CHARLIE HEART

CHAPTER FIVE: COUNSELING

COUNSELING

         “You’re okay, just breathe man.”
         Bruce, looks pale and sweaty, and we’re getting a lot of looks sitting in his decked out cop car in the parking lot of the Love and Learning Marriage center.
         “You might want to turn your sirens and lights off there, pal.”
         “Right,” he flips a switch.
         “You’re okay, it’s just Cindy.”
         He nods and looks at me. “Thanks for coming Charlie.” He put his hand on my knee again. I really don’t like it there, but I don’t tell him that. I just smile.
         “Okay, okay, okay. Ready, you good?”
         “Yes, I’m fine Bruce, thank you.”
         “You sure? How do I look?”
         “I still think it’s a little strange you do everything in your cop costume, but besides that you look great.”
         “Power symbol, Charlie, power symbol! How many times do I have to tell you?”
         I smile a straight line, flat lip smile.
         He pumps his chest with his fist and growls deeply as he steps out and slams the door. He pats his gun and marches in.
         I unbutton my top button and try my hardest not to laugh as I follow him.
         He bursts into the office, and startles the receptionist. An over weight teenage girl with a lip ring and a low cut shirt. He leans on the counter to say something when he notices Cindy siting in the waiting room.
         “Don’t do drugs,” he says instead of whatever he was going to say and points at Cindy.
         Cindy stands up and folds her arms.
         “You’re late Bruce.” The tone in her voice forces me to make an involuntary ugly face at her. “What is he doing here?” She points at me.
         I was wondering the same thing, but I can’t let her know that.
         “Hi, Cindy.” I wave, then unbutton my next button down. I do this when I’m either really excited or in one of those situation I really don’t want to be in, and I’m definitely not excited.
         “Well, take a sweet look at this, we got us three munchkins today,” says a nasty looking woman walking out of her office. She looked maybe thirty and her name tag says Dr. Dippenhammer. She speaks in a strong southern accent and her skin and teeth are both the color of coffee.
         She smiles and I wince.
         Then she rubs her ugly hands together like she is deciding which one of us to devour first. At that moment I can’t tell, which out of the three of them, I hate the most.
         She walks us to her office, like cattle to the slaughter. We sit, and the first place my eyes shoot to is her horrific family portrait on the wall behind her desk. I couldn't tell if she was a daughter or wife. All I know is some people should not wear matching polo shirts together.
         “I thought you said this was a lunch date, Bruce,” I whisper. “A casual meeting.”
         He pretends not to hear me but I know he does. Liar.
         “Now let’s practice, I want you to say these exact words to her, Bruce. I want you to say: ‘Cindy, I care about your feelings, and I want to listen to you, as you talk about them.’ Now say it,” Says Dippenhammer.
         Bruce is a statue. Cindy’s gaze has us both petrified. He clears his voice.
         “Okay, Cindy dear, sweetheart melon. I really care about your feelings, and I want to listen to you talk...all the time, about them...was that it?”
         Cindy looks like she is going to throw up and all I can think about is: what kind of a name is Dippenhammer?
         “Good, Bruce, well done. Now, Cindy, what do you say?”
         “I say you better listen, because I am your wife! And you should want to listen to me talk about my feelings because they should be important to you.”
         “Yes dear,” Bruce whispers.
         I look at Bruce; he is a push over. He looks at me for help but I raise my eyebrows and look away. I nervously unbutton my next button down. By the end of this, I am sure I wont have a shirt anymore.
         “Well it’s a start.” says Dippenhammer. “Now that we constructively know how to open a conversation about our feelings, lets talk about them, shall we?” She points to Bruce. “Tell us how you feel about your marriage, Bruce.”
         “Me?”
         We all stare at him. Some sinister little devil inside me wants to laugh at his facial expression and wishes I had a camera again.
         “I feel...I feel like.” Cindy gives him the death stare. “I feel that, it is good, we could work on a couple things, I mean, it’s alright... I love the kids.” He shrugs his shoulders.
         “Okay, Now your turn Cindy.”
         “Well, where do I begin?” She throws up her hands then actually pulls out a list. A typed up list, puts on her reading glasses and begins to read them off.
         “Number one: You come home late every night. Number two: You never help out around the house.”
         I begin to feel that little devil rising from inside my gut. I am starting to feel like this is my marriage, like this is my wife. She’s a jet engine pointed straight in our direction. A butcher swinging her blade at the entire chicken coop. I now know why Bruce wanted me here, Misery is best experienced with someone else.
         “Number nine: you never pay attention to me. Number ten: when you do come home you play with the kids and never discipline them, which makes them love you and hate me.” Number eleven: You never leave me any cute notes around the house or write me any poems. Except for that one time and it was because I asked you to write me one, and it was the stupidest thing I have ever read.” She pulls out a crumpled up paper drink coster.
         “It reads, ‘Dear my sweet, sassy, Cindy”
         Cindy’s and Dippenhammer’s eyes meet for a moment, both looking over the edges of their glasses to express some sort of women’s understanding for one another. This is the definition of being bias.
         Cindy continues:
         “We were two people who had just met, just like two humming birds who had also just met. My heart is like a sizzling philly cheese steak, filled with love and tender meat...”
         I remember when he wrote that, bless his heart.
         His hands grip the arms of the tainted wood chair so tight they turn white, waiting for the blow to be over.
         “Number twenty five: I am always worried about you getting shot, or who you might shoot. Number twenty six: you never stand up to anyone or anything, you are a push over.”
         I can’t help but agree with that one. But I don’t say that.
         “Number twenty seven: I think you are turning our son gay by your lack of an example to be the man you should be...”
         The world stops, it just stops.
         A searing cold rush slices down my back and tunnels through the bones in my legs. I instantly break out in a fire work show of sweat. Before I could do anything. Bruce is on his feet, reaching for his gun, then Bruce’s life changes.