“Wait a minute! Maybe—I’m dreaming all of this?” How else could I explain it? One minute I’m sitting alone, minding my own business in the backseat of my mother’s newly restored 1955 Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, then—

POOF!

I’m in Disneyland, sitting across from the Pirates of the Caribbean on an old, wooden park bench—next to Sigmund Freud? Well—that’s what the business card he handed me says. Oh! Did I mention—he’s naked?

Not easily rattled, two questions immediately popped into my head. First, what guy sits on an old, wooden park bench naked? One wrong move and he’d be serving up one painful plate of shish ka-balls! And second, where does he carry these business cards? Somewhat reluctant to think about the—disturbing possibilities, I tossed the card over my shoulder and wiped my hand off on my—skirt?

Still somewhat baffled with my current situation, I grudgingly glanced over at my bench buddy—from the waist up of course. Oddly enough, the old man did look like Freud; with the white hair, glasses, and even the cigar. I should know I have a degree in psychology from Queen’s College in New York City. I’ve seen hundreds of pictures of him.

“Hang on! That’s it!” I’m pulling a memory out of my subconscious and interweaving it into this dream. I’m obviously remembering a photograph of him, I saw in one of my textbooks.

Although my logic clearly had merit, I found it highly unlikely Freud would’ve been pictured naked in any of my books. This left me with several more rather unsettling questions. Why was he naked now? Why is he—staring at me? And why—am I wearing a skirt, high heels, and carrying a purse? I’m a guy! A pretty macho guy if I do say so myself. I was a New York City police detective. You don’t get much more macho than that.

Closing my eyes, I took several cleansing breaths. “Calm down! You’re fine! You’re obviously—dreaming all of this.” But before I could even nod in agreement, another thought hit me. “Why was I dreaming—”

“I hope I have not upset you?”

Startled—by the unfamiliar voice, I took a moment to analyze it. It definitely sounded like an old man’s. It was frail and raspy. Plus, surprisingly enough, there was a slight inkling of a Southern twang to it. Like I said, I used to be a New York City detective. I miss nothing.

Opening an eye, I found the naked old guy still—staring at me. I hate people—staring at me. I was thankful though he’d crossed his legs.

Being a cop for more than eighteen years, I’ve testified in hundreds of criminal cases—and in that world, there are two rules you don’t forget. Never show fear! And lie! A lot! “Nope,” I said, nervously opening my other eye. “Why—would I be upset?”

The old man’s lifeless gaze slowly morphed into a curious grin. “Tell me, are you still a bed wetter?”

I mentally nodded. This guy is good.

“Well?” he asked impatiently. “Are you?”

Not liking his tone, I openly scoffed. “Of course not! And—what’s it to you anyway? Who are you?”

He took a suggestively long drag on his cigar before answering. “You read my card. I am the world famous Dr. Sigmund Freud.”

Who did this clown think he was dealing with? “If you’re really Sigmund Freud, what’s with the Southern accent? You grew up in Austria.”

He took another drag on his cigar. “Southern Austria.”

I took a minute to ponder his reply. It made sense, I guess. I’ve never been to southern Austria. Maybe they do talk like that. But—why didn’t I think of that? Had my absence from the force affected my powers of observation, more than I thought?

Just then, I found myself engulfed in a cloud of foul smelling cigar smoke.

“You do realize,” he said, “you are dreaming all of this.”

I let out a hardy cough-like laugh. “I—I thought so! For a minute there, I was afraid I was going nuts.”

The old man raised an unsympathetic brow. “You are nuts.”

“Am not!”

He tossed me a quick nod. “Yes! I am afraid you are. Remember, I am the world famous Dr. Sigmund Freud.”

The old guy was clearly beginning to piss me off. Not only didn’t I like his insufferable arrogance, I didn’t appreciate the way—he was fondling his cigar. I found it a little too Bill Clinton-ish for my liking. “I’m—not nuts!” I quickly reiterated.

“If you are not nuts,” he asked, “where is your chauffeur taking you, then?”

“Dammit,” I growled softly. I needed a lie and I needed it quick. “To my—pedicure appointment!” I immediately winced at my lack of imagination.

He chuckled openly. “I believe he is driving you to Providence for your weekly ten o’clock appointment with your court-ordered psychiatrist. Am I correct?”

The old man—was good. I had to give him that. “So what’s your point?”

“You are insane.”

“Hey!” I shot back. “I’m cured! Dr. Benjamin says so!”

“I say you are not cured and I can prove it.”

I had him. He fell right into my trap. If I were truly dreaming this, it was obvious my subconscious was putting the words into his mouth. My subconscious would never—stab myself in the back. “All right!” I said boldly. “Prove it!”

