Dr. Slick: A Killer Comedy (2 page)

Tom goes to a door with a sign on it reading Human Resource Center.  The office looks more like a library. Books, desks and a woman seated at a central desk. She looks up as Tom approaches.

“May I help you?” she says.

“Um, I’m supposed to get some information on...achievement. Improving myself.”

“You’re Tom Goddard, right?” the woman asks, a small smile on her face that makes Tom feel uncomfortable.

“How’d you know?” he asks.

“Oh, we’ve been wondering when you’d come down for quite awhile now. We’ve got a file all ready for you!”

Tom doesn’t know what to make of this.

The woman pulls out a huge stack of material with Tom’s name clipped to it.

“Most of it isn’t due back for a month or so,” she says.

Tom takes the stack and walks out cautiously.

“And, oh yeah, someone dropped this off for you, too,” she adds.

Tom gets an additional envelope from her and walks to the door.  He peeks in the envelope and pulls out a business card. He checks the envelope for a note, but there is nothing else in there besides the business card. He looks at and in bold type it says: ROCKY SUTTON, SUCCESS COACH. Tom puts the card in his pocket.

Tom’s wife, Michelle, is driving the family car. She’s dressed casually and not wearing any makeup, clearly a stay-at-home Mom.  Tom’s daughter is in the back seat.

“How was school today, honey? Was it nice to have Daddy there?” Michelle asks.

“Everyone laughed at him,” Lisa says, her voice low.

“Why?”

Lisa shrugs. Michelle looks in the rearview mirror, curious, but not willing to push it.

“So how else was school?”

“We’re going to do a school play. In three weeks. Auditions are starting tomorrow,” Lisa says.

“Fun!  What’s the play?”

“Peter Pan.”

“Cool! That’s so neat! Who are you going to be?”

“I don’t know. I know who I want to be, though. But they’ll never pick me,” Lisa says, looking out the window.

“Who do you want to be?”

“Tinkerbell.”

“And why won’t they let you be Tinkerbell?” Michelle asks, her voice on edge.

Lisa starts chewing on one of her fingernails.

“Honey? Stop chewing your nails. Why won’t they let you be Tinkerbell?”

“Because I’m not good enough. I don’t even want to try.”

Michelle smacks her hands on the steering wheel hard enough to startle Lisa.

“What kind of attitude is that?” Michelle asks her daughter.

“I’m sure Molly Fisher will be picked,” Lisa says.  “She always gets picked for everything and she’s better.”

Michelle’s face suddenly turns red. She pulls over to the side of the road and slams on the brakes.

“Lisa Mary Goddard! You’re talking like a quitter!”

“Mom, you’re scaring me!”

Michelle leans over the back seat.

“Where did you learn to think like that?” Michelle asks.

“What-“

“Oh, you don’t even have to tell me. I know who.”

“Who are you talking about?”

Michelle’s jaw sets with anger. She nods to herself.

“Mom, who are you talking about?”

Michelle grits her teeth and answers under her breath.

“Your father.”

Tom tucks his daughter into her bed and kisses her on the forehead.

“Dad, I’m sorry for what the kids said about your man breasts,” Lisa says.

“It’s okay, honey,” Tom says, wincing at the term.

“No, it’s not Dad. Your breasts are none of their business.”

“I appreciate that very much, my dear. Now get a good night’s sleep, okay? I love you,” Tom says.

“I love you too, Daddy.”

Tom leaves, turning off the light and closing the door softly behind him.

He walks down the stairs and into the living room where he finds Michelle, sitting on the couch with her legs crossed and her foot tapping the air impatiently. Her arms are folded across her chest.

Tom groans inwardly, but walks into the room.

“We have to talk,” his wife tells him.

Tom sits down.

“All right.”

“I talked to Lisa’s teacher today. She said Lisa’s not working up to her potential. She isn’t pushing herself, challenging herself,” Michelle says.  She looks directly into Tom’s eyes.  “Sound familiar?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, but his heart isn’t in the question.  He knows the answer.

Lisa gets to her feet and paces.

“Tom, when we got married, everyone talked about what great potential you had. You were going to be a big creative director someday, maybe even start your own agency. You even talked about doing other kinds of writing; novels, screenplays, maybe even television shows.” 

“Who said I had potential?”

Michelle ignores him.  “That Tom Goddard, he’s going places, a real crackerjack!”

“Who said I was a crackerjack? My Mom?”

“It’s not important who said it. The important thing is...no one’s said it in a long, long time. Look at yourself, Tom. You’re thirty-three years old. You’ve got a gut. You’ve been a copywriter for what, ten years? All your friends have moved onward and upward.”

