I decided to see the psychologist that Sonia wanted me to see. Her office is in Upper West Side, on 63rd Street and Broadway. It was both a residential and commercial building. As I entered her home/office clinic, I immediately felt a vibe of psychological security. The office is clean, spick and span. Full of modern furnitures, the rectangular glass table and the infamous “patient’s couch” where I intend to lie down while she psycho-analyze me. Her office was so quiet that I thought maybe she forgot that I had a session with her. I looked at the framed sketches on the wall when I heard a soft voice of woman, I looked in my back and there she was, Suzanne Lessing. She was wearing a white collared shirt and black skirt that’s down to her knees. She’s pretty much like a replica of Sharon Stone. Her blonde coiffed hair, and blue eyes, makes her an ideal poster girl for the Aryan race. She’s in her forties but you can’t see any wrinkles on her face, or traces of gray hair on her head. She’s one of those women who took the effort to stop the hands of time in order to cling to the fountain of youth, whatever procedures she got done on herself, it surely worked. She looks hot. My own version of Mrs. Robinson.
“Lorenzo?” She asked me.
“Yes” I replied.
“I’m Suzanne Lessing.”
“Pleasure to meet you Dr. Lessing!”
She and I shook hands. She hand a firm grip like a dominatrix.
“Please, call me Suzanne. I don’t have a doctorate degree, I use cognitive psychology to my clients, not pharmaceuticals.”
I noticed her California accent- every word is well-pronounced, making her sound like a premiere television reporter. She’s definitely from Southern California. My interest in her just peaked.
“Are you from California?” I asked with childlike curiosity.
“Yes.” She replied with a some excitement.
“So am I.”
“Really? From where?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Where about in L.A.?”
“Well, my last address before I moved here in New York was in the Hollywood District. On Hollywood Boulevard and La Brea.”
“I know exactly where that is. I left L.A., twenty years ago. I was living in the Pacific Palisades.”
“That’s cool. I used to drive up there with friends for house parties.”
She then smiled at me, like a school teacher who anoints her student as the apple of her eye.
“I hate to interrupt our L.A. connection but may I ask you why you’re here?”
“Oh, sure.”
I went over to the patient’s couch, I sat down. Suzanne sat on her chair across from me, and turned on her psychoanalytic method.
“Tell me Lorenzo, what is it that you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? What kind of writing do you do?”
“I write fiction.”
“Do you think your life is fiction?”
I was baffled with her first question and I thought it was bullshit.
“Excuse me?”
“Your life, do you think it’s fiction?”
I laughed a little bit.
“What kind of fucking question is that?!”
“I’m just trying to determine what aspects of your persona that enabled you to come here.”
“I’m sorry, I think your first question was stupid.”
“Okay. Do you mind filling me in why you came here?”
“My literary agent sent me to you. She thinks that my debauchery is so out of control that I need some kind of help.”
“Do you think you need help?”
“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. I would say, only on certain days.”
“Have you been in any serious relationship?”
“No, not really. I mean I tried, but every time I try, I only get fucked over. ”
“We’re you raised by single parent?”
“Yes, my mother raised me.”
“How’s your relationship with her?”
“It’s good. We’re pretty close. I actually feel sorry for her..”
“Why?”
“Because, she had me when she was only twenty two years old, she just graduated from college, she just started her first job as a teacher at a University, then she met my father and then he left her. My point is, she never got the chance to live it up in her twenties. Instead, she spent it raising me.”
“I don’t think that you should feel guilty for any of this. Your mother had a choice back then. She made a decision to have you.”
“Well, I feel fucking guilty okay?! There’s no denying that she never got the chance to live her life because she had me!”
“You don’t think she’s happy?”
“Absolutely not. She never expressed it in words but I always knew it anyhow. The last time I spoke to her, she asked me if I was happy..”
“And what was your answer?”
“I told her I don’t know.. I wished I knew how to lie to her but I can’t do that. Not to my own mother. Now she knows that I’m fucking miserable!”
“Well, are you really miserable?”
I wasn’t able to answer her question for a couple of minutes. I sighed before I replied to her.
“Just like I said before, only on certain days.”
“Fair enough. When was the last time you had a one night stand?”
“Yesterday, what does that got to do with my supposed misery?”
“It could be possible that you end up combining sexual chemistry and emotions. These two are very different.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“So what’s bothering you then?”
