The Study

Four couples sit in a semicircle. Some are more nervous than others. This is a group study. A paid study, which is why many had agreed to participate in the first place. Monetarily motivated. Inside the belly of the hulking warehouse in Emeryville, that according to the last business license issued, once was a flourishing ceramics depot. Now it is largely empty of furnishings except for a couple of brown laminate tables and matching folding chairs with padding on the seats.

Marie McCormally, the counselor conducting the study for the second time this year, stands in front of the couples waiting for the heating system to kick-in and provide a modicum of warmth throughout the vast unused and at present occupied portions of the warehouse. Cradled in her arms are packets she would hand out to the participants.

As rehearsed and she'd done with the first group, she made eye contact while handing out the packets. The intent was to familiarize herself with each individual, acknowledging their presence, and setting a neutral tone. She hoped the simple gesture allowed the couples to set aside any unnecessary pressure. Most would take a moment to look over what they were handed. The counselor carefully scans reactions as she stands back, waiting to take notice of the one who'd distractedly places the packet on the table and avoids making eye contact. This is the person she'll address her first comment to, and it mattered not if he or she looked back in her direction. She directs her voice, intention, tone and gaze so that it is heard clearly and felt by the intended. She'd know for sure whether or not it was felt by a reaction. Usually, it is common for this response to be described as a jolt, sting, or needle prick. As she waited, she wondered what Barry, her husband, was cooking for dinner. Marie preferred Barry’s inspired creations to restaurant dining any day. She herself has limited skills in the kitchen, no real talent.

~*~

Karen set down her packet and gazed off to the corner of the room. Her common-law husband, Omani, followed suit. Karen and Omani are an African-American couple, living together for the past three-and-a-half years. Karen often wears her hair in braided styles, to both promote her profession as a braider and for convenience.

The counselor observed the non-interaction and noted how Omani had also placed his packet exactly as Karen had done. He leans back in the chair and stretches his long legs. He is well over six feet tall, fit, and muscularly thin. Although she is seated next to him, Karen's focus is far off into the corner. Karen has a secret she’s afraid might be revealed during this program. Karen crosses one leg over the other at the knee and begins a steady swing.

Like a cat, the counselor prepares to pounce.

Liar, liar, pants on fire! Ever hear that one? The counselor asks no one in general. She is speaking to the group. She is looking directly at Karen, never surrendering her gaze even though she knows Karen is silently willing her to glance at someone else, anyone else, in the group.

She continues, Lies are like knives, they are sharp, and hard to keep a handle on. After many lies are told or untold, the hand that grips them grows slippery. Lies, secrets, white lies, no matter the playing field, are all-out foul and deceitful; fairytales, falsehoods, cover-ups, and illusions, are the mighty strung-together toxins that are cancers that kill relationships. They feed on the cells, eroding away pieces and parts until the scars, wounds, cuts and sores are left bleeding. Now, she slowly walks up to where Karen is seated. She stops at the table, kneeling down. She places her right hand on the table and reaches out her left hand as if she’s about to touch Karen. Karen can sense this and daringly turns her head to face the counselor.

The counselor has no intentions of physically touching any of the participants, it’s against the rules and regulations of the practice. Getting this close and yet keeping the right amount of distance is key to this purposeful exercise, but for the intended recipient, the possibility is unnerving.

Karen, does anything I’ve said apply to you? The counselor asks as she returns to a standing position. This alarms almost everyone else in the group as they sit upright in their chairs in a wave. If they were not already alarmed by what she’d said, they certainly were after she singled out Karen. Who’s next? The next person to be confronted would be the one who had not fidgeted when the counselor had spoken directly to Karen. She'd tend to that particular participant later.

I guess, Karen says in a voice scarcely above a whisper. Doesn’t it apply to everyone in here? she asks boldly, regaining some confidence.