“I’m going to be a late bloomer. Just you watch. I’m like the Japanese boxwood that flowers much later-“

“It’s not funny. I let it go, because I figured you were finding your way. But now I see it’s starting to affect Lisa. She’s watching you. She’s learning from you.”

Tom winces. He knows something bad is coming.

“But I don’t want her to be you,” Michelle says.  “I want her to be confident and assertive.”

Tom gets to his feet, visibly stung by his wife’s words.

“What’s wrong with me? I work hard. I support this family. I mow the lawn–“

“Yes, you do all of that Tom. But it’s not enough. As it stands, you...are...not...enough.”

She pauses and thinks for a moment.

“I won’t even bring up sex,” she adds.

Tom snaps his head around.

“Sex? What’s wrong with our sex? Oh, Christ.”

“Nothing’s wrong with it when he have it. But when do we have it, Tom?”

“We have it at least once a week.”

She laughs. “Once a week? Try once or twice a month. If we’re lucky. And if I instigate. I’m in my prime, honey. I need it more.”

“Well, you don’t instigate much.”

“Maybe I’d instigate more if I had a little eye candy.”

Tom looks down at his middle-aged body. He paces for a few moments, the finally sits back down.

“What do you want me to do?” he says softly.

“I want you to turn your life around.”

“Can you be a little more specific? It’s not like turning a car around-“

“I want you to realize what you’ve got here. What’s at stake. I want you to think bigger, set higher goals and achieve them. I want to be married to a winner, Tom. I want Lisa to grow up with a father figure who’s a winner.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’m a loser.”

“No, I’m not saying you’re a loser.”

“Then what exactly are you saying?”

“You’re not a loser. You’re just acting like one.”

Tom stands there, his face goes white as if he’s been slapped. He storms out of the room, grabs his coat and car keys, and heads for the door.

“Tom, where are you going?”

He answers by slamming the door.

Tom marches to his car, gets in, and takes off.  He turns on the radio.  The song playing just happens to be “Loser” by Beck.

He angrily turns off the radio and eventually parks on a side street that has an impressive view of Lake Michigan and part of the Chicago skyline.

After some long minutes, he pulls out his wallet and looks again at the business card for Rocky Sutton, Success Coach.

Tom faces a glass door with a logo reading “Rocky Sutton.”  He pushes open the door and steps into the lobby of the building.

The space is spectacular, with floor-to-ceiling windows and plush carpet. There is an ultra modern receptionist’s desk made of what appears to be hand carved wood.

The receptionist is nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, a loud
crack
erupts from the closed door behind the receptionist’s desk.

Tom jumps, startled.

He walks through the reception area to the main office door and looks inside.  He sees an office even more spectacular than the reception area. The same floor-to-ceiling windows make up all four walls, but the view is spectacular. Downtown Chicago and a good view of Lake Michigan.

There is a man dressed in golf shoes, suit pants and a white dress shirt with no tie and his sleeves rolled up.

Another man, casually dressed with a sweater bearing a gold instruction logo, is squatting in a catcher’s stance analyzing the other man’s golf swing.

One of the windows is open and the man standing has a golf club in his hands with a patch of artificial turf on the carpet. He rears back and smashes a ball through the open window. It sails out over the Chicago skyline.

“Dropped my shoulder just a bit,” he says.

The man hits another ball out the window.

“I got all of that one!”

The golf instructor nods.  “Good. Good. I liked your extension,” he says.

“I think that quarter-inch makes all the difference. I can’t believe I didn’t try it before,” the man with the golf club says.

“You need to be fitted every year. You change, your swing changes, everything changes.”

The man smacks another ball.

“Ah, turned my wrists over,” he says.

“Should I order the Pings, then?” the golf instructor says.

“Yeah. And the TaylorMades, too. I still can’t decide which ones I like better.”

For the first time, the golfer notices Tom. He crosses the room to shake hands.

“Tom, right?” he says.

“Right, I called earlier...”

“I’m Rocky Sutton.  Nice to meet you.”  They shake hands and Rocky hands him the club.

“Give one a ride.”

“Oh, no, no...”

“You know what the Great Gretzky says?”

“Uh...”

“It’s lesson number one,” Rocky says, smiling.  “Gretzky said, ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.’ And it’s so true!  Do you understand, Tom?”

He gives the club to Tom who takes it tentatively. He tees up a ball.

Tom shifts his weight, addresses the ball, then swings.

It’s a horrible shot. He hacks up the artificial turf on which the ball was sitting. The ball careens off the edge of the open window back into the room.

