Pulp - Charles Bukowski [81]
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Got change for a penny?” he asked.
“No,” I told him, “not today.”
“Tomorrow maybe?” he went on.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
“But maybe I won’t be able to find you tomorrow,” he complained.
I hope not, I thought.
We waited and waited. All of us. Didn’t the shrink know that waiting was one of the things that drove people crazy? People waited all their lives. They waited to live, they waited to die. They waited in line to buy toilet paper. They waited in line for money. And if they didn’t have any money they waited in longer lines. You waited to go to sleep and then you waited to awaken. You waited to get married and you waited to get divorced. You waited for it to rain, you waited for it to stop. You waited to eat and then you waited to eat again. You waited in a shrink’s office with a bunch of psychos and you wondered if you were one.
I must have waited for so long that I slept and I must have been awakened by the receptionist shaking me, “Mr. Belane, Mr. Belane, you’re next!”
She was an ugly old gal, she was uglier than I was. She startled me, her face was very close to mine. That’s what death must be like, I thought, like this old gal.
“Honey,” I said, “I’m ready.”
“Follow me,” she said.
I went through the office and followed her up the aisle. She opened a door and here sat this very satisfied looking guy behind his desk, dark green shirt, unbuttoned floppy orange sweater. Dark shades, smoking a cigarette in a holder.
“Sit down,” he motioned to a chair.
The receptionist closed the door and was off somewhere.
Dundee began doodling on a piece of paper with his pen. Looking down at the paper he said, “This is costing you $160 an hour.”
“Screw you,” I said.
He looked up. “Ha! I like that!”
He doodled some more, then said, “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Begin by counting to ten backwards.”
“Screw your mother,” I told him.
“Ha!” said Dundee, “have you had intercourse with yours?”
“What kind? Vocal? Spiritual? Clarify.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
He made a round hole with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, then ran the index finger of his right hand in and out of the hole. “Like this,” he said, “hmmm…”
“Yeah,” I said, “I remember, she held her hand up like that once and I did it like that with my finger.”
“Are you here to mock me?” said Dundee. “Do not make fun of me!”
I leaned over the desk toward him, “You’re lucky, buddy, that you’re only getting mocked!”
“Oh,” he leaned back in his chair, “is that so?”
“Yeah. Don’t toy with me, baby, I am not to be held responsible.”
“Please, please, Mr. Belane, what is it you want?”
I slammed my fist down in the center of his desk. “GOD DAMN IT, I NEED HELP!”
“Of course, Mr. Belane, where did you find me?”
“Yellow pages.”
“Yellow pages? I’m not in the yellow pages.”
“Yes, you are. Seymour Dundee, psychiatrist, Garner Building, room 604.”
“This is room 605. I’m Samuel Dillon, lawyer. Mr. Dundee is next door. I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”
I stood up and smiled. “You’re playing with me now, Dundee, you’re trying to get even! If you think you can outmaneuver me, you’ve got chicken shit for brains!”
I was there to find out if the matter of Celine, the Red Sparrow, Lady Death, Space Aliens, Sam and Cindy Bass was really real or if I was actually having mental problems. I mean, none of it really made sense. Was I out of it? And where was I going with it and why?
The guy who called himself Samuel Dillon pushed a buzzer on his desk and soon the receptionist was back. She was still uglier than I. Nothing had changed.
“Molly,” he said, “please escort this gentleman next door to Dr. Dundee’s office. Thank you.”
I followed her along and out into the hall where she opened door #604 and whispered to me, “Get straight, jerkoff…”
I walked into another packed waiting room. First thing I saw was the fellow with one brown shoe and one black shoe who had asked me for change for a penny. He saw me.
“Hey, Mr….” he said.
I walked over to him. “Happened to you too, huh?” he asked.
“What?