Why is it that you must sit on the chaise lounge to break down to the stranger? He pondered as he struggled to find comfort in the plush velvet.
A fixed window, that may as well be a painting of the external world. He had done his time in the trenches of capitalism, and done well for it, but at what cost? Money doesn't make a man happy, freedom does.
He fidgeted in the empty room awaiting the clinician, the chaise feeling more like a pirson cot, with a pause button for inevitability. The clock ticked. The hallway was full of footsteps and indistinct, hushed words. He realised, again that the window was not a fixed frame of the world - but he imagined that an oil painting wouldn't depict a bird perched, about to shit on the stranger's car.
The door creaked open, and the footsteps punctuated themselves by the shuffling of paper. "Mr..." *My name doesn't matter. I'm here. "Smith" the clinician concluded. His name really didn't matter. There were hundreds of thousands just like him.
The Smith-caller sat down, a calm, old man, facial features of a regal, old dog, jowls dropping and round glasses framing compassionate eyes. "What brings you here today?"
"My fucking car did." Smith's response was blunt, semantic, and vitriolic.
"The circumstances," The man with the glasses asked.
He'd prefer the office to be the rumbling, vibrating chasis of that car, a place he'd spent so much time. His hands wearing away the steering wheel, an exchange of oils between human flesh and leather. It was a still chaise lounge that would do him in.
"It was my job."
"And what about that job?"
"Hated myself. Hated what it represented. The world was too abstract, too empty of meaning. Too full of pontificating wankers interested in quarterly reports and-"
"Mhmm." Active listening was often an interruption.
"Why does it matter? I'm out now."
"But how do you feel?"
"Bitter."
"Why?"
"I could have spent my time driving. Some of the best conversations I've ever had were drivers, and they're cheaper than you Doc."
"Driving?"
"Yes, Do you know how much you can learn about society sitting in the passenger seat of a vehicle, going from airport to confrence hall, and back again? Everyone has a story, and in every car seat there's a conversation and lifetime of memoir and-"
"You story is full of conferences and abstraction?"
"Yeah, and I don't like it."
"We can't re-write our stories."
"No, but I can drive. I can hear the stories of others. I can tell them the road is full of forks, and some of them lead to their dreams, instead of to a place like this."
They both smiled. The bird outside flew away.
Author's Notes
This was a prompt at my weekly writer's group. The prompt was Uber. I thought about all the great conversations I've had in a vehicle, with strangers, with friends, with people who became friends.
Perhaps psychology and CBT should be done on wheels.