“Very well,” he countered. “Why are you dreaming about me, when you could be dreaming about, let us say, being stranded on a deserted island with Pamela Anderson? Or being the world’s first reusable tampon—at the Playboy mansion?”

After some fairly deep soul searching, I had to concede; I was more confused than ever. Why would he think—I’d want to be a tampon? Who in their right mind wants to be a tampon? Now, if we were talking Q-Tips—

He took his cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “Would you like my professional opinion?”

“Not really.”

“You are what we refer to in the psychiatric field as—Fucked in the Head.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “I’m what?”

“Fucked in the Head,” he repeated as he viciously slapped me across the face. And believe me—it wasn’t your old, naked dead guy slap either! I sailed over the back of the bench and hit the ground like a wet mop. Dazed, I just layed there, face down in the dirt.

“Is this what I’ve become?” I asked myself. “A six foot four inch—two hundred and twenty pound punching bag—for some old, naked dead guy? Is this how far I’ve fallen?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Just two years ago, I was receiving a citation for heroism from the city of New York! The mayor presented it to me, personally!”

“Vee have arrived, sir.”

Recognizing the voice, I immediately put my mumblings on hold, raised my head—and said, “Heinrich? Is that you?”

Getting to my knees, I found myself on the floor of the Rolls’ backseat, with Heinrich’s cataract infested eyes—staring down at me from the rearview mirror.

Heinrich Mueller has been my mother’s chauffeur for what seems like forever. She met him one summer while she was touring Europe. What she saw in him, that motivated her to drag him back to Rhode Island and give him a job has always baffled me. Personally, I’ve never really liked the guy. Maybe it’s because he keeps an autographed picture of Hermann Goring hanging above his bed. Or maybe—it’s just his annoying inability to speak English correctly, after all these years.

“We!” I snapped. “We—have arrived!”

He didn’t answer me, and I wasn’t too surprised. He seldom did. Heinrich will be eighty-six next month, and I truly believe—only Ludwig van Beethoven had worse hearing. Keeping that in mind, I moved in closer to his supposedly good ear—but not too close. Ear hair! I’m talking—Amazon jungle! Tarzan could build Jane a summer home in there.

“Heinrich!” I yelled. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep, sir.”

Remembering my dream, I promptly checked behind me for any unauthorized naked dead guys. Still unsure of what just transpired, I continued my inquiry. “How did I get on the floor?”

“You fell on the floor vhen I drove up on the curb, sir.”

I nodded. “Ah! Yes!” Heinrich’s eyesight! The truth is—he had none. I’d be willing to bet Stevie Wonder has a better driving record.

“One moment, sir,” Heinrich said. “I vill get your door.”

I peeked over his boney shoulder and watched him feebly fumble with his own door. “Vould you like me to help you—vith yours, first?” I growled back sarcastically.

Heinrich didn’t answer. Like I said—he seldom did.

Anticipating a lengthy wait, I jumped up onto the backseat, put my feet up, and settled in for the duration. “Take your time, Heinrich!” I yelled. “I’m in no hurry. And—do you know why I’m not in a hurry, Heinrich?”

Once again, he didn’t answer.

“Because—I’m not nuts!” I yelled again—to no one in particular. “What does that naked dead guy know anyway? So? Maybe I do have a few issues! Who doesn’t?”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. “If that was a dream and everything he said, came out of my subconscious, then—I basically told him what to say!” I shuddered at the thought. “If he thought I was—Fucked in the Head! Then—I must think I’m—Fucked in the Head!”

All of a sudden, my car door swung open. Startled—I shrieked, rather girlishly. Realizing what I must’ve sounded like, I took my thumb out of my mouth, scrambled over to the other side of the car and checked my wrist for a pulse. “Focus!” I told myself. “Cleansing breath! In—and out! In—” I’m forty-two years old! I’ve shot drug dealers without batting an eye! “—and out!” I’ve hung Mafia hit-men out of twenty story windows! I’ve dragged child pornographers down fifteen flights of stairs and then beat them senseless! “Now—look at me! I’m carrying on like some ten-year old girl who can’t find—” I nervously checked my other wrist. “Her pulse!”

Heinrich opened my door a bit wider. “Are vee ready, sir?”

“Noooo!” I shrieked again—still rather girlishly, I’m afraid.

Heinrich nodded obediently and stepped away from the car door.

“Pull yourself together,” I mumbled, still unable to find my pulse. “Come on! You can do this!”

Giving up on ever finding my pulse, I hesitantly stepped out of the cool confines of the Rolls and into the blistering Providence sun.

