by Luis Samways
I felt my heart do a backflip in my chest. Thinking about Larry’s loved ones made me think of mine. The ones who were not with me anymore. Namely my wife. She died a good few years ago. She left me before that happened. It was like a double blow, if you will. The fact that she was fed up with me long before she kicked the bucket made me even sadder. In a way, I had killed her. I wasn’t the one who shot her on her way home and mugged her for the little alimony that she got from me, but I was the one who drove her away. This job drove her away. I knew that for a fact.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out my pills. I chucked a few into my mouth and swallowed them dry. They made a weird detour down my gullet, but thankfully a few heaves of my chest made them go down safely. My pills were my vice. Not out of choice, but out of necessity. If I didn’t take them, then I’d be hearing intrusive thoughts in my head. Some people call it a conscience but I call it the devil. I know I’m not possessed, by any stretch of the imagination, but I do know I suffer from a mild case of schizophrenia. I have all my life, but getting past it has been a challenge. Some say I handle the voices well; I guess in reality I don’t let them control me. These voices never tell me to do anything; they just utter nonsense once in a while. The police department knows of my ailment, but because of my sort of stellar record as a homicide detective, I guess voices don’t really constitute a firing.
My methods of police work have always been questioned, and I get into trouble with the Chief a lot. But I never do anything out of malice. I guess back in the seventies, you would have called me a maverick. In 2014, though, you’d just call me a prick.
I put the pills back into my jacket pocket and cracked my neck. My thoughts returned to my dead wife and how I felt responsible for her death. The reason I decided to go to a shrink in the first place was because of my guilt for her death. The department jumped on the opportunity to fund my rehabilitation. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them no. Seeing a shrink was expensive. I didn’t have money, and the little money I did have was tied up in paying my bills. I didn’t live a life of luxury. Luxury for me was a glass of whiskey and a few cigarettes in front of HBO. That was my one luxury in life. Damn good TV and a bottle of Jack.
I decided that my cool-down period was over and thought that maybe it was best I got to walking and did less thinking. I’d have plenty of time to re-evaluate my life while I was at the shrink. Like it or not, I knew that it was the best thing that could happen to me. I knew that seeing a psychiatrist was only going to do me good. It had to; after all, I had seen a lot of shit in my life. Getting help from somebody about my feelings could only help me forget about the stuff I’d seen. Well, that was what Shaw had said when he convinced me to go through with it when I had my doubts. I was falling for Shaw’s golden tongue once again. I only hoped that Shaw was right, or I’d be a rat visiting a shrink to get my vermin head examined. God, I hoped he was right.
***
I washed my face in the sink and looked at my wet reflection in the mirror. I noticed my black circles were fading; maybe all the thinking was helping to release my inner demons, which I knew were causing me to look older than my years. I heard the restroom door open, and someone’s footsteps made their way toward me. I heard a light-hearted laugh and turned around. My good buddy and long-term partner Santiago was standing tall, facing me. He had a look of admiration on his face. I cocked my eyes at him and shrugged my shoulders.
“What?” I asked in wonder.
San gave me a smile and came closer to me. He grabbed me by the shoulders and forced a hug. I squirmed a little, I wasn’t one for man hugs, but I made the exception for my friend, even if he knew how much I hated hugs.
“Come on, man, don’t be like that,” he said, feeling my reluctance. “I’m proud of you. You did the right thing,” he said under his breath.
I could feel the words echo into my ear and vibrate off my neck. To say I was uncomfortable was an understatement. “I don’t know what you are on about, San,” I replied, gently pushing him away.
I was met with a cheeky look on his face. He held his hands out wide, as if he wanted another hug.
“Come on, man! I know you know what I know!” he said, still smiling.
For a moment I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, trying to construct a sentence that didn’t consists of “fuck” and “off.”
“I guess every man has his breaking point,” I offered instead.
Santiago nodded his head in agreement. He managed to succumb to my body language and lowered his hands.
“You didn’t break, Frank. You told Shaw about Ricardo popping Larry. We all knew it was him. It didn’t take a genius to work that out, but we just didn’t have any proof. I knew you knew — you always know! Good riddance, I say. The man can’t be one of us if he’s popping people like Larry in the back. Sure, maybe it was an accident, but even if it was, covering up isn’t the way to go about it,” San said to me, turning around and walking up to the urinal to take a leak. “You did the right thing,” he added as he undid his zipper and commenced the waterfall that followed.
“I’m pretty fed up with everybody telling me how good I did. As far as I’m concerned, I wasn’t covering for anybody. Someone accidentally shot someone else with my weapon. That isn’t exactly going to make me look good. If anything, I was covering my ass,” I replied.
San stopped pissing and did his zipper back up.
“Say what you want to say, buddy, but I know the true reason you did what you did.”
“And what is that, then?” I replied.
“Justice, Frank. No matter what everybody else says, justice shouldn’t get in the way of covering a fellow cop’s ass,” he said.
I nodded.
