On a Couch Somewhere in America

Copyright © 2013 by J. D. Knight.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-0078-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0079-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0080-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914080

iUniverse rev. date: 08/22/2013

CONTENTS

Prologue: The End

Phil

Claire

Catnap

Sam

Emma

Kenneth

Tim

Collin

Sam

Claire

The Police

Back On Track

Emma

The Firing Squad

Carl

Collin

Marian

Son Of Sam

Hellen

Grace & Les

Claire

The Seventh Day

Hi-Fi Kansas

PROLOGUE: THE END

I like to think there is a room in heaven reserved for Woody Allen, Henry Miller, and Mariel Hemingway. A lovely room with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, draped with big white billowing curtains. A place where the wind transmits music. The sounds of Billie Holiday caress the small blades of hair across my cheek. The notes are conducted and captured with the softest touch, like the breath of an angel whispering melodically in your ear.

There may be such rooms on Earth, but the earthly rooms are on a slightly lower budget than the heavenly ones. They can’t afford floating angels or Billie Holiday. Instead I’m stuck with Alton Ellis’s Wide Awake in a Dream on repeat.

Some people with misguided good intentions eventually seem inclined to force ambitious questions upon themselves and you. What do you want? What do you dream about? they will ask. These questions are perhaps best asked only by yourself and left unanswered. Yet when you are asked, you feel compelled to give them a long list of material objects and emotional desires. Unfortunately, most people’s attention span is equivalent to that of a three-year-old at a lecture on the history of biochemistry. We are sure to squirm. I resolve to deliver the short version.

My dreams, the many that there are, exist on a carousel, much like the hundred-disk CD changer in my office. At random, my mind, like a stereo’s shuffle mode, selects a dream. Dream number eighty-four, track number eleven, starts to play. By pure chance it happens to be Wide Awake in a Dream by Alton Ellis.

We are all sane; we all want to love and be loved, my young, impressionable mind once screamed at me while I basked in a warm bath. My own reflection taunted me with whispers of a different sort. Perhaps some of us want to die, disconnect, destroy, shut down, and just get off the roller coaster of life.

Sorry to break it to you, love, but I believe we are all a little insane. We are each marked with our own brand of crazy, which in its own ingenious way allows us to deal. That is, I can’t hear you anymore. I tried to explain this dilemma to the rose-colored water. No response. Chilling ripples lapped my pale-blue flesh. I would have raised my eyelids to see, but my sky had gone black. Wake to light, bring us back, make it right.

The perpetual drip of rusty water from the chrome faucet echoed like your never-ending screams that pierced the deepest part of my skull. My lips stilled. Finally the CD skipped, and it all started over. How I pray for a God. How I dream for a peace. How like hell I wish I could only be a fly on the wall in that holy room in the heavens…

PHIL

thirty-seven, lawyer, married, session 1.

So are you ready? We ready? Phil asks nervously in his Southern drawl. The small spectacles smashed against his fat, pear-shaped head squeeze his temples like tweezers gripping a football.

Are you? I ask.

Yeah, so I’ll just begin then? Where? Phil adjusts his tight, wire-framed glasses. He clears his throat. Dewy-eyed, he looks to me for guidance or approval.

Anywhere you want to begin, Phil. This is your time, I say encouragingly.

Well, he starts a bit shakily, are you sure no one hears what I say in here? He is really nervous. I think I need to rescue him with a little more assurance.

Whatever is said in this room doesn’t leave. Patient-doctor confidentiality. This guy looks like a nerd.

Well, okay then.

I’m wondering if he belongs to some Star Trek Internet chat group. Phil reminds me of the kind of kid I used to steal lunch money from back in elementary school.

I’ve been evaluating my life lately, he continues cautiously.

The kind of guy who used to get wedgies and . . .

Are you sure no one hears about this? He is still unsure.

Phil, don’t tell me anything you don’t want to. If you are not comfortable yet, it’s okay. This seems to do the trick, and he relaxes a bit.

No, no, Doc, I really need to get this out. There is a silence as he takes a deep breath and continues. Well, like I was saying, I have been evaluating my life lately. I mean, really giving it a good look-over. I’m thirty-seven. I have a law degree. I just… I—well… He stops and looks around the room for some sort of distraction.

