The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett Page 0,1
Lovely, or “Old Man Lovely,” as he was called with great respect and admiration.
With his passing, his granddaughter, Susan, gave permission for his body to be moved to the funeral home and was helped through this process by the family physician, Franklin Burke. Afterward, he escorted Miss Lovely out of the hospital and to her car in the parking lot, since his duties were mostly over for the day, and also since it was night, and it wouldn’t do for a pretty woman to be by herself in a parking lot, even though it was well-lit and watched by security cameras.
Mentally Healthy
My name is Randall Owen. I’m 50 years old and have never been one who you would call extremely happy. Happiness and excitement are what I would have welcomed in life, but somehow I’ve never been able to get or keep a grip on them. Contentment, as well, has eluded me; it’s always been around the bend, out of reach, and in the future. As a result, I’ve grown older feeling I’ve missed my “place,” my calling, and haven’t been able to carve out much of a niche in society. I suppose this isn’t really a tragedy, since this seems to be a common malady in our culture. And yet, since I expect others to rise above their culture, I’d also like to rise above mine.
No one has been helped by me except for my immediate family, which is good enough, I suppose, but it doesn’t live up to the glamorous expectations I had as a younger man. There’s not much of a life here, at least not like Ross Perot; now there’s a life! Rich, powerful, driven, he even made a run for president. He doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to; I’ll bet he even pays someone to put his shoes on in the morning, and then pays them extra to tie his shoestrings.
Maybe I’m being too self-absorbed, but hey I’m 50 years old and looking at life from the perspective that it’s all downhill from here. Since the prospect of depression scares me, I decided to have myself assessed, and to seek out professional help.
Now I didn’t want for people to think that I was a “case,” or nutty, or even weak, but I had come to the conclusion that it’s not weak to say one needs help. This can be compared to the man who decides he’s been too proud to ask directions, and finally winds up at the gas station. If he’s going to get anywhere, he ought to ask somebody who knows the area, like his wife would want him to.
So this is what I did, I made an appointment with a local mental health counselor. I didn’t want to shell out the big bucks to pay for a full-fledged doctor or psychiatrist. I’m was paid well on the job, but not that well. Besides, I had other bills to pay, and this seemed to be an almost frivolous spending item, but again, now that I’m at the half-century mark, I could use a course correction.
After arriving at the medical center, a few blocks from the hospital in downtown Lovely, I spent time just looking at it from the front steps. This building was mostly doctor offices, separate from the patients and equipment at the hospital; the health professionals felt more in control here, more relaxed. I had an appointment in 15 minutes and was trying to talk myself out of it. It’s been embarrassing; it was embarrassing to make the appointment with the secretary, and that was over the telephone.
I did ask around beforehand, and heard about a friendly mental health counselor who had a good reputation among those who had sought out a life “course-correction.” The counselor was female, age 45, educated, pretty, and single, now. Her name was Karen Planter. Rumor said she married young, had kids early, but her husband turned out to be a boy who never grew up, drank excessively, didn’t amount to much, and liked girlfriends. They divorced after six years and three kids; Karen reverted to her maiden name, and Miss Planter had worked odd jobs and long hours to support her kids. She came to the conclusion that the only way she was going to further her situation in life would be through education. Her marital experience had matured her two decades in six years, so school came easier for her than before. She had managed to become a mental health counselor