“I never said something was bothering me-”
“Are my questions making you feel uneasy?”
“Well, yeah.”
“This is the point of cognitive therapy. You can reveal yourself and be vulnerable without worrying about the consequences at the same time. I am not forcing you to feel like you’re in a safe place at this moment but I want you to know that whatever it is you say and feel, I’ll be sitting right here and I’m not going anywhere.”
I felt a sentinel of security of what she said. Very well said I thought to myself.
“Sometimes I wish that I’m in a serious relationship. It’s one of those thing that I haven’t engaged myself in. And it makes me feel like a fucking loser that I haven’t experienced that.”
“Maybe you’re looking at the wrong places..”
“Possibly.”
Before I knew it, my session with Suzanne was up and I booked another one for next week. I walked out of her office feeling emotionally medicated, in a positive level. I decided to take a walk to the 72nd Street subway station and hopped on the #2 train going down to 42nd Street-Times Square station and then transfered to the N or Q train and get off on Union Square. When I got off Union Square, I felt too sober so I went to the Reservoir Bar to have a glass of bourbon. When I walked in, I noticed a familiar face. Someone I knew but for some reason, her face has changed, not because of age but because of what happened to her, invisible emotional bruises I think – visible only to those who experienced it including myself. As I walked closer to her, I finally knew who it was, it’s Bettina, my old roommate from California. She’s one of the dozen roommates that I lived with on that eight bedroom house in Hollywood owned by Columbian actor who placed bunk beds in each room and rented out all the beds. It was one fucking crazy house. Almost everyone had sex with everyone. And I did my share of decent rendezvous. Bettina was almost unrecognizable. She used to be blonde, but now she dyed her hair black and wore heavy make up, it doesn’t make her ugly, I just thought that she looks pretty without any make up, just like every girl next door.
“Bettina?” I called her name sensing that she will still remember me.
She looked up at me. It took her a few seconds before she recognized me.
“Lorenzo! Oh my God, how the are you?” She exclaimed.
She then embraced me and seemed very excited.
“What are you doing here in New York?” I asked.
“I live here now!” She answered.
“Since when?”
“Three months ago.”
“You could’ve called or emailed me.”
“I know, I was an idiot and I forgot”
“What made you move here in New York?”
“Chad and I broke up. I mean, he left me!”
I was in total shock of what she told me. Back in California, they’re the sweetest couple you could ever meet. They’re also one of my close friends. My surrogate siblings I would say because I’m an only child.
“I’m so sorry..”
“Don’t be sorry, that’s the last thing that I want to hear!”
“Well, that was Chad’s loss!”
“Whatever, I have a new life now! Just me against the world.”
I looked in her eyes and immediately noticed that a part of her is dying. Her heart.
“So where are you living here in New York?”
“I live in West Village.”
“That’s cool, I’m in East Village. So what do you do for work?”
“I’m a hostess at St. Vincent’s place.”
I was a little shocked when she mentioned St. Vincent’s Place. If I’m not wrong or I just misheard her, it’s the same strip joint where I got lucky with a porn star who left me her dvd movie. LMFAO . So I asked her again for confirmation.
“Is that a restaurant?”
“No, it’s a titty bar!”
I smiled nervously at Bettina, trying not to give her the look of skepticism.
“What?!”
“Nothing, I just didn’t see you going that route.”
“Well, life is full of fucking surprises!”
“It certainly is”
Bettina and I exchanged numbers and stayed at the bar for another two hours drinking whiskey and gin. I eventually found out that she actually works at St. Vincent’s as a private escort. She also explained to me that her decision to work as an upscale prostitute, is psychological. She enjoys the fact that she’s getting paid a ton money based on men who wanted to have her. On an average night, she pockets as much as $1500 per private session. Her beauty deserves it too – slender body, perky breasts, round ass, porcelain skin, dark hair. The billboard girl – for adults only – credit cards also accepted. Just by looking at Bettina, I realized that she’s not herself anymore, (the light in her eyes are gone, though she’s still very pretty) and the possibility that love can actually harm someone. Love isn’t always pleasant or sweet. It could go the wrong direction in an instant. I then thought about myself, when I was madly in love with Hanna. I almost lost my fucking mind. I feel fortunate that I didn’t even sink into desperation. But sometimes, I feel like I’ve already gone crazy and I just didn’t realize it.
Bushwick In Fiction 