Heinrich gave me another nod. “I vill get your door.”

As I watched Heinrich struggle to close my door, it dawned on me how it was oddly reminiscent of my late father—in one of his drunken stupors. “Come to think of it—” I quickly scanned the top floor of the Bank of America building. “I think he had an office up there?”

It all started to come back to me. “He did have an office up there,” I said as I began to remember a particular afternoon—a warm summer afternoon. I was up in his office, standing by his desk. He was at the mini-bar, pouring himself a drink when suddenly—he turned and stumbled over to me. Smelling like a freshly vandalized liquor store, he put his hand on my head and announced, “Alex, my boy! Life sucks!” He then proceeded to spill his entire drink on me.

Being only about five years old when he shared those words of wisdom with me, I don’t think I completely grasped the depressing enormity of it all. The fact my name isn’t Alex, probably didn’t help. It’s Ash. It’s actually Ashley. Ashley Wilkes Hard! My mother is a huge fan of Margaret Mitchell’s, Gone with the Wind. It’s just my luck—she couldn’t like Rhett Butler. Oh! No! She had to like sissy boy, Ashley Wilkes. I guess it could’ve been worse. She could’ve liked—Prissy.

Alex was my dog. My father inadvertently killed him a few years later, during another one of his drunken episodes. If I remember correctly, he ran him over with a golf cart. As I mentioned earlier, my father was known to drink. A lot! And often! But to be honest, it doesn’t really matter who he thought he was talking to that day; I think—I finally understand what that drunken old fool was trying to tell me. The last eighteen months have shown me the light. “Life does suck!”

“Vill that be all, sir?” Heinrich asked, jerking me back into reality.

“You can go home, Heinrich,” I yelled. “I’ll take a cab to the train station and grab the train back to Newport.”

Nodding, Heinrich shuffled back towards the driver’s side door. Heinrich always shuffles. He has an enlarged prostate the size of Larry Bird’s sneaker. I’d like to stress, I personally don’t have firsthand knowledge of that fact. I only know—what I’ve been told.

However, before I knew what was happening, he put out his hand and flagged down a cab. “Heinrich?” I shouted. “What are you doing? I said I’ll call for a cab after—” Totally dumbfounded, I just stood there and watched him climb into the cab. “Heinrich!”

As the cab pulled away from the curb and merged into the mid-morning traffic, I gazed up towards the heavens and pleaded my case. “And—I’m the one who has to see a psychiatrist?”

Just then, a Providence motorcycle cop pulled up behind the Rolls. Grabbing his pad, he got off his bike and walked towards me. “Is this your vehicle, sir?”

I gave the Rolls a cursory glance. “Sort of.”

The patrolman just stood there—staring at me. I assumed he needed clarification of my last statement. “It’s actually my mother’s.”

“Did you know this is a no parking zone, sir?”

“Actually Officer, my chauffeur is the one who—”

“Are you in the habit of parking your Rolls-Royce up on the curb, sir?”

I had no reason to doubt him—so I didn’t look. “Actually Officer, my chauffeur—”

“Have you been drinking, sir?”

“Nooo!” I said, with an uneasy chuckle. “My chauffeur—”

He flipped open his pad. “Sir, may I see your license and registration?”

Like I said—I’ve never really liked Heinrich.

The burst of cool air that rushed passed me as I stumbled into the lobby of the Bank of America building, was a small consolation for the ten blocks I just sprinted to make it back in time for my appointment with Dr. Benjamin. “What idiot plans out a city and forgets to put in enough parking garages?”

Wiping the deluge of sweat from my eyes, I staggered towards the elevators. “You can be sure someone in the city planning department will be getting a vicious letter in the morning.”

Gasping for my next breath, I fell against the elevator door and groped blindly for the up button. “What’s happening to me? I used to run a five minute mile. I’ve ran the New York City Marathon—eight times!” Finally finding what felt like a button, I pushed it. “I would’ve won it that one year—if only those eight thousand people didn’t cross the finish line—before me.”

The elevator door suddenly opened, sending me crashing to the floor. “Dammit.”

“Hold the door, please!”

Hearing the faint voice, I cringed. I wasn’t in any condition to deal with some—stranger. With the little strength I had left, I got to my knees and pushed the close button. “Dammit.” I broke a nail.

I was right in the middle of a cleansing breath when I noticed an elderly woman with a walker gingerly step onto the elevator. She smiled and weakly pointed her finger. “Would you please push seventeen?”

I warily got to my feet and pushed seventeen—with my thumb though. That nail never seems to get too long for some reason.

“Thank you,” she said.

