As usual Dr. Schnapps is smoking his pipe. Out in the hall I can smell it. I haven’t the heart to tell him that his pipe tobacco makes me nauseous. When I enter his consulting room he is standing near his desk. He makes this little bow. “Hello, my dear. I hope it’s been a good week.”
Like clockwork I start crying hysterically. I don’t even have my shoes off yet when the tears pour down my face and I start retching and gagging and snot jams my nostrils. Every week when he speaks those gentle opening words I just fall apart.
“There, there,” he says. “Have a tissue and lie down and tell old Schnapps all about it.”
“It’s going to take more than one tissue.” I choke back phlegm clogging my throat.
“My dear, take the entire box. Tissues are all part of the service.”
The script never changes. I never feel better. Week after month after year.
“Lie on the couch and tell old Schnapps what is troubling you, child.”
Well, for one thing, it’s your pipe. But of course I don’t say it. He’s deeply sensitive. He always makes sure to have the unscented tissues without the lotion that greases them up and leaves an after-taste if you need to wipe your lips when you’re finished sobbing. I appreciate that small touch a lot.
I also don’t say that I feel strange calling him Schnapps when his diploma from Université Tremblova with its gold crested seal and hand-lettered black fountain pen ink clearly has certified a ‘Dr. Emile Schnapenfodder’. I don’t say I feel it’s silly and beneath him to mock his true name, Schnapenfodder, which his family, I’m sure, carried with a certain pride instilled in them from years of impoverished suffering in their homeland. Filthy slobbering work that I’m sure involved pigs.
I don’t say any of this but continue to sob each week.
Taking off my shoes, I settle onto his consulting couch. The room is always dim and slightly warm. Everything in here ancient; from his homeland, I suppose.
Schnapps clears his throat. “My dear, because we are making limited progress, might I suggest you come twice a week? Your insurance will cover the extra cost, I’m certain.”
Twice a week! Has Schnapps gone bonkers? Two of us bonkers cannot be a good result. I’m trying to straighten out my neurotic tendencies and he wants me to come here and smell his pipe tobacco two times a week? I squirm on the couch batting the pillow.
“Is it the wool pillow making you feel uncomfortable?”
“No, no. It’s not the pillow. I like the pillow, it keeps my neck from freezing.”
Schnapps raises one eyebrow over his round, frame-less spectacles. It’s like a brown bristly mountain with a lot of cactus-type overgrowth. “You have a frozen neck?” he asks.
“Well, yes. It is winter. It’s February. Everyone has a frozen neck in February.”
His eyebrow collapses back down behind his specs. “My dear, that represents a problem you are not addressing.”
“What do you mean?”
He coughs a few times. Hollow. I think of a skeleton coughing. “Well,” he says finally. “To do nothing about a frozen neck in February is to feed your neuroses. Have you perhaps considered wearing a scarf?”
“Indoors?”
“Some women do. Men also. Healthy people find a way to solve what is troubling them.”
“Am I unhealthy?”
“Let’s just say for the sake of example that you get a corn on your foot. The healthy person stops in the pharmacy and purchases a corn plaster. Dr. Scholl sells them in a variety of sizes and styles. The healthy person would accomplish this simple task. While the neurotic would lament over the corn, perhaps even crying out while walking. My dear, do you understand the difference?”
I take a moment to absorb this information. “Is Doctor Shawl from your same University in Tremblova?”
Schnapps chuckles and the pipe nearly falls out of his mouth.
I sit up quickly. “That could have caused a fire! You have all these old rugs. Do you know how fast a fire can start?”
I press my hands to my heart to stop the palpitations, at the same time spinning my head wildly searching for the exits. There’s only one way in or out. This paralyzes me. I feel stuck to his consulting couch unable to move or speak.
“If you have trouble with a scarf you might consider a turtleneck sweater,” says Schnapps. “They are very becoming and sold in many colors. You certainly have the figure for it.”
What!!!
I’ve heard about these therapists often seducing their patients which is why I chose one old enough to be my great-great-great grandfather. Schnapps’ comment about my figure makes me feel more nervous than ever. Like I want to jump out the window.
“Where is the window?” I say.
I realize I’ve never noticed a window. But now I see it, there it is! Next to a corner, with long dark maroon drapes practically hiding it. A leafy fern on a stand placed in front of that window. Deliberate?
“Is that plant new?” I say.
Did Schnapps set the plant there so he could seduce his patients while still managing to keep them from jumping out the window?
“No, it’s an old plant,” he responds.
My head feels feverish. I sense my life veering toward minus zero. “Have you ever heard about not smoking in public?”
Schnapps looks startled, then his eyes twinkle behind the specs. “This is not public, my dear, this is a private medical office.”
“No! You are wrong about that, Doctor Schnapenfodder! I am the public. Anyone who comes here is the public. Technically, you can only say it’s private when you’re here alone. When I’m here it’s public.”
“Aha!” He’s been rocking in his chair and doesn’t change the rhythm. He grins, the pipe clenched in his teeth. His teeth are in bad condition. I knew that before today. I gave him a pass on his teeth because of his poor beginnings. I’m usually a stickler for hygiene; particularly teeth. Teeth are one of my areas.
“You know how teeth are one of my issues?”
He nods: rocking rocking rocking.
“Doctor I feel you should have your teeth professionally cleaned. You may have lingering bacteria that could seep down into your heart valve.”
“My dear, should we switch places?”
When I just stare at him, he taps the pipe against a glass ash tray. “You come sit in my chair and I’ll take the couch. I feel a bit tired today. It will be a nice change. You can be the doctor and I will be the bad patient.”
What!!!
“Are you saying I’m a bad patient, is that what you’re saying?”
He yawns. “No, my dear, it was just a joke. A little joke. When you become less neurotic your system will adjust to the humor of the universe. Until then… we can only wait… hope.”
“OK.” I swing my legs off the couch and stand up. “I’ll switch with you.”
Schnapps looks surprised, then shouts, “That’s the spirit! Rise to the challenge.”
We pass like strangers in the night. He lies down shutting his eyes. “Ahhh… I had no idea my patients were so comfortable. It is a very good couch. Whereas that rocking chair, my dear, I hope you don’t find it too unwieldy without a nice soft cushion under your behind.”
My behind!
His eyes remain shut. I glide toward the window. Weightless like an apparition. Lifting the potted fern. Ceramic from the old country. A pretty country scene. It’s heavier than I expected. Its weight makes me hunch a little. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see his eyes are still shut, the pipe clamped in his teeth. He’s snoring lightly. What if that damned pipe falls onto one of the threadbare throw rugs? Inferno!
Moving toward him, I lift the pot bringing it down on his head and hearing the crack. The ceramic pot still strangely intact. The pipe, landed on his chest, is not burning. But Schnapps, dear Schnapps. Soil spilled everywhere.
END
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