• A Ponderous Portrait


    It is a sleepy Saturday morning for the residents of Bloomsburg, OH today, and the sky is crisp, clear and blue as a robin’s egg, all the clouds having been blown away in the chilly November winds. Inside the drab brick office building on the corner of 43rd & Madison, however, and behind the handsome walnut door with the plaque reading the name of one Edwin T. Mercer, PhD, a storm is brewing.

    “What could I have done?! I mean, how was I supposed to know…Damn it! Damn it, it’s all my fault! I could have done—damn it, why didn’t I do something…I should have known!”

    Grey concrete eyes peer out from behind the slim lenses of the old doctor’s glasses as Edwin Mercer(PhD) raises a thin, silver eyebrow at the young man tossing and turning (practically throwing himself) about the doctor’s favourite couch (a four-seater, the Belga Leisuremaster from Decadence Magazine’s Fall catalogue and generously upholstered in handsome Burnt Umber). If appearances are anything to judge by, the young man is an emotional wreck – his thick, wild black hair projecting in the oddest of directions; his nails long and girlish, with what would appear to be a planter’s worth of dirt beneath them; a tartan-print tie thrown carelessly around his bare neck; in every way imaginable, this fellow would appear more in his element at a homeless shelter, maybe a loony bin, rather than the finely-adorned therapist’s office in which he currently resides.
    Doesn’t even get his payments in on time,
    muses the doctor as he rubs his scraggly beard and does his job, which is to appear the picture of refined thoughtfulness. Aloud, he says smoothly, his tone flat and bare as a linoleum floor,
    “How could you have known?”
    The young man stills suddenly, looking up through his wild black hair at the doctor; his mouth open wide as a cupboard door left ajar, displaying teeth stained to a yellowish tint by one too many morning coffee breaks.
    “I—“
    Abruptly he tosses himself across the other side of the couch, his sneakers leaving muddy streaks on the handsome upholstery of the doctor’s favourite couch as he launches into yet another tirade.
    “Hmmm…,” muses the doctor in a contemplative tone, as he scrawls himself a note on that little pad which any self-respecting therapist carries on his or her person at all times; already working out the details for the ordering of replacement cushions.
    “I could have done something! I could have…I mean…Agh! Damn it! Why didn’t I just…--I should have known! Damn it, I should have seen this coming! I could have done something…damn it, if I’d just…if I’d…Damn it!”
    Dr. Mercer nods encouragingly. Yes, he might as well go with the matte black this time around; these things tend not to show up quite as well on the darker colours.
    Meanwhile, the young man pelts himself against the back of the couch, driving his fingers through his hair like he is afraid it will disappear; clawing at his scalp as if preparing a field for the growing season.
    “Damn it, damn it, damn it damn it damnitdamnitdamnit! Oh, God! Why did it have to be me?! What could I have—No! No, there must have been something…There must have been something OH GOD IT’S ALL MY FAULT—“
    The young man’s arm connects now with the little walnut table beside the couch; there is a thump, followed by the unmistakable clattering of a ridiculously expensive trinket breaking on a hard surface. It is a sound which makes the young man start in surprise; it is a sound which brings the palms of one Doctor Edwin Theodore Mercer(PhD)’s hands to his speechless face.
    -bzzt-
    Seconds pass, but the original bass note of shock lingers on, the young man staring in meek silence at his shoelaces. The doctor takes a deep, deep breath. Outside, a heavy draught of wind washes through the trees, its husky contralto gradually tapering away into the highest registers and then finally passing altogether.
    There is a pause.
    “…I--!”
    “—Don’t!”
    The old doctor thrusts out a hand to stop him. In a quieter, more careful voice, he says,
    “Don’t, worry about it. Just…Sit back down. Okay? The vase…is…replaceable.”
    “B-but, I--!”
    “—The vase is replaceable,” repeats the doctor, more firmly this time.
    “O-oh, uh, yeah. Okay.”
    The young man gives a short, hesitant nod before uneasily returning to his seat. One hand continues to comb through his hair; the other one plays with his shirt. The doctor, too, runs a hand through his receding hairline as he prompts slowly, “so, you were saying…?—well, let’s go back to one of those things you were talking about earlier. About this…incident…of yours? You seem to have a lot of guilt about…it.”
    The young man directs his gaze at the ceiling.
    “…Yeah.”
    The doctor lets out an exasperated sigh.
    “And…?”
    The young man lets out a sigh of his own.
    “Well… it was completely avoidable.”
    “Was it, now…? Well, let’s, ah, hear about…that.”
    A cough.
    “…I could have done something. It didn’t have to happen.”
    A gust of wind rocks the trees outside before dissipating against the brick walls of the building.
    “What would you have done?”
    “I--…”
    He has to think about it.
    “…I don’t know…
    …Something.”
    A shaft of light catches on the doctor’s glasses as he lowers them to give the young man a pointed look, and for a moment they appear almost as if to glint.
    “Something?”
    There is a pause. A cloud passes over the sun outside; the room becomes dim and the light, stale.
    “Anything.”
    The doctor scratches his scraggly gray beard. Makes a thoughtful noise.
    Clears his throat.
    Outside, the office’s outermost door is heard to slam closed. The doctor straightens his tie; brushes off his blazer. Clears his throat.
    Again.
    “Well…Nicholas, was it…?,” he begins, adjusting his glasses,
    “I think we accomplished quite a bit today. We’ll pick up where we left off this time next week; don’t worry about the vase. I’ll just include that in your bill. Make sure to get those payments sent in as soon as you can, alright?”
    There is a pause.
    “…It’s Nicolae.”
    The young man rises stiffly to his feet. His shirt is wrinkled, and his long, curly, black hair hangs limply over his face as he stoops down to collect the gray woolen coat that lay discarded on the floor. His expression is unreadable in the office’s feeble light, but there are dark circles under the young man’s eyes as he drags himself out the three sets of doors that try their best to sequester the “therapist’s” office from the cold, windy place that provides Edwin Theodore Mercer(PhD) his clients.