Four Letter Session
“The drumbeat is fading now, little by little. It used to have an actual feel to it, what I imagine a blind person would feel when they ride a wooden roller coaster. The rumble tugs at your muscles, makes your heart race. Sensations you never knew existed rush at you all at once.”
The office lights were off, as they were most all day long. Two small table lamps provided the light necessary so doctor could see patient. Phillip Strauss reclined and sank into the overstuffed couch, which, by subtle design, was meant to be warm and inviting, allowing patients to open up and speak freely. Phillip had no issues with such openness.
“I don’t understand the connection between a drumbeat and—”
“—I’m paying for this time, correct?” he said cutting the doctor off.
“Well, yes you are.”
“Since no one else will listen or allow me to talk, I pay you to do it. It’s an odd stretch of irony that seems to make you something of a conversation whore, doesn’t it?”
“Mr. Strauss, I didn’t get those certifications and diplomas on my wall by lying on my back or holding a phone to my ear,” she scolded. “I’m a psychiatrist…your psychiatrist. I take umbrage with your description of my profession.”
“And I, Doctor, take umbrage with your insipid interruptions on my time,” he shot back. “That is, unless, I’m being credited for time wasted?”
A heavy pause of denial hung in the air. Phillip laid his head back again and closed his eyes. While not without merit, she knew her articulation of her feelings wasn’t appropriate.
“I apologize, Phillip,” came the reply. “I’ll note my questions for later, when you’re finished.” Dr. Maya Reata leaned forward again, resting her left forearm on the desktop, and jotted a quick note on her pad.
“Doc, would you do me a small favor?”
“Sure. What?”
Fingers interlaced, he let them rest upon his chest and exhaled deeply, never once opening his eyes. “Close your eyes for me.”
“Alright.” He could hear the slight squeak of the oversized leather chair as she leaned back in it. “They’re closed. Now what?”
“Do what you tell me to do, what you tell all your clients to do—take a deep breath and clear your mind.” She dipped her head and gave a questioning glance through her wire-rimmed glasses. “You opened your eyes. You said you’d do this for me.”
“How could you possibly know I opened them?” she asked, amazed at her patient’s seeming sixth sense.
“I just know. The same way you know a patient is somehow imbalanced—trust me, I just know.”
“Okay.” Again, she settled back in her chair, the leather exuding a hushed groan as she did. “I’m ready. So talk to me.”
Phil wet his lips and began.
“It was always silent. Only I could hear it, feel it. Just because it’s intangible doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Dr. Reata furrowed her brow but kept her eyes shut and fought the urge to question her patient.
“The sound of it inside your heart is like standing close to a Harley when it starts up. The sputter and chug makes the air around it ripple. When throttled, the bike thunders, the noise rising and falling. But as the motorcycle goes off in the distance, the rumble dissipates. You can still hear it, if only because it’s loud.” He faltered only a moment; time enough for the imagery to set in.
“So it is with the drumbeat I could always feel before. It was like Alex Van Halen pounding away at his double-bass kit. Exciting. Vibrant.” Again, a momentary emotional lapse. His words came softer now, bereft of harshness, floated with care and a genuinely unfettered heart.
“Now it sounds like a tribal beat in a misty jungle. I know I’m near, for I can still hear the rhythmic echo of tom-toms and bongos. Distance, trees, mist, all conspiring to cheat me of the ritualistic vibration I’ve sought for so long.” His voice trailed off to a quietly despondent whisper. The doctor broke her reverie to glance at her notepad. Excepting the earlier scribbles, it was empty. And she had no real idea what to write.
“You took no notes, so I know you listened, Doc.”
“Kind of eerie that you can do that,” she replied.
“You mean know what you did or didn’t do?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t read your mind, but I can hear your actions.” He glanced at the timer on her desk while she stared at him. “Our time’s up, Doc.”
Habit made her check the timer.
“So it is,” she said, and adjusted her glasses. Phillip rose slowly and tugged lightly at his shirt sleeves, then readjusted his necktie.
“Mr. Strauss?”
“Yes?” He stopped mid-reach for his jacket.
“I’m not entirely certain who was the student and who was the teacher today.” Phillip managed a weak grin. It was just enough to break his otherwise stoic expression. “To be fair, today’s session is on the house. I’m admittedly puzzled by something though.”
“By?” he asked, donning his jacket and brushing off his sleeves.
The doctor swiveled slightly in her chair, then contemplatively removed her glasses and set them atop the nearly blank notepad. “The drum beat in the distance—you still chase it, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” his affirmation almost a gentle whisper.
“Why?”
“Because I know it’s right. I can feel it’s right.” He reached for the doorknob and turned it when she broke the silence a last time.
“Mr. Strauss, what is this rhythm you pursue?”
Slowly he drew the door open before turning to face her.
“Love.”