Even with my eyes averted, I couldn’t help but feel the old woman was—staring at me. Why do people do that? It’s not like I’m the Elephant Man or anything. I was voted ‘Best Smile’ in high school. And I was runner up for ‘Best Looking’. I would’ve gotten that one too, if Billy Wilson wasn’t banging the student council advisor responsible for counting the ballots.

Unable to take any more of her—staring, I felt it only fair that I stare at her for a while. Taking my thumb out of my mouth, I turned and faced her.

I immediately stepped back. She was a vision of—purple-ness. Literally! The old girl was dressed all in purple; a purple dress, purple shoes, purple earrings. Everything on her was one shade of purple or another. Even her hair had a purplish tint to it. She obviously liked the color purple—or was Dr. Benjamin’s eleven o’clock appointment.

Suddenly, her head cocked to one side. “Aren’t you Marjorie Hard’s son?”

Even her voice sounded a bit purplish. “May—maybe,” I answered cautiously.

She immediately tensed up. I could tell by the way she gripped her walker. Her white knuckles made her purple rings stand out.

I eyed her suspiciously. “Are you—a friend of my mother’s?”

She nodded politely. “I’m Violet Jordan.”

“Violet?” I questioned carefully as I inspected the huge purple bow in her hair. Actually, the purple bow didn’t bother me as much as—The Twilight Zone theme song playing over and over in my head.

“Your mother and I belong to the same gardening club.”

For some reason, I had a difficult time suppressing my yawn.

“You must be the famous New York City homicide detective, then!”

An alarm suddenly went off inside my head—I think. How did she know I was a homicide detective? What was my mother telling her gardening club? Where did she get that purple lipstick? And who told her—it looked good on her?

“Well—” I said modestly. “I wouldn’t say famous.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed to just slits. I could actually see her caked-on purple mascara crack right before my eyes. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Did you really try to cut off your—”

She abruptly fell silent. Call me paranoid—and most mental health experts would, but I wasn’t too pleased with the direction our conversation was heading. Nor did I find Violet gawking at my—groin, too comforting either. Starting to sweat like some overweight farm animal, I eased myself back to the elevator’s control panel and began pushing buttons. I figured one of them had to make this thing go faster.

Suddenly, another alarm went off. But this time, I was pretty sure it was the elevator as it violently jerked to a stop. “Dammit.”

Violet forced a rather squeamish grin. “Your mother told us you tried to cut off your—” Her eyes again shot to my—groin. “Little friend.”

I froze with embarrassment. “She told you what?”

Little friend! Who the fuck is she callin’ little?

I vigorously shook my head. “Oh! No! Nooo!”

No one fuckin’ calls me little and gets away with it!

Cupping my trembling hands over my ears, I flung myself back against the wall. “No! Go away! Do you hear me! You can’t come back!”

You need me.

I buried my head into the corner of the elevator. “No!” I yelled. “I—I don’t need you!”

You’re a fuckin’ lunatic without me. Who in their right mind dreams about old, dead naked guys? That’s fuckin’ sick! And what’s with this Q-Tip shit? Need I remind you, babes put Q-Tips in their ears! They put tampons up their fuckin’—

“Shut up!” I yelled. “Shut up! I’m not listening!”

Don’t worry. I’m back. I’m here for you.

I shook my head again. “Oh! No!”

The first thin’ we do, we take care of Old Purple Puss. Whip me out.

“Wh—what!”

Whip me out! That bitch, you call a mother, is tellin’ everyone that I’m little! We need to show Old Purple Puss here, that I’m fourteen fuckin’ inches of pure pulsatin’ protein!

I fervidly shook my head. “No! No—you’re not!”

Yes! I am! Where’s a fuckin’ tape-measure? I’ll prove it to you.

“Shut up!” I wailed. “Do you hear me? Go away! Don’t talk to me!”

All of a sudden, an eerie hush fell over the elevator. Gathering the little courage I had left, I carefully stepped away from the control panel. At that moment, the elevator shook and again started to go up. After a quick cleansing breath, I cautiously peeked over my shoulder and saw Violet trembling uncontrollably in the corner of the elevator. I immediately pushed out one of my more soothing smiles. I used it a lot on victims or family members who just lost a loved one.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.

Obviously, the last year and a half has taken a toll—on my smiles too. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you!”

“No!” I said. “You don’t understand. I—I wasn’t yelling at you.”

Clearly confused, Violet glanced around the elevator. “Who were you yelling at? No one else is here.”

It’s none of the bitch’s business anyway. Do you still have your fuckin’ gun?

“It’s—a long story,” I answered. “It started about two years ago. My wife and I were having some marital problems—”

From Violet’s reaction, she didn’t have time for my story—long or short. She scurried over to the control panel and pushed the stop button. “I think I’ll take the stairs.”