“I hope everybody else sees it that way. I just don’t want to wake up one day and find a disgruntled patrol officer standing over my bed, ready to fill me with lead,” I said, coughing a little as I did so. The pills I took played havoc with my gullet.
“You won’t. We’re the good guys, Frank. You seem to be forgetting that,” he reassured me.
I waited for a bit and watched him wash his hands. The light in the bathroom flickered a few times. It always did that when somebody washed their hands. I wondered if it was faulty wiring that caused that.
“You seem to be forgetting, San, that cops are supposed to look out for each other. No matter what, no rats.”
San shrugged his shoulders.
“Ricardo wasn’t looking out for Larry when he clipped him, was he?”
I didn’t say anything. I just wanted to get out of work and get to my shrink. At least I’d be getting that out of the way as well. I wasn’t really in any mood for speculating on accidental deaths and cover-ups. My mind was racing with other problems.
“Fuck him — if he feels like I ratted him out, maybe he shouldn’t have killed one of us,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.
“That’s the spirit. Aren’t you supposed to be home? I heard Shaw gave you a half day.”
“Yeah, I’m about to leave, just needed to sort out a few things, that was all,” I replied.
I left through the bathroom door and made my way out of the precinct. I didn’t bother looking at any of the officers at their desks. I knew they were all looking at me. I just quietly walked out into the cold Boston air. I got into my Ford Capri and hauled ass out of the parking lot. I was behind on time anyway. I’d have to go to the shrink’s office as I was. I had put on some gloves a while ago to cover up the bandaged knuckles. Santiago hadn’t even noticed my gloves. I guess no one would; it was cold, after all. I hit the shifter into third and pulled off into the sunset, destination psycho town. Time to get my melon evaluated before it split in two.
Three
I pulled into the Day Square business area. I knew the shrink I was penciled in for was somewhere around here. I was using my GPS system to work out exactly where it was supposed to be. I wasn’t having much luck at all. I had spent twenty-five minutes coasting around
Bennington Street. I had asked a guy I thought looked as loopy as I was if he knew where Dr. Martins’ Shrink House was. To be fair, the guy I asked looked at me as if I was crazy. He had a vacant look on his face. I thought that part of him was offended at me asking him if he knew where it was, but, as luck would have it, he did know. Well, that’s what he had told me. He said to go down to Day Square and pull into the towered area where the insurance company was located. I did what he said, and on my way through Day Square I spotted the unmistakable emblem of “Boston Insurance Brokers.”
I couldn’t really miss it; those were the same guys who insured my old house that the wife and I had shared before she was taken from me. So, feeling like an old movie was playing out in my head, all grainy, the image accompanied by a stutter, I made my way toward the sign I recognized so well. I pulled into the complex and parked. I sat there for a while, contemplating whether or not coming to the Shrink House was a good idea. First and foremost, I wasn’t overly excited by the name “Shrink House.” At first I could have sworn it read “Shrimp House” in the ad I saw, but after talking to a few close friends, they had told me they’d seen this “Dr. Martins’’” Shrink House commercials on the tube. Apparently the guy was a quack, but he was good at his job. I preferred the idea of getting seen to by some guy who wasn’t afraid to make jokes. I didn’t want to see some psychiatrist who was all melancholy and serious. That wasn’t what I needed. I needed someone who wasn’t afraid to just talk.
I was certain of the fact that I had pulled into the wrong complex when I saw a neon sign a few feet away, just above my rearview mirror. I cocked my head a little and tucked it in. I was trying to read the sign. After a few seconds I saw what it read. It turned out I was at the right place.
“Shit,” I said to myself as the realization of what I was about to do kicked around in my head like a piece of shrapnel pinging off metal walls.
I took a deep breath in and exhaled. I felt nervous but wasn’t going to chicken out. Besides, Shaw was behind me on this, and if I pulled out of seeing the psychiatrist, then I could face some stern words, or even disciplinary action against me. I knew this was what the department wanted. They were behind me on getting some help, but it had taken a long time for me to realize I might have needed some help. I guess I knew then; that was why I was going through with it.
I got out of the car and immediately felt my legs wobble under my weight. I felt stupid. I had never been this nervous about anything in my life. It was embarrassing, if you ask me. I turned around after steadying myself and locked my car door. I heard the metal scrape as my key locked itself in position as it turned. The sound it made when I ejected it from its lock rattled in my ears. I was feeling the onset of one of my panic attacks.
“Goddamn it,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pill dispenser. I took a few and swallowed. I put the pills back into my jacket pocket and got to walking. It took me half a minute to stride toward the neon lights. They weren’t that far away, but I was pussyfooting around. I knew I didn’t want to do what I was about to do, but I had too much riding on this. For far too long my health had affected the way I did my work. I just wanted to be free once again. I just wanted to be normal.
I reached the door and went for the big slick metal handle. I pulled on it, but it was locked shut. I caught myself looking around to see if I had come to the right place. Then I looked at my watch to make sure I hadn’t shown up past my appointment. I was only five minutes late. I then spotted the intercom system next to the door. It had one button on its interface. There was a crude white label strapped on the button. It read “Dr. Martins’.” I pressed it and the buzzer made a sound. Seconds after a voice came through it.
