Freaky Deaky

Chris stood up. He turned his chair around and sat down again, facing the doctor.

"You trying to tell me if I don't like spiders it means I go both ways?"

The young doctor looked up. For the first time his gaze in the round glasses held.

"You seem to feel threatened."

"Look, they send me over here, it's supposed to be a routine exam. Has my job been getting to me? I feel any stress? No, I just want a transfer, on account of Phyllis. Now you're trying to tell me I have a problem."

"I haven't suggested you have a problem."

"Then what're you trying to do, with the spiders?"

The young doctor kept looking right at him now.

"I'm suggesting the spider is a symbol-if you want a clinical explanation-that externalizes a more threatening impulse. One that quite possibly indicates a pre genital fear of bisexual genitalia, usually in the form of a phallic wicked mother."

Chris kept staring at the young doctor, who stared right back at him and said, "Does that answer your question?"

Chris said, "Yes, it does, thank you," and felt some relief; because all the guy was doing, he was playing doctor with him, showing off.

Little asshole sitting there in his lab coat with all those words in his head to dump on the dumb cop, giving him that pre genital genitalia bullshit. There was no way to compete with the guy. The best thing to do was to nod, agree. So when the doctor asked him:

"What's your feeling about snakes?"

Chris said, "I like snakes, a lot. I've never had any trouble with snakes."

The doctor was still looking at him, hanging on, not wanting to let go.

"You understand that your previous assignment could be psycho socially debilitating?"

Chris said, "Sure, I can understand that."

"Then there's the correlation between your fear of spiders and your desire to prove, through the handling of high explosives, your manhood.

I believe you suggested the work could be emasculating. It can, quote, 'blow your balls off." "That's an expression," Chris said.

"You don't have to take it literally." He watched the sneaky doctor nod, thinking up something else.

"By the way, have you ever experienced impotence?"

Chris took his time. He didn't see a trap, so he said, "No, as a matter of fact, I haven't. Not once in my life."

"Really?"

"I've got witnesses."

"Well, it's not important."

Chris stared at the doctor's lowered head, the thin, carefully combed hair.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

The doctor tapped his pen without looking up.

"I suppose you could be one of the rare exceptions."

"To what?"

"Well, in a study made at the University of Munsterthat's in West Germany," the doctor said, looking up "tests showed that assertive, self-confident, macho-type males, if you will, were found almost invariably to have a low sperm count."

"That's interesting," Chris said.

"We finished here?"

He got up, not waiting for an answer, said, "I have to get back, clean out my desk…" and saw the guy's innocent young-doctor face raise with a pleasant expression.

"Yes, you're leaving Bombs and Explosives. What we haven't yet discussed is where you're going. How did you put it, "Up to the seventh floor and down at the other end of the hall'?"

The doctor waited as Chris sat down again.

"You seem somewhat agitated."

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"I'm supposed to meet Phyllis at Galligan's." Chris looked at his watch: it was four twenty.

"At five."

The young doctor said, "We shouldn't be too much longer," and smiled.

He did, he smiled for the first time, looked right at Chris and said,

"What I'm curious about, and perhaps you can explain, why you've requested a transfer to Sex Crimes."

Skip swallowed the tiny square of blotter acid, smaller than the nail of his little finger, dropped it with a sip of beer and got comfortable to wait for the cleansing head show to begin. The seams of the plastic chair were coming apart but it was fine, deep and cushy. The only thing that bothered him was the light, il vas so bright in here facing that bare white wall and no shade on the lamp. It smelled like Robin had been painting, trying to make the dump presentable.

Here she was back in their old neighborhood, a low rent apartment on Canfield near Wayne State, where they'd hung out years ago in their elephant bells, got stoned and laid and would slip off on dark nights to mess with the straight world. Back when this was the inner-city place to be.

That naked lamp was Bashing now, pretending it was lightning, streaking across the bare white wall. Sometimes when he dropped acid everything would become suspended and float in space. Or things would come at him, like a person's nose, clear across a room. Robin came out of the kitchen with two cans of Stroh's and sure as hell her arm extended about ten feet to hand him one. It was pretty good blotter. She was speaking now.

"I've missed you. You know how long it's been?"

Only she finished before all the words got to him. This was something new. Skip raised his hand, waved it in front of him and felt water.