"Nice kicks," he tells me as soon as I sit down. The new pair of leather shoes he's referring to have yet to be scuffed by drunken fumblings or weathered by slush puddles. They're nice, but not that nice. A gift, and much appreciated, but not worth such honorable mention. He was obviously trying to use a modern term on a person half his age and see if he could get away with it. I decide to let him since our session's just begun.
"Thanks," I say succinctly and let him lead the way. As usual he wastes no time, shoots from the hip like Doc Holiday.
"You've said some interesting things since we've started talking every week," he says from within his white cardigan as I shuffle my feet. "There's one image in particular that stays with me."
My curiosity is piqued. He knows when to appeal to my vanity. What could I have said that's remained in his mind for so long? He sees fifteen, twenty people each week, all with their own baggage to unload in his direction. There's a wealth of trite imagery to ponder. Was something I said so poignant that it escaped the yellow legal pad?-- the eternal resting place for most of his sob stories?
"Yeah?" I ask immodestly, clearly anticipating his reply.
I've yet to catch him lying. There'd be no reason. The letters after his surname don't require it. He's not in this for the money like some of the others, at least not entirely. He clears his throat and continues.
"That image of you driving by your father's house once in awhile to check up on him; specifically, the fact that you see the two rocking chairs on his porch and are happy for him even though he never told you he got remarried."
"Or had a son," I cut in, my feet now firmly planted to the thin, commercial grade carpet.
"Yes. Or that. But still you love him and want him to be happy. Even though he fell short you watch over him like a sad, defeated angel."
"Take it easy, doc," I say, a quick jab at his lack of a doctorate's to even the score for those last few adjectives he chose to apply to his description of my state. "The Old Man hasn't won just yet."
Through the door I hear his partner slam a file cabinet shut. The white noise machine in the hall is only so forgiving. I can't blame the man for his blunders, though-- not in those cheap, oversized suits he wears. He looks like a weasel swimming in polyester. I'm glad that my guy wears jeans, plaid, and loafers. The cardigan is his worst sin. I can live with that.
"Do you say that every day?" he asks, his fingers woven together, except for the indices resting on his chin.
"First thing in the morning, before my feet hit the floor," I answer. He's won this round, I'll finish making his point. Maybe his worst sin isn't wearing the woven yarn. Maybe it's being a wiseguy like the crumpled folks who sign the checks, though we wouldn't have it any other way. Some people only take to tough love and kidney shots. Defeat: It's the only way we learn.
But if this ugly mug's the face of an angel, what does that make him?
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