Bethel's Meadow

BETHEL’S MEADOW

By Gregory Shultz

Copyright © 2013 by Gregory Shultz

All rights reserved.

BETHEL’S MEADOW is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For My Fake Plastic Town

Bethel’s Meadow

Part One

The Doctor Is In

1

I
N MY HAND I hold evidence of my past recklessness: it is a small photograph that I keep in my wallet. It is slightly frayed on its edges, but after all this time it is still intact and seems otherwise well preserved. I never remove the photograph from its clear plastic sleeve because I’m afraid of damaging the only precious—and also painful—reminder I have left of Miranda.

There have been many times over the years when I have thought of destroying this photograph. If you’re never again going to see someone you care so much about, what’s the point of torturing yourself like that?

But I’m glad I’ve kept it, and I hope I’ll still feel the same way about it when Miranda walks through the door here in about eight hours from now. You see, I have broken the vow I made to stay away from her. It’s late February now, and I am in Knoxville, Tennessee, waiting to see Miranda for the first time in almost eleven years. I am here for a new start on life. I hope Miranda chooses to be a part of it.

I know it won’t be easy seeing her again. It will probably be harder for her than it will be for me. The way I left her was unforgivable, though at the time I felt I was doing the right thing for both of us.

Well, if you want to know the truth, I took the easy, cowardly way out of her life.

As I anxiously await Miranda’s arrival here in what was once the café of a now-defunct bookstore, the memories of the journey that damn near drove me insane are flashing back to me at the rate of a furious mile per millisecond. But I can’t help but laugh at most of it now, because everything that happened has brought me back nearly full circle, so close again to the one I never should have parted ways with. I now have a chance to atone for my worst mistake. If things go the way I’m praying they will, I will soon have a family, something I haven’t had for most of my life.

Before I begin my story, grab a cold beer or pour yourself a stiff drink, and keep them coming. God knows I couldn’t have gotten through all this crazy shit completely sober.

…

My journey began fourteen months ago with a December visit to my psychiatrist’s office in Orlando, Florida. I was in the lobby waiting for my name to be called when a beautiful pharmaceutical sales representative strutted in as if she owned the damned place. I had seen the blonde before on many memorable occasions, and by way of glorious serendipity we were often here at the same time. She was the kind of woman that once you saw her, you could never hope to forget her. Not that you’d ever want to.

Today she wore a sleeveless, low-cut, dark blue dress. Her spectacularly sumptuous breasts seemed poised to break out at the buttons at any moment. But I knew there was no way that was going to happen—she was far too cunning and street savvy to allow such a heavenly disaster to occur. I smiled broadly and brightly as I eyeballed her supermodel-caliber ass. She had golden-tanned legs that were long and athletic—I had no trouble at all imagining those lovely limbs draped around my neck while I’d be doing whatever came naturally. And hell, it wasn’t just her legs—even this woman’s arms were far more tempting than almost any other woman’s gams. This dress, more than any other outfit I had seen her in before, exhibited to the interested observer her staggering beauty and breathtaking sensuality. It was all I could do to restrain myself from walking up to her to offer congratulations on a job well done. But that would have been disrespectful—to God, that is, for it was His doing and not hers.

I was never surprised that even if I’d been sitting in that cramped, overcrowded lobby for an hour—patiently waiting like a good patient should—that the fetching blonde with the big bouncy tits carrying the big black suitcase full of goodies received priority the instant she walked in. The doctor typically did not greet a patient himself—he left that to the receptionist. But when it was the blonde bombshell making an appearance, the doctor strolled into the lobby himself to receive her, and always with a wide, warm, and winning smile, those beady little eyes of his beaming to beat all hell. The visits from the pharmaceutical babe always took at least ten minutes, which was at least five minutes longer than I had ever been granted for a med check.

While I waited for her visit with the doctor to conclude, I sat reading an old dog-eared copy of
People
magazine: it was the yearly issue naming the sexiest men alive. After a few minutes of shaking my head in wonder at what passed for “sexy,” I slapped that vapid rag back on the coffee table and searched for another alternative.

Just as I picked up an issue of
Sports Illustrated
, the blonde returned to the waiting room with Dr. Beady Eyes trailing close behind, reminding me of the way Groucho Marx used to lope with his back damn near parallel to the floor as he tailed a dame. The only thing the doctor lacked was a cigar. I tossed the magazine back on the table and quickly got to work undressing the pharmaceutical babe with my eyes.

I should mention here that I tell everyone I am six-feet tall, when in fact I am only five-eleven. No one ever questions me about it. I consider myself a physically fit and healthy man; I run anywhere from five to ten miles per day, five days a week. Although I’m fortyish now, I’ve been told by many people that I look several years younger. So I routinely lie about my age. It keeps me feeling young.

Despite my dashing good looks, I knew when the pharmaceutical babe walked by that she was going to pay me no mind—she always ignored me. I was dressed in blue jeans and an old Radiohead T-shirt. My dark brown hair was somewhat disheveled because of my unconscious habit of running my fingers through it. I knew I couldn’t get by with the casual I’m-taking-the-day-off look, at least not within the orbit of a woman possessed of such obvious class and sophistication. It was good enough for me just to have the privilege of watching her strut and jiggle her way by.