Is he stuck in his job? I hope he can afford my bill. I wonder who referred him to me.

She—well… He starts again. She has been nagging at me for a while. Edith, my wife, that is. He sighs, coughs, and continues. Well, I think I might be gay.

Okay. I’m confused. Now why do you think that, Phil?

Oh, for fuck’s sake, why am I here? He is getting frustrated.

Phil, why don’t we start from the beginning? What is it that makes you think you might be gay? Just spit it out, you twit. He begins to take deep breaths to calm himself before he begins again. He won’t actually leave.

I’m lying there with her the other night.

Edith? I ask to be sure.

Yeah, well, we are rather sexually active. I mean, I haven’t—you know, porked this much since my university days. He chuckles a bit to himself.

Only a gimp like you would use the word porked, Phil.

And let me tell you, Doc, she is a real hellcat, a wild one, if you know what I mean. He shoots me a wink, and I nod. Then, as if embarrassed by his gesture, he looks to the floor. He promptly continues. We’ve only been married a year now. I would say on average we have sex about twice a week.

I’m sure that would be classified as sexually active in someone’s book.

We get—well, we’ve been rather experimental lately. Typical role-playing, you know, your standard stuff.

Whose standards?

We’ve played them all—cop and hooker, king and queen, pool boy and housewife, nun and priest (she was the nun), the naughty boy with the babysitter, boss and secretary.

That’s a new one.

At any rate, you get the point. He seems a bit more at ease and clears his throat. She decides, last Wednesday, that role-playing isn’t enough. He makes an aside to himself. I knew that getting those handcuffs wouldn’t be enough. He lets out a big sigh. I can’t even believe I agreed to get them, but she just kept at me. Finally I just caved in. Well—I don’t know. I don’t know where to begin. It’s just gotten way out of hand for me. I mean, I really thought the cuffs would do it. I thought they’d at least slow her down for a few years. Lately though, oh boy, man, it is just out of control. He looks at me with such an overwhelming sense of conviction as he delivers the next line. You know, now she has even started bringing food into our sex life. I have to admit that is a bit of a turn on.

What is he trying to get at here? I don’t see a connection between a kinky, oversexed housewife and his thinking he might be gay.

So I have been okay with all this madness so far. But—oh Christ. He sighs heavily, adjusts his glasses, and coughs uncomfortably, as if he has something stuck in his throat.

He is holding something back and here it comes.

She brings this thing, this rubbery… you know.

I want him to say it, but he just stares at me.

Well, you know… he sputters.

He is hoping I will finish the sentence for him. Not a chance, Phil. Come on, you pussy. I know you can say it.

A dil— Phil slowly begins to release each syllable as if he is giving birth to a new word in his vocabulary. His mouth dilates, and he pushes the word out. A dil—do, a dil-do, dildo. Phil has now given birth to a new word.

There we go, that wasn’t so hard. Maybe I should get a big banner made for him. One he could hang outside his house. One with light blue letters, reading, IT’S A DILDO!

Well, I—I—I don’t know what to say, Doc.

Yes you do. You are just stalling.

You know, Phil, lots of couples have found great pleasure bringing adult toys to the bedroom.

He glares at me, not amused. It gets worse, he says.

He is actually on the verge of tears. Was it a strap-on?

She didn’t want it for herself. She got it for me.

Oh Christ, Phil, you poor bastard.

She wanted me to put this thing—you know… up my ass.

Tell me you didn’t.

I said no way; I told her it just wasn’t going to happen.

Good for you, Phil.

I mean, I will dress up for her. I’ll even prance around in makeup and women’s underwear. But I mean, there is no way I’m gonna stick that thing up my ass. You know what I’m saying?

I nod, and he pauses ever so slightly before continuing. But I did.

No, no, Phil. It’s like you are back in school again getting your lunch money nicked. This can’t be.

I felt like I had to take a shit, Doc. He starts to cry. If that isn’t enough, the fucking doorbell rings. I forgot that we ordered pizza.

You idiot.