The counselor ignored the question; it was a deterring tactic she was well prepared to not fall for. Karen wanted someone to agree with her, be on her side, and take the attention and focus off her. Tell us, Karen. Tell the group one of yours. The counselor coaxed and instructed, making sure her tone was perceived as almost bored, somewhat uninterested and yet have results.

Karen’s crossed leg swung like a pendulum. She heatedly eyed Omani. He had not come to her rescue. There would be no nasty-wine for him later. He stirred uneasily in his seat. Karen gave up, and mumbled at first, then angrily repeated one of her little white lies. I never renewed my driver’s license. Karen glared at Omani like she dared him to react to her admission.

Thank you for sharing with the group, the counselor said indifferently, and went to the other side of the room to drag a chair to the middle of the semicircle facing the others. Karen cringed. As far as she could tell, it looked like the hot seat, but Karen relaxed when the counselor sat down and had not asked her to be seated there. I’d expect you and Omani will have to discuss how to take care of the expired driver’s license at home.

Yeah, Karen said. Her reply was void of enthusiasm.

The counselor asked the group participants if it was alright if she read to them a little story. Collectively, they all replied, Yes! A folder was attached to the chair she’d dragged across the room. The counselor pulled it out, sat straight up in her seat and began to read aloud...

~*~

Miss Lucy had a steamboat, the steamboat had a...

Bell! Sharlena shouted into my ear. She shoved my shoulder on her way out the door. I guess that was her dumb-assed way of saying that it was time to go home. I woke to a puddle of drool on my desk. Mama gave me some allergy medicine that made me tired. Guess I fell asleep during our history lesson.

Sharlena and me are not best friends by any means. We mostly don’t say nothing to each other. We had a fight in first and second grades for some forgotten reasons. It wasn’t worth another fight between us, a’cause we were both pretty much tied up when it came to fighting. Nobody really wins, or loses. Please, oh please mysterious being of the universe don’t let me be in the same class as Sharlena in my fourth grade year, I begged.

The counselor stopped reading.

CHAPTER 2

Interview Room A

Subject: Karen

An attendant, wearing a sterile white uniform entered the room and after giving Karen a quick smile, went about checking to make sure each and every one of the devices set up to record are in proper working order, the microphone, the remote control for the video camera and last, the blue tooth connection in her left ear to hear if the observers required any additional information from Karen. Once the attendant settled in her chair, the interview began.

Placed in front of Karen is a metal clip board. On it was the questionnaire she filled out weeks ago.

I want to inform you that you have been selected to participate in the group study but there are just a few questions Langston, Aird and Douglas would like you to elaborate on. As per your acceptance letter, you were told this process may take up to two hours. You will be paid two hundred dollars no matter how long this interview takes. I have in no way anything to do with any other process than to sit across from you today as an attendant, the go-between. In no way can I assist you. I will not comment nor make note of your answers. I am not associated with the counseling services. I am not a mental health professional. I was hired to do one thing, sit in this chair and be a non-biased party to gain information for purposes of the group study. And that was completely true, as Terri Souza was hired two weeks prior, when she'd answered a Craigslist gig advertisement. Five hours a day, interviewing participants in study group, may take four to six weeks, paid two hundred and fifty dollars a day. Must have people skills, the ad read. And that was something Terri had. People were always opening up to her, what with her being a massage therapist for the last two decades, she was interested in doing something different for fun and taking time off. What better way to see if she were really ready to retire than to take a paid break. Are you ready?

Sure, Karen mildly replied.

My bosses are asking for more information. They want you to explain why you think you're here, Terri said adjusting the ear piece.

After eighty-seven minutes, Karen's interview had concluded and the people who monitored from another area of the warehouse were privileged to more than three hundred questions Karen previously answered.