I politely directed her attention to the control panel as the elevator door opened. “This is only the tenth floor. I thought you said, you wanted the—”

“I can use the exercise!” With that—she picked up her walker and ran out of the elevator.

Has anyone ever told you, you have a strange effect on women? No wonder you can’t get me any pussy.

“Shut up, Timmy! Just—shut up!”

Still rattled by the incident in the elevator, I stood outside Dr. Benjamin’s office door pondering my situation—along with my sanity.

“Steady, Ash!” I told myself. “Steady! Let’s think this through rationally. Okay?”

I nodded.

“You’ve obliviously had a slight relapse. It’s nothing to worry about. Okay?”

I nodded again.

“You’ve been doing really great up until now. Even Dr. Benjamin mentioned how well he thought you were doing last week. Remember?”

I proudly nodded once again.

“He said—he’s seen incredible progress! I’m sure—everyone has one or two of these setbacks now and then. I think overall—you’ve gotten things pretty well under control.”

That reminds me, what normal person calls his fuckin’ penis—Timmy?

I immediately lunged for the door, opened it, and ran inside.

Two thousand and sixty-eight. Two thousand and sixty-nine. Two thousand and—

“Ashley?”

Hearing my name, I paused—and listened.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t call you.

“Ashley! Are you all right?”

Somewhat confused as to where I was, I raised my head up off the couch and glanced over my shoulder. It was Dr. Benjamin calling me. Dr. Jules Benjamin. He was sitting in his steel reinforced Lazy Boy—staring at me. Well, I could only assume he was—staring at me. From my angle, I couldn’t quite see his whole face. His stomach—was in the way. Not only was Dr. Benjamin considered one of the top psychiatrists in Rhode Island, he had to be the biggest—little man, I had ever seen. He had to be at least four hundred pounds, and what made him even more amazing—he was only five feet tall. The guy was a walking—talking Volkswagen Beetle.

If he’s ever diagnosed with one of those flesh-eatin’ diseases, I bet he’ll still live another fuckin’ fifty years.

I smiled weakly. “Excuse me?”

The doctor repeated his concern. “Are you all right? You haven’t said a word in the last thirty-five minutes.”

Now, I was concerned. “I haven’t?”

Suddenly, I heard the Lazy Boy creak as Dr. Benjamin struggled to lean forward. “We’re not having any more problems with Timmy, are we?”

I forced out a crazed laugh. “Of course—not!”

You lyin’ bastard.

Dr. Benjamin continued his inquiry. “What were you thinking about, then?”

I could feel my panic start to churn in the pit of my stomach as I desperately tried to remember.

You were thinkin’ about my name. Timmy—just isn’t a name for a fuckin’ penis, especially one with my stature. Do you realize I could get my own goddamn reality show! I could call it—The Appendage.

“Why don’t you just—fall off,” I growled under my breath.

Just because you have a fag name, doesn’t mean I have too.

“Come on, Ash,” I growled again. “Think of something! Or he’ll start thinking you’re blacking out again.”

What about—Stallone? That would be a fuckin’ cool name.

Before I could stop myself another inappropriate laugh spilled out of my mouth.

Appearing rather worried, Dr. Benjamin continued to struggle in his chair. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

I nodded weakly.

My nod obviously didn’t ease the doctor’s concerns as he continued his third degree. “You can remember what you were thinking about, can’t you?”

I nervously licked my parched lips. I had nothing! My mind was a complete blank. No matter how hard I tried—I couldn’t remember! I didn’t even have—a convincing lie!

You fuckin’ idiot. You were countin’ the damn holes in the ceilin’ tiles.

“Wh—what?”

I wouldn’t tell Fatty that, though. It’s fuckin’ weird, if you ask me.

“Ashley,” Dr. Benjamin said cautiously. “You do remember what you were thinking about, don’t you?”

A thought finally hit me. “The dream!”

Oh! Shit! You’re not goin’ to tell him about the fuckin’ naked dead guy, are you?

“The dream—I had last week,” I eagerly amended. “The one—we didn’t get to last session.”

Looking rather relieved, Dr. Benjamin settled back into his chair. “Good. Let’s hear it.”

As I layed back down on the couch, I cautiously observed his chair for any obvious stress fractures.

Don’t worry; I’ll keep goin’ on the ceilin’ tiles. Two thousand and seventy. Two thousand and—

“Well—” I started weakly. “It was Christmas. I’m in New York City—on the corner of Fifth and West Fifty-first, right across the street from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It’s snowing. There are shoppers everywhere. I’m talking with a hot dog vender about something. I don’t really remember about what, though.”