Edith’s hands were all sticky with lubricant. I jumped up like a cat when the doorbell rang. I wanted to pull the damn thing out, but I was afraid shit would go everywhere, literally. So I clench my ass cheeks as tight as I can. I grab a sheet and half-ass wrap it around me. I waddle to the door. Edith’s too concerned with wiping her hands, and she starts laughing at me.

Sometimes I downright loathe women.

Oh Christ, the humiliation. His tears flow like Niagara.

Phil… I try to comfort him, only I can’t think of anything to say. I think I might burst out into a fit of laughter if I open my mouth.

Wait, I’m not done. He begins to blubber.

Jesus, there’s more, Phil? You’re gonna put me in stitches. A smile comes across my face, and luckily for me his hands are covering his face.

I—he—the dog—her dog starts jumping up biting at my ass. He’s just a little dog too, a Chihuahua; his name is Rocky. He is jumping and barking, jumping and barking. I’m trying to avoid the little bastard, but he is circling me, and we’re locked in this sort of dance. Oh God, Doc, I’m thirty-seven. I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake. I went to Harvard. I don’t need things like this to be happening in my life.

Why not?

Phil, it’s okay; things happen. Everyone has moments of embarrassment. It’s what gives us character.

No, it’s not okay, goddamn it! he snaps at me and continues to sob profusely. I liked it, Doc; I liked it. I was aroused. I was excited, stimulated. I think I’m gay, Doc. My ass is so sore. I don’t know what to do. I love Edith. I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to, he cries. Tell me, Doc, does this mean I’m gay? He desperately seeks a resolution that I’m not sure I can give.

I’m silent. I find myself desperately trying to grasp hold of some sort of dark imagery—dead babies, vomit, anything that will stop me from laughing at this poor son of a bitch. My ass is sore. I really think that’s where I lose it. That line, uttered in his thick Southern drawl, will repeat itself in my head all day.

My ass is sore.

My ass is sore.

My ass is sore.

My ass is…

My ass…

My…

CLAIRE

twenty, student, session 1.

Well, Claire begins, a bit fidgety. Can I smoke in here? Thin and sleek, she sits perched like a queen on the edge of the couch.

Sure, I’ll just crack a window. I pull an ashtray from my desk and hand it to her. I get up and open the closest window. Everything okay? I ask as I return to sit down.

Yes, thank you. She smiles at me and giggles a bit.

Is she flirting? I wonder. I notice her nose. She has a stud piercing, a small stone that appears to be an emerald that I hadn’t observed before. I wonder what else she has pierced.

I’ve started seeing this guy. He’s funny, sweet. He rides a motorcycle. She lights her smoke. I’m a virgin. I mean, well, my experience isn’t that broad. I guess that’s a bit forward.

Possibly, I think. No, not at all, you can speak your mind. That’s good.

She takes a drag from her cigarette. It’s not like I’ve grown up in a bubble. My parents have always been nice, more than respectful and helpful as well. I have never had a problem discussing anything with them.

Let’s get back to the sex part, Claire. Where does being a virgin and communicative parents come into why you are here today?

In saying virgin—well, in saying I am a virgin, I mean, I’ve never been—well, no one has ever penetrated me.

Okay. I’m trying to follow along.

You know, in the physical sense, no man has ever been inside me. I’ve never let any of them in, if you know what I mean. She takes another drag and gives me a look.

Yes, I understand. You’re bolted at the knees. You have a chastity belt. You are a cock tease.

The extent of my experience has been kissing, touching. You know, the typical. Well, the other night, um, last weekend actually, I slept with him.

Who?

The motorcycle guy.

Is that what we’re gonna call him? The Motorcycle Guy? I ask.

She laughs a bit, coughing on her cigarette.

No, his name is Tom, and I didn’t actually sleep with him. I slept next to him, if you know what I mean.

No, why don’t you draw me a picture?

I have to admit I was a bit scared. She pauses to take one big drag from her cigarette and then ashes it. "I’ve never seen a penis. I mean a real one, that is. So in the middle of the night, he wakes up, you know; we start kissing and whatnot, you know how it goes. I began to wonder inside, Where has that little girl gone? Where is that little girl inside me? What happened to her? Then I feel this thing, you know, pressing in, well, against me. I realize he has no clothes on. I’m lying there partially clothed. I have one of his T-shirts on, and I’m still wearing my underwear."

