I was sitting there, in the large green leather chair. There was another opposite me in which the soft-spoken middle-aged man sat, his eye turned upon me with a faux-understanding look. He repeated the dull question of "Well, what do you want to do?" I shrugged, how was I supposed to know, he was the shrink after all. But all he would do is keep looking at me, expecting some sort of brilliant answer to all my problems. If I had that answer, then why was I sitting in this green armchair, that did not accent the small office at all. Upon the wall there was an enormous still life of two pears, and upon his shelf was a bronze statue of one. How odd.
An hour later my mother and I were back in the waiting room. It was empty, unaccepting, and unwelcoming in almost every means possible. There was an attempt at magazine distractions laid down upon the coffee table, but they were mostly uninteresting. More reviews about the Al Qaeda, but they did not appeal to me. He handed us his little card, reading clinical neuropsychologist; this in itself seemed to me to be just a little flaunt of his education, but without much sincere outreach. We left with the ordeal in my mind; his advice to me to decrease in my bad habits, and that if they were not to stop, that I should make sure i hid them well. How odd that this man should tell me that, rather than any other "deep and meaningful" advice that is probably stereotypically expected of a 'clinical neuropsychologist'. I also wondered why he had such a strange fascination with his pears.
©2002HeatherParker