You were bettin’ him a hundred bucks he didn’t have a fuckin’ bun long enough to hold me.

“Then—” I snapped nervously, “all of a sudden, this guy comes running out of St. Patrick’s carrying one of those big Macy’s shopping bags—filled with money! Naturally my first thought was—he was one of the priests taking the Sunday donations to the bank. But then—I notice the guy has a pair of pantyhose pulled down over his head.”

Aren’t you goin’ to tell Porky, the pantyhose were crotch less?

Somewhat distracted, I pushed on nevertheless. “Then—without any provocation, he pulls out a gun and starts shooting at the shoppers.”

How’s Two-Ton Tony supposed to analyze your fuckin’ dream, if you don’t tell him everythin’?

Clearing my throat, I again focused on my dream. “I—I immediately threw away the donut, I’d just bitten into and pulled out my gun—”

“What kind of donut was it?”

Confused with the question, I rolled over and glanced back at Dr. Benjamin. “Excuse me?”

“What type of donut were you eating in your dream?”

I was still confused. “Does it really matter?”

“Ashley, my boy,” Dr. Benjamin said while struggling to lean forward again. “When you’re dealing with the subconscious, nothing can be overlooked. Everything matters! You can be screaming for help through your subconscious without really knowing it. It can communicate its wants and desires in strange, sometimes demented ways.”

I nodded. “Really?”

Whatever you do, don’t tell him you were eatin’ one of those donuts with the colored sprinkles. He’ll think you’re fuckin’ flamer.

“I—I think it was—just a plain donut.”

Dr. Benjamin grabbed his pad and started writing on it. “Interesting.”

Shit! You should’ve said it was a jelly donut. They’re a lot manlier.

“Please continue, Ashley,” Dr. Benjamin said. “You were about to confront the man. What did you do next?”

“I—I started to walk towards him. When I got about halfway across the street, he finally noticed me. He turned and raised his gun—”

Did you know penis is Latin—for tail?

Fighting to regain my focus, I suddenly heard a loud—

CRUNCH!

Turning, I caught Dr. Benjamin tip-toeing back to his chair, carrying a large tin of peanut brittle. As he plopped down in his chair, he saw me watching him. “Oh! Forgive me, Ashley!”

His reddening face troubled me, somewhat. I wasn’t sure if it was from the embarrassment of getting caught, or the strain on his heart—from trying to tip-toe.

He finally threw a handful of peanut brittle into his mouth. “I missed breakfast.”

Well—that’s what I assumed he said, anyway. All of the peanut brittle in his mouth did distort things a bit.

Remember that Monty Python movie where the really fat guy explodes. That’s not really fuckin’ possible, right? That wasn’t like, based on some true story, was it?

Dr. Benjamin politely held out the tin. “Would you like a piece?”

I watched a piece of peanut brittle fall out of his mouth and bounce down his massive stomach. It was like a tiny boulder careening down a steep hill. I shook my head. “No! No—thank you.”

This guy’s so fat, if I took a picture of him, I’d need two fuckin’ frames to put it in.

He shoveled another handful into his mouth. “Please continue.”

Having a slight problem focusing at the moment, I impatiently sat up. “Would you mind if I stand up? It might help me remember things—more clearly.”

Dr. Benjamin grabbed another handful of peanut brittle from the tin and nodded. “Not at all! Please continue. What did you do then?”

Getting to my feet, I watched several more pieces of peanut brittle fall out of his mouth and bounce down into his crotch. I expeditiously turned towards the windows and forced myself to answer the doctor’s question. “I—I raised my gun and fired.”

Strangely enough, retelling my dream to Dr. Benjamin soon had me reliving the dozen or so incidents, where I had to use deadly force in the line of duty. Fortunately, I only had to relive the first one—when something yanked me back to reality. Unfortunately, it was Dr. Benjamin’s—horrendous fart.

Holy shit! Somebody break a fuckin’ window!

“Excuse me, Ashley,” the doctor said, once again red faced. “Please go on. What happened next?”

Holding my breath, I scooted over to the other side of the office. “He—he exploded,” I said. “Blood—and guts were everywhere.”

So is the fuckin’ stench. I’m beggin’ you! Break a goddamn window!

“It was total chaos,” I said as I continued to search out pockets of fresh air. “The Christmas shoppers were running—and screaming. It was horrible.”

It’s pretty horrible in here, too!

Suddenly, Dr. Benjamin farted again. But this time, it sounded—a lot juicer.

Oh! Good God! Where’s the fuckin’ Febreze when you need it?