She takes another drag. So I look down, and there it is. She quickly takes another drag before she continues. "Jesus, it’s just so big and pointing out at me. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with it, this thing? There it was. Oh! Anxiety, just bam! She makes a punching motion to go with the sound. It just hit me so full on. I was so fucking scared. I didn’t know what to do. He just looked at me with this dumb What? look on his face…"

I know that look.

"I just got up and legged it for the bathroom. I get to the bathroom, and all I can do is stare at myself and start crying. Jesus, Claire, I think. What are you doing? I mean, with this guy? What are you doing here with this guy? What am I doing? You know, here in his house? His house? The sound of that is just so overwhelming. I’m not ready for this. High school was just yesterday to me. This guy has got his own house. I still live with my parents. He must really think I’m such a child. He’s forty-two. He’s got a career."

She takes a drag, pausing to exhale. "He could be my father. I stripped down and turned on the shower. I looked at my body. Where is the little girl? I kept thinking. When did I get these breasts? I don’t want them anymore. I want to be a little girl again. I wonder where my childhood went. I wonder where that little girl, Daddy’s little girl, has gone. I climbed in the shower and just sat there on the bottom, curled in the fetal position, crying."

She extinguishes her cigarette, takes a breath, and sits back to relax. I know I’m not fucked up, although my sister says I’m fucking up my life by hanging around with this guy.

The forty-two-year-old, you mean. I have to make sure I understand. She is Twenty and Tom is forty-two.

Yeah. She smiles and pulls out another cigarette.

Do your parents know? Have they met Tom? I ask cautiously.

No, just my sister knows. She hasn’t met him, and… She lights a new cigarette. And there is Calvin.

Who’s Calvin?

A guy, a boy I’m in love with. She laughs a bit.

Boy? How old is he?

Calvin?

Yes.

He’s twenty-one.

Now that sounds a little healthier. Where is he? Does he know you love him?

He’s away. She calmly takes a drag from her cigarette and dramatically gives a long exhale.

Away? What does that mean? What is she getting at? I wonder.

He’s traveling. He’s in Europe. He knows I love him and he loves me. It’s just… She takes another drag. She seems to be stalling.

What is it? I quickly question.

I love so many people. I mean I love so many things about so many people. She pauses again for a deep inhale. The sound of tobacco and paper burning away permeates the room. I guess I wonder, if I can find something to love in everyone, how will I ever be able to love just one?

Stunned, I search for a response but none comes. I think I’m in love with this girl right now. What’s worse, I think she knows it.

Were you and Calvin involved sexually? Our eyes lock, and I feel my heart race.

She looks away, and the pounding in my chest subsides only for the moment until she begins to speak again.

No. Well, we did sleep next to each other a couple of times. We’ve never even kissed. He never even tried anything with me. He was like a perfect gentleman. You know, like a guy in some 1930s film. He opened doors for me, made tea for me in the morning. He was a real standup guy. We could talk for hours and hours. She smiles and I want her.

And how long have you known these two men?

Calvin, about six months. He is such a good friend. I have never met anyone like him. He really liked me. I know that. And we seemed to get closer there for a while. She stops to contemplate her next move. But, well, he was real cautious, slow, didn’t want to ruin the friendship, I suppose. I guess it is partly my fault as well. I kept telling him I wasn’t ready for a relationship, and there I was right in the middle of one. He has been gone about three months now. I miss him so much. He is an amazing man. She takes another long drag.

I try to listen objectively, but her pouting lips makes me forget professionalism. So young and so fickle. Of course I don’t think that is something anyone can change. With youth comes desire and with desire uncertainty. She sits so empty before me, her cold, still eyes static and hollow.

Tom I’ve been seeing for about two weeks now. He reminds me of my father sometimes. She shakes nervously as she taps the ashes from her cigarette.

What does Calvin think of all this? Have you told him about Tom?

She sighs, and I wonder if this is the right question for now.

"He—well, it upsets him of course. I mean, I’m not going to wait around for him, and he is not waiting for me either. But