“Incoming!” the golf instructor shouts.

Everyone ducks for cover but the golf pro is too late. The ball smashes into the bridge of his nose, flattening it and sending a shower of blood down his chin onto his sweater.

“Fuck!” the instructor yells as he grabs his face.

He charges Tom but Rocky steps in between them.

“Whoa, whoa. It was an accident,” Rocky says.

“I’m so sorry...” Tom adds.

“Fuck you!” the golf instructor says.

“Now, now Matthew. Tell you what, throw in a set of Callaways, too, okay? For all your troubles,” Rocky says.  He looks down at the floor. “Hey, don’t get any blood on the Berber.”

Rocky ushers the golf pro out of the office and shuts the door.

“I’m so sorry,” Tom repeats.

Sutton looks at Tom as if he’s thoroughly appraising him.  “Two things. First, never say you’re sorry unless you really did something to be sorry about. Now, that was an accident. So don’t say you’re sorry. Two? How could you miss the fucking open window?”

Rocky is standing in front of a dry eraser board. He has diagrammed the plan of action for Tom.

“Let’s follow the flow one more time,” he says.

“Let’s do it,” Tom agrees.

As Rocky runs through the process, he uses the marker on the dry eraser board to punctuate his points.

“This is Tom Goddard as we know him today. Probably a good guy, but maybe...could be better?”

“Way better,” Tom says with enthusiasm.

“If you work with me, we’ll more clearly identify Tom’s dreams and ambitions. Maybe you want to be a chef, or a tree surgeon, who knows? Once we’ve identified those, we’ll work on your values. Everything you achieve comes from the foundation of your values.”

“Sounds great,” Tom says.

“With me, you won’t get to the top stabbing everyone in the back and shitting on people. I know too many people who went the cutthroat way. They’re all bitter and unhappy, and most people would be surprised to know, not terribly successful.”

“You must not know many people in advertising,” Tom points out.

Sutton ignores him. “Based upon these values, we’ll work on the steps Tom needs to take to get here: Tom Goddard, living the kind of life, doing the kinds of things Tom Goddard wants to do.”

They both stare in silence at the eraser board for a minute.

Finally Tom speaks.

“Do you take Visa?”

Tom is in the gym, working the heavy bag. Rocky is behind the bag, holding it in place.

“You’re a killer,” Rocky encourages.

Tom pummels away at the bag. He’s dripping sweat, but struggling on.

“You’re a fucking animal,” Sutton growls.  “Your name’s not Tom. You’re Mad Dog!”

Tom winds up with a big combination.

“The world fears you!”

Tom finishes with a huge flurry of punches. Rocky holds the heavy bag as Tom sags against it.

“That’s my fucking animal.  Hey Animal, who do you work for? Who’s your boss?”

Tom wallops the heavy bag.

“His name’s Morgan.”

“Sounds like a pussy. He a pussy, Animal?”

Tom stops punching for a moment.

“A pussy? I don’t know...”

“How does this Morgan Pussy treat the Man Beast?”

Tom looks confused.  “Who’s–“

Sutton rolls his eyes.  “You, Tom. You’re the Man-Beast.”

“Oh, right. He treats me like shit, honestly.  He’s a prick.”

“What would the Tom the Animal Beast Carnivore like to do to this pussy Morgan?” Rocky asks.

Tom unleashes a barrage of punches, wincing slightly at the effort.

“Who’s your main competition at the office, Tom?”

“Probably Kelly,” Tom says.

“You’re going to eat her alive, big fella.”

“She’s pretty talented,” Tom says, skepticism in his voice.

“She may be talented, but she ain’t got the big dog’s bite, hear what I’m saying Mad Dog?” Rocky says, a big smile on his face.

Tom bobs and weaves the boxing bag. He doesn’t time his move right, though and the bag bashes him on the nose. He sinks to his knees. Rocky helps him up and they move to the speed bag.

“How are things at home, Tom?”

Tom sighs.  “My wife thinks I’m not motivated enough and that my daughter is becoming like me; unsure, lacking drive, I guess.”

“Love life?”

Tom shakes his head.  “Let’s say the big dog needs to do a bit more barking.”

Tom finishes off the speed bag. Rocky comes around him like a trainer, rubbing his shoulders.

“By the time we’re done, your little lady is gonna beg you to stop, my friend. The big dog’s gonna be in heat every night, all night. You’re gonna ride her-“

“Okay, I get where you’re going with this,” Tom says quickly.

Rocky, unfazed, shoots a wink at Tom.