“I do apologize, Ashley,” he pleaded. “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

Probably that missin’ gas station attendant we heard about on the fuckin’ radio this mornin’.

Trying not to breathe too deeply, I continued. “I—I walked over to him and bent down. The only thing still intact—was his head. I—I picked it up and slipped off the pantyhose.”

The crotch less pantyhose.

“And who was it, Ashley?”

I paused a moment to reflect on the doctor’s question. “My father.”

Wow! That’s spooky shit.

“What did you do then, Ashley?”

“I—I picked up his gun and put it down—the front of my pants.”

“And?” he asked as if he already knew the answer.

I shamefully looked away. “The gun went off.”

“Shooting off your penis,” Dr. Benjamin calmly added. “Again! Am I right?”

Murderer! You fuckin’ assassin!

“Ashley, my boy,” Dr. Benjamin said, with a rather disturbed sigh. “Your dreams are revealing themselves to be quite predictable.”

“You think?” I retorted sarcastically.

“Let’s see! Three weeks ago, you had a dream where you went deep sea fishing with your father. Somehow, he got tangled up in the outboard motor and was brutally cut into little pieces. Then, while you’re using him for fish bait, a crazed sea turtle jumps into your boat and bites off your penis.”

You’re truly one disturbed sick mother-fucker.

“Two months ago, you dreamt the two of you went to a meat-packing plant and—”

“Okay!” I snapped. “I get the picture! My dreams seem to have a recurring theme to them. What does it mean?”

You’re a fuckin’ psychopath. That’s what it fuckin’ means.

With a herculean effort, Dr. Benjamin lifted himself out of his chair and began to waddle over to me. “It means, Ashley! I believe we’re finally making some real progress.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You really think so?”

“I do,” he said. “You weren’t very close to your father, were you?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“And from what you’ve told me, he didn’t take much interest in you, did he?”

I didn’t have to think too hard about that one. “No! No—he didn’t.”

“I also remember you saying he never really worked a day in his life, either.”

I nodded. “He lived off the family’s money.”

“And it’s pretty obvious he wasn’t very faithful to your mother. How many times did you walk in on him in a compromising position with a member of the household staff?”

“Six,” I said, lowering my voice.

Actually, it was seven. You keep blockin’ out the Chinese gardener. What was his name again? Woo Suck Yoo?

“That’s a lot for a child to go through,” Dr. Benjamin said somberly. “I’m not surprised; you built up a substantial amount of hostility towards him.”

I nodded again. It made sense.

“Knowing all of this, Ashley,” the doctor said, “let’s analyze your dream, shall we?”

What choice did I have? The hour wasn’t up yet.

“Your father comes running out of the church with a bag of money. What do you think that means, Ashley?”

He couldn’t find a liquor store to rob?

You moron! He’s goin’ to say, the church represented your goddamn mother.

I finally just shrugged my shoulders.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Dr. Benjamin said. “The church is your mother!”

Told you.

“Wh—what?”

“You see, Ashley, in your dream, St. Patrick’s represents your mother. You see St. Patrick’s as a secure and loving place. The same way, I’m sure; you remember your mother growing up.”

I mentally scratched my head. Why couldn’t I remember any of this?

Because it’s all fuckin’ bullshit! The woman is a psycho-bitch.

“She was always there to help and protect you. Your father, robbing the church, is how your subconscious interprets his unacceptable treatment of your mother. You disapprove of your father’s actions, so you keep killing him off in your dreams.”

To hell with his father! What about me? Why is he always killin’ me off?

Dr. Benjamin politely directed me back to the couch. “You must understand, Ashley, that a poor parent-child relationship during the formative years can cause deep seeded emotional problems later in life. Sometimes it’s difficult for those people to develop the trust or confidence in their relationships with others, especially in adult life.”

That’s code—for your fucked in the head.

“The fewer bonds you have growing up, the more anxiety you may encounter as an adult. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Ashley?”

I nodded. “I—I think so.”

No you don’t, you fuckin’ liar.

“So here you are,” continued the doctor, “you’ve grown up. You’re extremely wealthy. Very successful! Good looking!”

Watch it! Homo alert!

“Along comes marriage! More social demands are thrown at you. You extend yourself at work to prove yourself. At home, you try to be the best husband you can. Your biggest fear is turning into your father. The stress in your life is increasing.”

So is my fuckin’ boredom level. Will this hour ever end?

“To top it off, you get a case you can’t solve. A small child is brutally murdered. And you’re stumped! You have no clues! No suspects! You’ve never had an unsolved case. It starts eating away at you.”

I actually found myself nodding.

“Soon the stress from work begins to spill over into your home life. You start experiencing problems in the bedroom.”

