*I don't want to be a kind guy if that's the kind of guy that women don't want...*
![Marta Salo.jpg](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/johnjgeddes/23u6333cJVBrmK8Ek3dRufP61xm5hJvbzQuSkrjQvQmJqjmHvPcp5rA62Kf35aKEnN7QU.jpg)*Marta*

Six courses in undergrad Psychology hardly entitles me to be a psychologist, but I suppose working in Human resources and being a good listener qualifies me in some people’s minds. Take Marta Salo, for instance. Over the past few years, I’ve had lunch with her in the company cafeteria maybe a dozen times and then, out of the blue, last week, she comes to me with this problem. Problem is definitely the wrong word—more like a tragedy. You see, her little boy died.

It turns out that her son was at a Cub Scouts’ jamboree—they served hotdogs tainted with Lysteria. Two hundred boys got ill, twenty were hospitalized and one died—Marta’s little Charlie. I’m listening to her tell me the story and wondering all the time, why me? —I mean, she’s gotta have people close to her she can confide in, or at least a counselor or some kind of qualified professional—but no, it turns out to be me. “The judge is rendering his verdict tomorrow, Sam—would you come with me? I know it’s a lot to ask and it’s your day off, but I just don’t know anyone else.” I’m sitting there figuring my ears have gotten me into more trouble than ten peoples’ mouths, but instead of politely declining I find myself saying, “Sure, I’ll be there. I’ll pick you up at nine.” The relief on her face was palpable. The ball of anxiety in my gut was building.

I’m not a psychologist. I’m no Dr. Phil—not even close. I’m just a poor shmuck who goes out to the bar for a drink and instead of coming home with a woman, I waste the entire evening listening to her problems and watching her leave with someone else. The story of my life. So, if you keep doing the same things, you keep getting the same results—at least that’s what Dr. Phil says—and he’s right. The problem is, I don’t know any other way to be.

I picked up Marta just after nine and we drove to the courthouse. Now, I don’t know about you, but courthouses unnerve me. Just the sight of lawyers and a judge in a black robe makes me fear I’ve finally been found out—Not that I have any hidden crimes or anything—I just have a free-floating guilt that my therapist says is the result of my Catholic upbringing. Well, whether or not that’s the case, the sight of the courthouse still unnerved me. It seemed to upset Marta too because she clung so tight to my arm, it hurt.

I’m not going to bore you with the details of the hearing other than to say that the court redressed a grave wrong and in the end worked things out in Marta’s favor, as much as could be expected under the circumstances. With the brief proceeding over and a judgment for 1.2 million awarded, I figured Marta might relax, seeing as she had ‘closure’, as her attorney put it.

I’m not sure if these attorneys are even human—the two of them from prestigious hyphenated law firms looked like Doppelgangers or clones of one another. They sounded that way too. Outside on the street, they conversed like old friends in the brief interval it took one to get into his black Porsche. “Some days it’s coal; some days it’s diamonds,” says Clone Number One. “Well, I’m off to the Hampton’s for the weekend—no Bermuda for me this month,” The other answers back. “It’s a hard life, “ the first clown/clone says and they both laugh. Then each goes their separate ways leaving Marta and me standing out there on the street.

“I hate them,” she said. I gotta admit, I hated their guts too in that instant. Then, she turns to me with the saddest look I ever saw on anyone’s face. “I’ll never forgive God for this—ever!” “C’mon, I’ll drive you home,” I says. I mean, what else are you gonna say when somebody comes out with a line like that? She looks at me with those same sad eyes she had the moment before. “Thank you, Sam. You’re a good guy.” I drive her home and never see her again. As I told you before, that’s the story of my life.

Some nights though, when I toss and turn and can’t get to sleep, her face comes back to haunt me. What happens to somebody who can’t forgive God? It scares me, more than what happened to her. If I really think about it, I think she could end up in hell and then, never see her son. I’ve got a load of guilt I carry around, but it’s all my stuff. I don’t have to worry about God running the universe, or maybe ruining my life—I do a pretty good job of that myself. But part of me knows that Marta will be all right. Thinking about her and her sad face, a line by Tennyson comes to mind that kinda sums up how I feel. —“Her eyes are homes of silent prayer.” I’m thinking that’s the prism God uses to see her.  
© 2026, John J Geddes. All rights reserved
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nice g.