The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett Page 0,2

after a few years’ study, and word had it she was working on her doctorate in psychology. During the day she practiced in the medical center, the building I was then entering. I had learned much of this from church acquaintances, friends, relatives, and through the internet.

This internet was a great new invention; if you wanted to know something about somebody, you just typed their name and information poured out. I have wondered how much somebody knew about me by looking on the internet, but then, since I’m not a very exciting subject, nobody would really want to read much about me. I guess I slept easier knowing this.

In the elevator my stomach began to act up and get butterflies, but I couldn’t back out, not when I was already there. “I’m a man!” I thought. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing! If counseling helps, then it’s not a waste of money.” I exited the elevator and walked down the hall to a glass office door marked “Mental Health Counseling,” and saw a young secretary typing at a desktop computer, with the nameplate “Phyllis Rozzell” sitting beside a bowl of candy. Candy was everywhere in this city.

I waved at the pretty girl, and pushed the door open. “Hello, Mr. Owen?” she asked. She was a charming little thing, and I felt silly, even with my butterflies turning. “Yes, ma’am, that’s me,” I replied. “I’m here for my one o’clock appointment.” She smiled and handed me a clipboard with a pen and some forms attached, something I was supposed to fill out before the “Doctor” saw me. I hoped this wouldn’t take too long. I realized I was holding in my stomach for her sake; what was wrong with me? She was just a little girl; why did I feel the need to impress her? To her, I probably looked like somebody’s confused grandfather.

I walked over to the couch and sat. There was only one couch in this waiting room, along with about ten metal chairs with cushions, a television (which was turned off at that moment, thank goodness), a few lamps, magazines, books, but no coffee table; I guess the room was full enough without a shin-banger. A bare-minimum waiting room, and I was the only person filling it. There were three other mental health counselor offices besides Miss Planter’s, or Ms. Planter’s, or whatever she preferred to be called. They must have still been out for lunch; maybe they staggered their lunches, so somebody would be there all the time during the workday. Not being a very big waiting room, perhaps this had been some other type of doctor’s office before. That’s O.K., seeing how Miss Planter really wasn’t a full-fledged doctor, at least not yet. A professional had to start somewhere.

I began filling out the questionnaire, much of it on my health, weight, height, mental state, and insurance. I tried to be objective here. I was fatter than I’d like to be, grayer, and slower than I used to be. The world used to be filled with old people, but was quickly filling with younger types, kids who couldn’t dress right, talk right, and act right. What was wrong with this country? But this little secretary, Phyllis, put them all to shame. She’ll be married in a year, if she’s not already. I hated being 50, but who was I kidding? She’s 30 years younger than me, and already out of my league, a classy little girl. With her good looks and health, she could be a model if she wanted, but she’s working now and in a health-related job so she must have brains as well.

The forms were boring. I was writing about myself, so maybe I had a boring life. I hoped the wait wouldn’t be too much longer.

After about 15 minutes, “Ms.” Planter came through her office door. I still debated whether she’d like “Ms”; “Mrs.” was out, and I didn’t know if she’d liked being a “Miss” or a “Ms.” since she’s not a “Dr.” yet. I supposed it was safer to be politically correct than to insult your shrink. And hey, she was really a pretty lady at 45! (prettier than her portrait on the internet). Nice clothes as well, and in a dress, not a pantsuit, she glided across the waiting room to greet me. I sat there, stunned, because I wasn’t used to pretty women looking in my direction, and there she was, in my personal space with her hand