Hey! Just for the record, Doc, it was him! Not me! It wasn’t my fuckin’ fault. I was fuckin’ ready!

“Unfortunately, being—well equipped, doesn’t really help when one is going through a period of impotence. It’s what I like to call the—Stud Factor.”

What the hell does he mean—well equipped? What the hell have you been tellin’ him? I’m fuckin’ off—the fuckin’ chart! Whip me out! I’ll show him! Where’s a fuckin’ scale? I’m at least forty-two pounds of fuckin’—

“Peanut brittle!” I shouted wildly. “May I have—a piece?”

Dr. Benjamin graciously held out the tin. “Of course! Help your—”

I ripped the tin out of his sticky, little fat fingers and threw a handful into my mouth.

The doctor eyed me carefully as he continued. “You must’ve felt an incredible amount of pressure on you during this time.”

I nodded vigorously. “I—I did!”

“It’s only natural your mental faculties shut down—resulting in a schizophrenic break.”

Still nodding—and still rather confused, I stepped forward. “Why—did it happen at the strip club?”

Dr. Benjamin took back the tin. “Freud believed that an ego not strong enough to cope with unacceptable id impulses can sometimes break down—totally!”

That’s code too—for you’re fucked in the head.

I casually checked the office for any signs of a—old, naked dead guy.

“Simply put, it all comes back to your father!” Dr. Benjamin waddled back to his desk and set the tin down. “Tell me, Ashley, when you entered the strip club, were you on duty?”

I nodded. “I was checking into a lead we got on the little girl that was murdered. Someone said they saw the club’s owner talking to her, several days before she was murdered. I went there to ask him a few questions.”

“I assume the strippers were already dancing when you entered the club?”

I nodded again as I felt a bead of sweat trickle out of my right arm pit.

“You mentioned, I believe, you felt sexually aroused seeing the girls dancing? Is that right?”

Thinking back to that night, I remembered exactly what I was feeling. “Maybe—a little,” I said—rather sheepishly.

Remember the blonde with the huge happy pillows?

My left eye suddenly began to twitch. “All right!” I screamed. “Maybe—a lot!”

Dr. Benjamin quickly forced out one of his soothing smiles. “It’s only natural that you were sexually aroused, Ashley! You were surrounded by dozens of naked women. Don’t forget, it’s their job to get men sexually aroused.”

Totally frustrated, I turned away. “I was investigating a little girl’s murder! I should’ve been more focused on—”

“Are you sure you’re not confusing your feelings, Ashley?”

“I—I don’t know,” I said as I tried to cover up my eye with my hand. “May—maybe.”

“I think we may have hit on something here, Ashley!” Dr. Benjamin said as he rubbed his stubby little hands together excitedly. “I believe your subconscious interpreted the feelings you felt for the dancers—as cheating on your wife! You were feeling the very things you loathed in your father! So what happened?”

I told him to jump the blonde—but did the little sissy-boy do it? Hell no! He completely ignored me, the fuckin’ pansy!

I shrugged my shoulders again.

“Naturally, your id and ego clashed!” he finally blurted out, answering his own question. “You couldn’t bear to see yourself acting like your father. So you projected your hatred onto—”

I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “My penis?”

“Exactly,” he said, beaming with pride. “You blamed your penis for the arousal you felt.”

Hey! What fuckin’ choice did I have! She was bent over shakin’ her fuckin’ sugar melons at me! I couldn’t just stand there—

I turned and aimlessly gazed out the window as I pondered the doctor’s theory. “That sort of makes sense—when you think about it.”

What does?

“That this whole mess—is your entire fault!” I sneered under my breath.

Me? You’re the sick bastard who whipped me out in front of everyone and tried to cut me off with that fuckin’ broken beer bottle!

Suddenly, the timer on the desk buzzed.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said as he reached across his desk and shut off the alarm. “That’s all the time we have today. But—I want you to start getting out more! You’re making giant strides, Ashley!”

If you ask me, you tryin’ to cut me off like that, clearly showed a definite lack of fuckin’ class.

I hurried back towards the desk as a bead of sweat trickled out of my left armpit, this time. “Out more? You mean like—out more? With people?”

“Exactly,” he said. “You need to get back into the game. You’ve been sitting on the bench long enough. All you need is your confidence back.” He slowly circled his desk. “You’re truly a very special person, Ashley, with very special talents. I know those talents are still inside you. All you need to do—is find them! You’re not your father, Ashley. You never have been! You never will be! I can promise you that. I think you’re going to be okay.”

I wonder what your old man called his Captain Winky.

I coerced out an uneasy smile as I reached into my jacket and pulled out my wallet.