Monday, January 07, 2013

Of Diversity, My Sexy Therapist, and Banjos

The traffic on College Avenue makes it difficult to dart from one sidewalk to the other unhurt, or squashed beyond recognition. A biker annoys me particularly, as she pisses on by me. Davis Square bikers are assholes. The point of my being out of the house at all is to attend my therapy session and stir my mind, loose some thoughts, and address the emotional discord that is making the adventure of living a more arduous undertaking than it needs to be. Like the grounds that inevitably free themselves after poorly made coffee in a French press. The little grounds represent all sorts of issues.Therapy is the time and effort spent to pick those little flakes of coffee out. After all, the flecks could be bugs. Get it? I want that metaphor to be clear, especially since it sucks.

So far, therapy has been efficacious, but I'm milling about outside the door to the clinic, which looks like a large house. My therapist has a good sense of humor, puts me at ease, and is the first therapist ever who is actually helping me. Every so often I imagine kissing her, but that's true of every woman. It made watching the London Olympics awkward...but I would lay one on the Queen, and that's the truth. Truth be told, I imagine my therapist in the buff, but I understand that's common.

People are coming and going into the clinic, which has a large, "GLBTQ Friendly" sticker on the front door. Inside, in the waiting room, are copies of Bay Windows, Boston's gay as all get out newspaper. The reason for all this is to make it very clear to clientele that this particular clinic is not only gay friendly, but friendly to all sorts of minority groups; Malaysian pickle vendors and Native Americans and beet farmers and hoarders and poor people. You know...diversity.

There is a woman coming down the street. At a distance, she looks like a fuzzy ball of womanhood, a stick figure of womanhood, anyway.But as she gets closer and passes the man nearby holding the leash of a shitting dog, the more I admire her cashmere ruffle coat. I'm also waiting to look at he ass when she passes by. Then it hits me like a polo's an ex girlfriend. Sadly, she and I did not break up well. My eyes are locked on her, and when she sees me (my black Fedora gives me away, I think), she looks up and sees me and smiles, her eyes get wide and she conveys a modicum of adorable amazement. She speaks and I listen, my eyes widen and I smile. My teeth make me upper and lower incisor are broken. My anxiety blooms like carrion flower. My affability is wretched and rarely opens, not to mention, it stinks, but it speaks to a change of disposition...I look happy to see her, although I can't imagine why. We hug, our unpleasant break-up, now 14 years old, seem to have been forgotten. She hasn't changed at all, but I have. I've lost some hair and I lost about 250lbs. But I still feel fat.

As I said, she speaks. "Darren, what have you been up to? It's so good to see you!" I balk. I'm stymied. What do I say to that? The last time we spoke, she chalked up our 18 month relationship to us being under the influence of rum and marijuana. At the time, it was an offensive take on our time together. Now, it seems accurate.

Finally, I find some words. "Well I'll be damned, it's good to see you!" Not entirely a lie. The last time I saw her, the very last time, was at a Thanksgiving dinner among Somerville artists the night before they all had to go home for real Thanksgiving dinners. The last thing I did to her was throw a dinner roll at her, playfully. It was fun. Although I wish I had a hard loaf of stale Scali bread to hit her with at the time.

As we spoke about nothing, and I kept catching glimpses of her face and body, I realized that time wasn't as kind to her as I had thought. Not that I could put my finger on it, but time was somehow cruel. It is to all of us. Then I thought of the first time we met. She was 21 and I was 28, and within a few minutes of meeting her, before we knew each other's names, she showed her ass to me. Specifically, she showed me a very red and painful looking tattoo of a butterfly on her right ass cheek. Sure, we were drinking, but it shocked me. It was like, "Hey! Check out my ass tattoo, I just got it!" Then boom, ass in my face. A bit like this,except different tattoo, and less swollen, red, and new.

I have to admit, it's a fine way to meet a woman at a party. All those years ago.

We spoke for 6 and one half minutes. She was taking the banjo when last I saw her, and was still taking it. It occurred to me that she must be a master at that instrument by now. I keep thinking about that banjo, although I don't mention it.

After that, I told her that I had a therapy session I had to get to. She looked a little sad, and that pissed me off a bit, I'm not sure why. What I was sure of is that she walked away finally, waving, and I saw her ass in those tight jeans. I sighed, and felt a little guilty. After that, I kept looking at her ass and almost walked into a very "diverse" client of my clinic who looked like the woman one the covers of, "Confederacy of Dunces."

Ten minutes later, I sat in the office of my therapist. She asks me how I'm doing and I say, "Banjo, I got a banjo on my mind." A banjo. No two banjos are exactly alike.

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