine—as long as she misses you, too. If that’s what she wants to hear. The truth? No, they want to hear what they want to hear. The truth as they see it. And, that’s subject to change. They’re not really interested in what you think or feel. You can’t win. It’s better to lie. If you miss her, tell her you don’t. Act like you couldn’t care less about her. The scarcity principle. Was it Chesterton who said, ‘The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost.’ That doesn’t sit well with anyone. That hurts. She wants you to care, even if she doesn’t.

If you care, you lose. It’s a game of deception—a lie. I’m not any good at it. I need to practice. I need someone to lie to, that I don’t care about. I need for you to affirm that lying is good. I need the truth—that lying is the way to go. Okay?

Okay, so go ahead. Lie away.

What? I wasn’t prepared for that.

Tell me your lies.

No, I don’t want to. I can’t. That’s the problem.

Okay. So let’s put that aside for a while. She sat up straighter and looked right at me, tilted her head slightly and said, Tell me about your depression.

That caught me off guard, too. I looked away, towards the bookshelf, pursed my lips, sucked in a deep breath, blinked twice and turned back to her.

Well, uh… I began to recall what it was that woke me up in the middle of the night. It’s like I can’t focus. My mind jumps from one thing to another… and no matter what it is, it always ends badly for me.

Like what?

First, this morning, the first invasion, I think, was about Sonja. I miss her. I can’t seem to get her out of my mind. There’s this house I saw today for sale, and I thought of her. That I should ask her if she’d want to go in with me and buy it. But then, I play out all the things she might say… and it ends badly. I look like a loser. To myself. I get depressed. Then I move on to the next one. It ends the same way. I want to be alone, I don’t want to be alone. Does that make sense?

No.

See?

No.

I thought you were supposed to say ‘Yes’?

Why?

To make me feel better.

Is that what I’m supposed to do?

Isn’t it? I want to feel better. I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of night thinking about Sonja.

Tell me about Sonja.

We were married. She divorced me. She’s the mother of my son, Zeke. The mother of my stepdaughter, who’s coming up here to stay with me for a while. She called last night, my stepdaughter, Katy.

I stopped. Bobbie didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to talk about it. The silence was uncomfortable. My plan was falling apart. She wasn’t playing with the Tiger’s Eye. She was taking notes on the legal pad. She was looking at me, I could feel it.

Can we talk about something else?

Whatever you like?

What do you think’s wrong with me?

You haven’t told me very much. What do you think is wrong with you?

I don’t know… that’s why I’m here. I thought maybe you could help me, you know, figure some things out, like why I’m so depressed. Sometimes. Not all the times. Sometimes I feel great. I sleep well, wake up excited.

I was at a crossroads now. Should I lie? Could I pull this off? I had her set up. Or should I continue with the truth. Truth? . . . I didn’t know what the damn truth was.

"Look, I don’t know. Okay? I’ve got this date tonight. With a girl in my bridge class. She’s young. I don’t think I’m really attracted to her, but who knows, right? I don’t know anything about her. I just thought we’d go out and see. She must be interested. She said ‘yes.’ I’ve done this sort of thing before, though, and it never works out. And I mean never. Even when I give it time, you know, several dates. It’s like they’re all crazy, the more I get to know them. It’s like, ‘I don’t need this.’ You know?

"I can’t tell what a person is thinking, or how they feel. And if I ask them… they seem not to know either. Or at least they’re not willing to tell me about it. Then it becomes uncomfortable… for having asked. And that’s the end of it. We’re back to who misses who, who cares about who more, that crap. Why bother? I’ve got all this baggage I’m carrying around. And they do, too. You’d be surprised. Even when they’re young. Well, maybe you wouldn’t.

"It’s almost as if my daughter is right. She believes in past lives. She thinks there’s this karma thing going on, and you have to work through the sins, traumas, mistakes, whatever, from other lives. But it’s not your fault, and you don’t even know what it is. It’s a mystery. Isn’t that nuts?

But I love her. How can I tell her, ‘I think you’re nuts’? Because she’s not, you know. She’s trying to do the best she can. I don’t know what her first years were like. She came to live with me when she was seven. There were suggestions about something, sometime, with someone, but no resolution. She left home before she finished high school, not long after Zeke was born. Things were a mess. I didn’t know anything, was a selfish dope. Thought life was just one big party.

I looked at Bobbie. She looked different now—softer, kinder.

Go on, please.

Do you think it’s true, the past lives thing? That we’re just here learning these lessons, or trying to. Moving on up the karmic ladder towards Nirvana?

Bobbie sat there, softly rubbed the pendant. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, pull her close. I felt myself getting aroused. Get a grip, I told myself.

Ha! I just felt myself getting turned on by you. Is that that transference thing you shrinks talk about?

You were talking about your depression.

It’s gone! Great work, doctor! Ha! I’ll see you next week?

Our time’s not up.

"Fuck. Can I say that? Do you mind? . . . Well, okay then. My depression. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m depressed because, because of something in my past lives, and I’ve just got to figure that out, and then everything will be fine. What do you think?"

I don’t think that’s it. I think your ‘depression’, if you choose to call it that, is your own. You were talking about a date you have tonight, with a woman from bridge class…

Well, you see, with me… there’s usually a spark. A love at first sight thing. You know? I mean sometimes a woman will grow on me. No, that’s not right. I mean I don’t see them clearly at first. They’re just part of the set, the background. But if, when, I do notice them, really notice them, then I am either attracted to them or not. Like just now with you. I sort of saw you there for the first time just a moment ago… and, wham, spark, ignition. I turned a key, "Now