~*~

Karen had plenty of reasons why she signed up for couples counseling; one of those was the fact that Omani never asked her what was going on. Instead, he was good at saying ‘hey’, as the opener or introduction to conversation. Hey, was his ingenious way of inquiring about her day, what’s going on or what could probably be bugging her at that particular moment. Then, he’d gage everything on her response in order to play the outcome by ear when he just could have come straight out and asked questions or acted like he was concerned. Sadly, and in the mean time, Karen would have to fight off stinging tears of the things she hasn’t told and of Omani’s never asking.

~*~

During the next group session, Griffin commented about how cool it was to get paid a hundred bucks just to listen to some silly assed kid story. The counselor was pleased with his conclusion but ignored his remark. Today the focus would be concentrated on Iris, the one who either pretended not to be alarmed or was in fact unaffected by the singling out of Karen.

So what do we call you? asked Griffin, doing whatever it took to get attention.

Counselor, she said. She would address his neediness at a later date. Griffin in all probability hadn’t read the policy handbook which covered the intricacies of the group's agreed participation. The handbook covered issues like not knowing or learning the counselor’s actual name, and no physical contact unless being treated during an emergency situation, such as fainting, apparent heart attack, and things along the lines of dire nature. The rest was a bunch of mish-mash that nobody was ever going to read once they found out they'd earn a hundred dollars per couple, per session participation. They have to arrive on time, and together with their significant other. The sessions would not be held any longer than two hours. Most important of all, there would be no interruption of story-time. Upon signature of the agreement, each participant received an additional one hundred dollars.

Most found out about the study by a flyer posted up at their local coffee house. Fifty flyers were posted in the Alameda County area. One hundred and ninety-three couples responded in a week’s time. Four couples were selected for the first study and this time, again, there are four. Each participant filled out a questionnaire containing over three hundred questions. None of which were about income, work history, professional careers, or education in order to keep things on a even keel and intentionally not to level nor weed out the playing field.

Ten questions were the maximum allowable acceptance to be left unanswered. The questions are designed in such a manner that it would both work toward the study’s advantage by not answering just as much as when a participant chose to answer all of the questions. Karen skipped question # 7, Which of the following is a true statement...

A. You are a gracious person. Or,

B. You tend to be neglectful of yourself or others.

The counselor was almost not concerned with what happened in the privacy of the couple’s homes. What did matter, for the sake of the study, is what occurred during their group sessions. But as far as the principles behind the study, every detailed manipulation was essentially designed for exposure of couples' privacy which was of great interest and importance.

Once back at home, it didn’t matter if Karen apologized to Omani about the driver’s license. He’d forgiven her after asking why she lied. She told him the truth.

You never ask me what I do, she began to cry.

Omani took her into his arms and made slow, deep, apologetic love to her, while whispering sweet nothings she did not understand, speaking in a foreign language, cooing with his lips, crooning expressions she literally doesn’t know the meaning to, but was absolutely sure of the what lays underneath as they melt in her ears, pulse through her body, and soothed, and calmed her precisely as Omani had intended.

~*~

The counselor sat in front of the semi-circle and began speaking, addressing them all but had one predominantly in mind. Energy drainers... the ones who suck the life right out of you. The attention stealers, the ones who demand notice, twenty-four seven, even when it’s inappropriate. Energy drainers... the ones who make you walk on eggshells, and encompass particular ways of doing this or doing that. Like vampires of the heart and spirit, stealing joy, and passion, and draining vitality from your soul. You'd be obliged to jump six feet high, turn around twice and say 'May I', in order to be pet. They are up on a pedestal and you are on a pogo stick trying not to fall off. The counselor stops and waits for a reaction. She scans around the room with awareness.

Dejahnae rolls her eyes. She is bored. Her mind is somewhere else. The counselor takes note of the not so subtle gesture.

Dejahnae is Griffin’s wife. They’re a young interracial couple married only eight months. Griffin is Italian-Irish while Dejahnae is African-American-Puerto Rican.

