The kid is annoying me. He won't shut up, and his father is oblivious to the noise. I thought after surviving three floors of whining I'd be free of them once we hit the lobby, but they followed right behind me from the parking structure elvator into this one. Fucking parents, they never know how much of a bother their child is being. After seeing the dad press "10" when I pressed "12," I knew I wasn't going to be able to handle much more. Somewhere around the 6th floor I caved.

"Look," I began, turning to face the dad, "it's great that you feel comfortable enough to bring your little Rainman out in public, I even applaud your attempt to integrate him with rest of us, but could you keep him in check? He's really noisy."

The guy stared blankly at me for a moment. Then it caught up with him.

"Are you calling my son retarded?"

"Is that not the 'PC' term? What is it these days - challenged, unstable, special? But c'mon, we all know it means the same thing."

"My son is NOT retarded. You're an ass."

"Well, I'm an ass who can keep quiet, which is more than I can say for little Mozart here."

The elevator bell rang for the 10th floor. The guy pushed past me with his son, shaking his head.
For what it's worth, it did the trick. The kid was actually quiet for our whole exchange.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

I walked to the door that read "Harold Rivers, PhD" and waited. I was actually going through with this. I was going to see a psychologist on the advice of my sister, mainly to see if there was any basis to her claim that I was a serial womanizer. Thirty minutes of no-holds-barred questions and accusations, with everything on the table. This would be fun.

No visit to a medical office is complete without the requisite chill time in the waiting room. There's forms to fill out, questionaires, release statements, and insurance documentation. To get in without waiting at least 20 minutes is a rarity.

While thumbing through an issue of Sports Illustrated that was over two months old my phone went off. Pulling it from my coat pocket I thought, don't be the district attorney, don't be the district attorney. The caller ID showed a 302 area code. Dammit.

"Hello, is this Reed? Hi, Jan Janotta here again. I want to thank you for the time and information you've already given us, but I'm afraid my bosses need me to ask you some more questions."

"Uh huh. How much longer are you in town?" I asked.

"Not long. If I can wrap this up and be on a flight by tomorrow night they'll be happy, though I will miss the mild California winters. Dover can't compare. So what if we got together tomorrow morning for breakfast somewhere where we can get the rest of this out of the way."

"Do you know where John O'Groats is?"

"I'm sure I can find it. What time would you like to meet?" he asked.

"Call it 7:00. I have to get to work and you have to get home."

"It won't take any longer than it needs to. Thanks again for all your help. I know this business isn't pleasant, but the attorney's office appreciates everything you've done for us."

"Just make sure she burns good, okay?"

"We'll see. Until tomorrow then."

I no sooner hung up than the receptionist motioned me in. Under twenty mintues too. Things were looking up.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

"Dr. Harold Rivers. Pleasure," he said, holding out his hand. "Please, sit anywhere," he said, motioning to the the three chairs grouped around his desk.

"No couch?"

"This isn't The Sopranos. I'm afraid we deal only in reality here."

I took the seat directly in front of him. I could handle thirty minutes with Doc Rivers. Doc Rivers...wait a minute.

"Your name is Doctor Rivers? Doc Rivers?"

"Yes."

I started laughing.

"What's the problem?"

"Doc Rivers is a former basketball player and coach. He's also a TV analyst."

"Well I'm the furthest thing from an NBA player as one can get, I'm afraid. You know the saying 'white men can't jump?' That was said with me in mind."

He wasn't joking. The guy was about 5-foot-5, balding, and a pasty shade of white. I'm surprised he even knew what the NBA was.

"So down to business," he said, writing some things on a pad of paper. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, as I said in my phone call I was referred by my sister. She came with her then-fiancee-now-husband for a consultation once."

"You're talking about Alexis and Roger Stolland. They came in twice, actually."

"For some kind of compatability test or something."

"Not exactly. We talked about mutual, common goals, and differences. It's a way of uncovering the areas where they have differing opinions and realizing they can still co-exist and be successful despite these differences."

