The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett Page 0,3

extended in greeting before I even thought of standing up. What was wrong with me? “Get up! Get up!” I said to myself.

I stood up slowly and took her hand. “Good to meet you, Ms. Planter. I’ve heard you’re a good listener.” She smiled and said, “Won’t you step into my office?” I nodded and started to follow her back into her working area, but handed Phyllis my forms before I forgot. Two pretty girls in one day; I hoped I didn’t say something too stupid. That usually tends to turn girls off, and I needed these girls to be “on.” But since I was paying them, they’d probably give me their attention, as long as the money lasted, anyhow.

I stepped into Miss Planter’s office, and found it to be a bare-bones set-up also. There was a desk, a chair, a couch (I suppose that’s standard mental furniture), a few pictures of family and children, two degrees, and professional licenses framed on the wall. There was also another door to the office, probably an escape for patients who would rather take the back exit than walk through the waiting area again. A box of tissues sat on the desk, but I didn’t plan on doing any crying here. I had an agenda.

“How can I help you, Mr. Owen?” she asked. I paused for a moment, and said, “I think I’m supposed to tell you about myself, and you’re supposed to give me feedback; isn’t that how this works?”

“Well, yes,” Miss Planter replied. “But what I was really trying to get at was, what problem or problems are you concerned with? What problem would make you pick up a phone and call a complete stranger for help? That’s what I should have asked.”

I sat down in the chair in front of her desk, and, after a moment of stalling, said, “I think that I’m not a very happy man, Miss Planter. I think that I would like to try to remedy that.” I hoped she didn’t take offense at me calling her “Miss.” I looked at her for a little while, and she didn’t seem upset. She might like it; maybe it made her feel younger.

Miss Planter thought for a second, and asked, “Is there anything that’s making you unhappy? Have you gone through any life changes recently? A divorce, a death in the family, loss of funds, property, or job?” She looked to be a hard person to read, neither smiling nor frowning; she made with a good poker face.

“No, nothing like that,” I remarked. “I work a lot. I suppose you could say I’m married to my job. I have a little bit of money, and my job is fairly stable. I’m in financially better shape than most people in my neighborhood, or kids I grew up with, anyhow.”

At this moment I was able to read her, because she looked a little puzzled. “Well, as you know,” she said, “we will have five sessions as a minimum, and I thought if we could pinpoint the problem at the beginning, that this might give us a little more time to work on a possible solution. On the other hand, if we have to talk and discuss, which really amounts to digging through your life story, this might mean more sessions, which could prove to be more expensive. I’m not trying to be rid of you, Mr. Owen; I just wanted you to be aware of the costs, so you wouldn’t run into any financial hardships.”

I smiled and said, “Thanks for your concern, Miss Planter, but I have a little money set aside. I have been thinking about this for a long time, and I’ve prepared myself in this area adequately.”

Miss Planter, although she did not readily show it, seemed relieved. Now that the finances had been settled, and she had warned me that this could be expensive, she was cleared to go to work with no hurried schedule, at least not with me. Also, if I did drag these sessions out and put myself in a financial bind, she had told me, and had given me fair warning.

She picked up a pen and a clipboard with another form from her desk, leaned back in her chair, and said, “Shall we get started?”

Early Years

Miss Karen Planter was the type of lady who wanted to start from the beginning, who wanted to know about my family, parents, siblings, surroundings, my growing up years. I paused and looked ashamed, saying, “Well, I don’t