Griffin has golden blond hair and blue eyes. A white guy from Alameda but grew up hanging with the fellas and friends in and around Oakland. That’s where he picked up the slow-drawl way of speaking. It accompanies his low and slow overall demeanor which easily portrayed a show-no-shame, don’t give a shit attitude.

His initial attraction to Dejahnae wasn’t because he was trying to deliberately be cool, in the game, and date a sis’ta; no, he found himself attracted to women as a whole and skin color and nationality played no part in his likes or dislikes. It was about a woman’s beauty. Her beauty, booty and charm were the bottom line. Past that, if she had sense enough not to handle herself like a wild-n-out street–rat, then he’d pull out the Mojo. Most of that mojo-swag was natural as many men are equipped with and the added liquid smoke that he developed over the years he’d observed and picked up during his associations throughout the Bay Area.

He had never been the Boy-Scout type but he did have the skill to weave in and out of whatever situations put in front of him and be real about it. Being real was something else he’d knowledge in his running buddies, smoke crew, and fellow work associates. When he and Dejahnae met, all he knew was, she was without a doubt the shiniest and sweetest female on the beach. Griffin never put forth an effort to act Black, nor did he by design set out to learn street slang, ghetto lingo, or hood swag in order to be thought of a down ass white boy. He had always been Griffin.

Dejahnae, Griffin’s young wife, has dark hair, and dark eyes and long curly lashes. Dejahnae blinks at a snail's pace, like she is thinking during each lowering and rising of the eyelids. A person could easily take it as flirtatious behavior, but she has innocence about her that's withholding and shy.

Iris was first in the group to notice Dejahnea’s slow blink. She took it the wrong way and thought maybe, but after an hour or so, she realized she had been mistaken. Iris wore her hair in two long French braids which rested at her ribcage while she was seated. Iris’s mother is Japanese and her father is African-American-Latino.

Iris, which one of you, would you say is the energy zapper in the relationship? asked the counselor.

Iris sits straight up in her chair where she had until that time been slouching. She wipes her hands off, now sweaty, on her jeans. Nervous, she looks at her girlfriend Candace before speaking. Candace, tall average build and not uniquely pretty but sweet on the eyes in any line up, never reveals much about her parents or family. She has medium to dark brown wavy hair which she has an unconscious habit of raking her fingers through, and forceful light brown eyes. She tans without effort in the sun and likes to go barefoot in the house. Iris has been intensely in love with Candace for over seven years, but this is their third try as a couple.

Candace... Candace makes me jump through hoops, she says with a sly smirk, as if it really doesn’t bother her at all. She nods her head up and down sealing the statement, and then smiles to show Candace is worth it.

The look on Candace’s face tells more than enough. Candace is unhappy and Iris will pay the price later. What the counselor or the others in the room doesn’t know is how Candace is plotting against Iris at this very minute. She'll refuse to wash a dish, sweep the floor and maybe even bathe herself for a week. As far as sex is concerned, another cool seven days of withholding should clear Iris’s flawed thinking. Candace is a veteran of vindictiveness.

I'd like to say something in my defense, said Candace as she removed invisible hairs off her face with a raking motion of her hand.

The counselor spoke unmistakably clear, Thank you Candace, but your input will not be necessary today. The words stung for a second, although only a little.

'I would have been better off if I had tried to stick it out with Jacob, this therapy stuff is for the birds, if we weren’t getting paid to be here, I’d pop off at this woman in a heartbeat', Candace thought. She wanted to speak; she wanted to talk shit like she does at home. It wasn’t just the money keeping her quiet; it was the others in the room. She knew that if she did anything to mess up this group thing, none of them would get paid. And by the way Omani looked all gang’sta like, she was not about to risk it. Sure, Iris would try to protect her, but would probably get her butch silly-ass kicked. Besides, that girlfriend of his was definitely a hood rat with all those colored braids in her head. Karen looked to be the type to pull out a jar of Vaseline, snatch out her earrings and scratch a bitch down to the white-meat just to flick the skin from underneath her fake fingernails. Then she remembered, in the bedroom, Jacob was boring.