“Dr. Martins’ Shrink House, may I help you?” the female voice said from the buzzer.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, hi…this is Frank McKenzie, I’m here to see the shrink…I mean, Dr. Martins,” I said, sounding a little nervous as my vocal chords played tag with my tonsils.
“Okay, Mr. McKenzie, please make your way through the door. I’ll buzz you in,” she said.
I heard something unlatch, and the door came loose. I pulled on the chrome handle and made my way inside. There was a large staircase, so I walked up it. I could hear my footsteps bearing down heavily on the carpets beneath me. They made a slight squelching sound I wasn’t comfortable with. I felt rather hot and noticed that my hands were sweating underneath my gloves. The makeshift bandage I had put on my busted knuckles was feeling wet with perspiration under my big black gloves. What a day to go and do something as stupid as punching the locker door.
I reached the top of the stairs and caught my breath a little as I slowed down. There was another door down a narrow hallway. It had another buzzer on it. I clicked on the buzzer, and the door opened immediately. I walked through that door and was greeted by a smiling receptionist. Above my head, I could feel some air conditioning getting to work. I was ever so glad for that. I smiled back at the lady behind the table. I made my way to her.
“Hey,” she said, still grinning from ear to ear.
“Hello, my name’s Frank. I’m here to see Dr. Martins,” I said, fully aware that I sounded like a broken record. I repeat myself a lot when I’m nervous.
“Okay, Frank. Just sit down over there, and Dr. Martins will be with you soon. Feel free to make yourself a cup of tea or coffee, compliments of Dr. Martins’ Shrink House,” she said.
I nodded and gave her a slight wave. I didn’t know why, but I was acting like a guy on a blind date with a supermodel. I was showing my cards like a bad poker player. I only got deuce hearts, I thought to myself.
I went to the seating area located a mere few feet from the desk. Near the seating area was a propped-up cart with cheap coffee sachets and a few tea bags. I made myself a coffee and sat down. Before I could sip it, I saw a door to the far right of the room open up and a well-dressed middle-aged man stepped out with a smile on his face. He walked toward me and sat down next to me. He extended his hand for a handshake.
“Dr. Martins,” he said, in the tone you’d expect a wino from the fifties to add “it’s a pleasure” on the end.
I shook it.
“Frank Mcken…” was all I could get out before he interrupted me.
“McKenzie, Frank McKenzie,” he said.
Not quite “it’s a pleasure,” but obtuse enough.
“I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve heard many things about you, Mr. McKenzie. A lot of people speak highly of you.”
I smiled.
“You should meet the ones who don’t,” I said.
“I have,” Martins replied, to my surprise.
I sat there staring at this strange man for a while. He continued to chime on with some uninteresting small talk, and then he got up and ushered me to his office with his hands wide open as if he was expecting me to hug him. “Right this way, Frank,” he exhaled in one breath.
I placed the coffee down on the table next to me.
“Don’t worry about that — you can drink in my office. I don’t mind. That’s why we have cleaners,” he said in a reassuring voice.
I got up and grabbed my coffee from the table. I turned around to see Dr. Martins already standing in the doorway to his office. I sighed under my breath and made my way toward him. I guess I was really doing it. I guess I was ready to bare my soul. If only the coffee tasted better, then maybe my tale of woe wouldn’t taste so bad leaving my mouth.
***
“I want you to just sit there and relax. This doesn’t have to be hard, Mr. McKenzie — it’s all in the mind. There is nothing to be afraid of,” Dr. Martins droned on as I had my eyes shut.
He had told me to keep them shut while I prepared myself to open up to him. I don’t know why he insisted on doing it that way, but he was coming off as one of those hypnotists. I expected to either open my eyes to me being on top of a mountain in complete self-awareness or open them up to see him with his penis out, ready to molest me.
“You need to let go of all of your troubles, Frank. I need you to cleanse your mind before you open your soul. It is the only way you see. It is the only way that this will work,” Dr. Martins continued to say in the background.
I continued to see nothing but darkness as my eyes rested in the blackness of my vision. I could feel my eyelids twitching. I suppose I wanted to open them but was paying Dr. Martins a courtesy. It wasn’t like me to allow someone to order me about like this, but I wanted to make sure I benefited completely from the experience, and I figured that I wouldn’t gain much by not allowing Dr. Martins to do his job.
Flashes of green and white came to me as my eyes remained shut. I could see those patterns forming that you get when you close your eyes before you go to sleep. Smudges of white and orange danced around in my skull. I remember when I was younger, maybe six years old, I could have sworn to seeing those patterns with my eyes open. I could even swear to seeing those patterns dance around me like a mural of magic. I always had put down that experience to being an imaginative kid. But I could still see the magic when I closed my eyes. The question was, what type of magic was it? The good type or the bad? I guessed Dr. Martins would tell me, but I didn’t want to divulge to him my belief of seeing magic patterns when I closed my eyes. Maybe he’d rush me off to the asylum upon finding out I was a maniac.