Before completing her dramatic exit my eyes were closed, and I was already lost in a sweet pornographic daydream: I dreamed of holding her in my arms, and of penetrating deep, deep inside of her, back and forth, back and forth, my face buried in her bountiful bosom all the while. It was just like watching those old
Swedish Erotica
porno reels I had been addicted to as a teenager. At that moment I felt certain that my appreciation of the female form rivaled that of the classical music connoisseur’s love of a well-conducted symphony orchestra.

My covetous reverie was abruptly halted when my name was called by the receptionist, who was no match for the pharmaceutical babe in terms of looks. The woman looked like a crusty old British schoolmarm. I rose from my seat as ordered, and then she led me to the doctor’s office.

“How are you doing today?” Doctor Tabak asked as I walked in. I assumed the doctor asked without really caring and not really expecting a response. I obliged my assumptions regarding his expectations by not replying. It was the same non-exchange each visit.

The fifty-something aged doctor was a small, slender man who didn’t quite fill out his finely pressed blue suit. He wore gold wire-rimmed bifocals that lent him something of a scholarly air. He was from Turkey, and he spoke English with a heavy accent.

“Have a seat,” the doctor ordered. He motioned toward two maroon cloth chairs that were situated opposite his desk. “Okay, you’re doing well with the medicines? We’ll just keep everything the same?” The doctor turned to me seeking affirmation. Again, it was the same every time. The doctor always ended with “We’ll just keep everything the same?” and I never answered—I always thought that the only person in the room who actually heard voices was
him
. The doctor wrote prescriptions for two different medications on the same form. He then stood and handed it to me. “Okay, I will see you back in three months.”

I remained seated. I had something on my mind.

“Doctor Tabak,” I said, “I would like to receive some counseling. I need some help in sorting out some feelings I have for someone who . . . Well, someone I lost a long time ago. I can’t stop thinking about her, but I have to let go of her. It just isn’t healthy. But I can’t help it. I was thinking maybe some form of hypnosis that you are probably trained in could help me. You could—”

“Mr. Smith, I only do med checks now,” he said in the dry and detached manner he always employed when I voiced a real concern with him.

“But you
are
a clinical psychologist, right?” I tried not to sound too argumentative.

“As I said, I only do med checks now.” He pointed to the door. “Please.” It was his way of kindly asking you to get the hell out of his office. When I didn’t comply with his request, he regarded me with a fair amount of contempt. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith. I will see you in three months.”

I glanced up at the wall above his desk and noticed that they were still there: his framed diplomas and certificates heralding his credentials as a clinical psychologist. It was then that I was struck with a mathematical epiphany.

The doctor collected seventy dollars for each five-minute med check. The going rate for counseling, however, was only $175 for a fifty-five minute session. That’s $840 an hour for med checks versus $175 an hour for traditional counseling.

Cha-Ching!

The good doctor had to recoup the cost of his forsaken psychology degree somehow, not to forget about covering the mortgage payments on his multi-million dollar estate as well.

“I’ve always wondered why you didn’t have a couch,” I said as I stood. “Is there anyone you can recommend?” I was angry now, but I tried not to show it. I really was trying to keep my cool.

“Just consult the
Yellow Pages
,” the doctor said indifferently. He put his hand on my shoulder and led me to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Smith.”

As I walked down the hall toward the reception desk, I scanned the prescription form that listed my two medications: one an antipsychotic, the other an antianxiety medication. I had been on the same drug treatment plan for seven years (after the doctor had taken me off of lithium). The pills kept me from going crazy; they completely eliminated the occurrence of mania, but weren’t as effective in treating depression. I couldn’t take a true antidepressant because of severe allergic reactions I’d suffered when taking them in the past. In many ways lithium had been a better drug for me than the antipsychotic, but good old Dr. Tabak didn’t like prescribing
any
drug that necessitated the regular collection of urine and/or drawing of blood. Analyzing lab work was too much of a time suck for him.

“Seventy dollars today, Mr. Smith,” the schoolmarm said as she glanced at her computer screen. “When would Doctor Tabak like to see you return?”

“I’m sure not until
after
he has seen the pharmaceutical rep,” I replied. “So just schedule me around her loosening his tie for him.”

“Excuse me?” she said, giving me the evil eye.

I shook my head and opened my wallet. I took out four twenties and asked if she had change.

She opened her drawer and handed me a ten-dollar bill. She slammed the drawer shut and barked: “Mr. Smith, comments like that are
not
appreciated in this office!”

“I apologize,” I said. “Sometimes I can be terribly rude. Say, can you do me one favor, please? I need to borrow your
Yellow Pages
for a second.”

The schoolmarm frowned as she opened one of her desk drawers. She retrieved two volumes of business listings and placed them on the counter. With her malignant countenance she then glared savagely into my eyes and said: “Please be quick, Mr. Smith. Now again, when does Doctor Tabak wish to see you back?”