The only other people in the room Candace felt comfortable with are the little bi-racial couple, looking green faced, unblemished and unaffected by life’s realities. She laughed at them as they walked up to the warehouse. Out of all the couples, the mixed one was holding hands. That shit is only done when you are young dumb and trying to prove something. Candace had noticed a little something else that caught her attention although she would never admit it. It was just the way the young woman moved, with so much grace in a slow calm seductively natural manner.

Dejahnae’s movements were deliberate, and in no hurry like sweet molasses languidly coating a stack of pancakes one tier at a time. And even now, when Candace would take a glance in her direction, Dejahnae’s gestures and motions are thick, effortless and somewhat surreal. Although Dejahnae had yet to learn the powers of her ways, an invisible power inside which can lethally capture an audience of an entire room without trying, or strategically planning. Candace had already made the decision to make an enemy of the young woman. She wasn’t fond of competition and once her mind was decided, there would be no alliances. Candace leaned back in her chair, making absolutely sure that her shoulders did not brush up against Iris’.

Question number 45, How much energy do you put into your relationship on a scale using the Alphabet from A to Z, with the letter A being the least amount of energy and Z to the most extreme? Iris answered W, X, and sometimes Y. Candace chose to leave this question unanswered, why hand over the ladle in which to stir the pot?

~*~

The counselor went around the room, asking each participant if they would be willing to share a particular talent of theirs later on. Most everyone said sure, but Candace was still lost in plans of petty revenge. She finally said, Sure, whatever.

Dejahnae too was slow to answer because she'd been having a hard time focusing today. It was that damn dream she had again. She dreamt of Gabriel all the time now. He was her first boyfriend and first everything else. Gabriel had a libido that didn’t stop even when he was asleep. Gabriel continually cheated on her. He would say sorry, smile the way he did, tilt his head and the next thing you know, he’d have her climbing on top of him and doing whatever he asked.

No one should have that much power over you, her friends warned. He said he loved her, even when he smelled of unfamiliar perfume, dried sweat, and various other personal body juices. Gabriel confessed he could not get enough ‘Strange’. He promised to practice safe sex whenever he had the urge to cheat. She fell for the okie-doke bullshit, hook, line and sinker. Gabriel’s voice in her ear was the only thing that made sense when she was with him. His scent, still to this day she could smell it. It was in the air, especially around an open bottle of beer. It was the dank sweet and sour of him.

Dejahnae kept her eyes open when she made love to her husband Griffin, because she was afraid that if she closed her them, she might see Gabriel. If she could get through the one-year mark with Griffin, then she was sure that everything would be all right.

Too bad the others in the group could not hear Dejahnae's or Candace's thoughts, and how both of them were thinking about men from their pasts.

Mind if we start story time? asked the counselor. They were ready.

~*~

Miss Lucy had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell, Miss Lucy went to heaven, the steamboat went to ...

Hello? Mitchell answered his cell, the call came up unavailable, so he didn’t know Rochelle was the caller.

Put Tynisha on, Rochelle ordered.

What? Mitchell was perplexed, but he knew who it was now.

I said, put Tynisha on the phone. You got a hearing problem or what? asked Rochelle.

Why you gotta come all outta-pocket like that? asked Mitchell being careful not to reveal he was in the vicinity of his ex- girlfriend, Tynisha.

Before you get caught in another lie, you should look your stupid ass behind you. Yeah. That’s right. I’m in the car behind you guys. So, you can stop playing with me and have Tynisha pull the car over. Rochelle yelled into the phone even though she was using the speaker. Rochelle may have been stupid to trust Mitchell again, but she wasn’t dumb enough to get a ticket foolin’ with his sorry ass. If he wanted Tynisha, then he could have her. Rochelle was done. She followed them until Tynisha’s Acura pulled over.

Rochelle got out of her car first. Give me back my house keys and the two of you can be on your merry way. Rochelle stood with her hand out, next to passenger side. Mitchell tried getting out of the vehicle, but she blocked his way with her legs. Uh-uhh, there’s no need for you to get out. This is not a social event, Rochelle said waiting for her keys.

Mitchell struggled with taking the key off the ring. It took him so long that both Tynisha and Rochelle could see that he was stalling.

Damn Mitchell, you act like it’s gonna kill you to give the girl back the keys, Tynisha huffed and drummed her extensive wildly painted fingernails on the steering wheel.

Here.

Rochelle, with pleasure took her house key without a thank you.

The counselor closed the pamphlet and stopped reading.

~*~

Griffin, what is your special talent? the counselor asked.

He stood up out of his chair. I can beat box and break dance. Been dancing since the age of three, Griffin said, then blushed somewhat because he knew this embarrassed his bride. Here he was her white-boy husband who could beat box and won money in a dance competition and she, being African-American-Puerto-Rican, could hardly keep a beat without the consumption alcohol.

On the questionnaire returned to the study, Griffin declined to answer questions 17 through 21. Instead, he made notes in the space provided his reasons for not answering were due to his having to deal with abandonment, and authoritative female figures. In quotations, he wrote Mommy issues.

Would you mind giving us a demonstration? asked the counselor.

Well, I guess if−

How about during the next session? That way you will be better prepared. Bring music if you like, suggested the counselor.

Yeah, next session.

Later that evening, Griffin looked all over the small studio apartment for his beats. He had forgotten he’d put them in a box, in the storage shed. He and Dejahnae found them before the next session. Griffin was excited. He immensely enjoyed being the center of attention and would be more than happy to show off for an audience again.

For whatever reason, and no matter how hard she tried to preoccupy her restless mind, Dejahnae dreamt of Gabriel all week.

Married life was confusing enough, but to be dreaming about another man when the one sleeping next to you at night was becoming more and more insecure, was another thing altogether. Dejahnae hadn't been sure Griffin heard her mumble Gabriel’s name as she fitfully awakened. She hoped with all her might that her husband, the man who loved her dearly, had really been sleeping soundly.

CHAPTER 3

Interview room B

Subject: Omani

Three weeks prior to the first actual group counseling session, Omani sat waiting in a room, not unlike the one Karen had been in, but the color of the walls were different, a placid grey. After a few awkward minutes, Terri, the attendant entered the room and gave Omani the same speech while checking over the devices, making sure that they were in working order. Once again, Terri asked Omani to elaborate on some of his previous answers for the benefit of the Study, and in doing so, the people who monitored the interview could better establish what, or whom they were dealing with, and in turned, learned a number of things about Omani.

Omani was the one who brought home the flyer; making him the official initiator of the counseling idea. Simply put, he'd exhausted himself of playing the guessing game. It was if he were at the free throw line while Karen dilly-dallied on some racquet ball court. He thought by now, they'd know so much more about one another that they wouldn’t require unnecessary conversations about the coordinates of their relationship. In Omani’s mind, they'd passed the point where the important things between them should be silently understood. What the hell was up with the check and re-check unending phase of their shared life? What on earth else did the woman require?

The next time Karen comes up with another silly ass-drag notion of living separately during a disagreement, he might just take her up on the idea. He could use a day or two of unclouded fresh air. All he knew for a fact was, relationships should not have to be this hard. It may have taken him some time to get his shit together but when would come a time where things between them began to run smooth like clockwork?

~*~

At the start of the next session, Griffin demonstrated his beat box and break dancing skills. The counselor enjoyed the show along with the others in the group, except his wife. As usual Dejahnae felt somewhat embarrassed. Not by the fact he could do it, but because he had more rhythm than she did.

I bet some of us would like to know how you got started, the counselor spoke.