"Yeah, well Alexis suggested I come to you for a consultation."

"Are you getting married?"

"No, not married. That's the problem. She sees me as a person who dodges relationships. A serial dater."

"And that won't do?" he asked. He was still writing. He hadn't looked up since taking his seat.

"It won't do for her. Her view is if you don't have anybody to share your wonderful life with, then your life is not so wonderful."

"And you don't share that view."

"No," I flatly replied.

"...and there's nothing wrong with that," he said.

"Good. Then we're done here?" I asked, starting to rise in my seat.

He laughed. "No, please sit. It doesn't work like that." He finally stopped writing and looked at me, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Why don't you tell me about your dating life. In your own words, at your own pace. Start at the beginning. I'm not going to interject, I'm not going to judge."

"C'mon Doc, everybody judges."

"I won't. Whenever you are ready."

So I told him my story. I took him through high school and college, told him about Kristie and Amy, Jessie and Karen. I told him about Shannon and Kari and Missy. I told him about the women in my life most recently - Monica, Katie, and Rebecca - and the ones in between. I told him about women whose names I no longer remembered and women whose names I wished to forget. I told him about ones I had my eye on, and ones I'd previously had my eye on who were no longer worth the chase. When I covered it all he quietly continued writing on his pad before speaking.

"Of these, which would you say lastest the longest, and how long?" he asked.

"Probably Kristie - that was the last two years of high school - and Karen. Karen lasted about 18 months in college."

"Those were your first two relationships?"

"Kristie was the first, but I had two quickies between her and Karen."

"And how long were these 'quickies'?"

"Like a month maybe. There was downtime between all of this."

"Let's try a little excercise, shall we?" he suggested. He stood up for the first time and came around the table, squeezing a stress ball. "I want you to think of one or two things, fun things or happy thoughts, that you had with any of these women. It can be any woman you've ever had a relationship with. Just a few good thoughts. Ready?"

I swallowed and thought about the women. Vision after vision went through my head of the women who had veered in and out of my life. The problem was that there weren't any happy thoughts accompanying them.

After about five seconds the doctor stopped squeezing his stress ball and announced "time's up. Come up with any?" He sat back down behind his desk.

"No."

"Don't you think that's a bad sign, a pattern of something?"

"I guess? Maybe I wasn't giving it the proper attention.

"I see," he said, returning to scribbling furiously on his pad. "The longer relationships, why did they end?"

"Kristie went to college out of state, so she left and started anew there, and Karen graduated and went to grad school...up at Stanford."

He looked up and stared at me for a moment. His eyes were beady, like a rodent's.

"So they left me, is that what you're getting at?" I asked.

"Is that what you think it is?" he countered.

"Don't do that, the whole mind-fuck thing. It's like Orwell."

"I'm making you examine your actions and the reasons for them. I want you to understand your role in all of this." He paused and wrote down something else. "Tell me something, how has your relationship with people in general been? People you come across on the street, at stores, restaurants, and so forth?"

"Lately people have been pissing me off more and more, Doc. I've been irritated by them."

"And generally you are not?" he asked.

"Normally I'm pretty sociable. Normally I get along with most people."

"That's of concern. Animosity can be a sign of depression. Depression doesn't just make a person sad, it often triggers chronic negativity."

"I'm not depressed."

"Maybe not consciously. Maybe it's a manifestation of your relationship concerns. In the past two years, how long would you say your longest relationship has been?"

"Two months perhaps," I replied.

"And how many women in those two years?"

"Do I really need to put a number on it, Doc?"

"Okay," he chuckled, "I get your point."

I got up and began pacing around. "Mind if I pace?"

"Nervous?"

"Sometimes I think better when I pace." I walked slowly around the room, respectfully avoiding any area behind his desk. This guy had a lot of books. "So am I a womanizer Doc?"

"The good news is you're not. You're human. You yearn for the thrill of new and constant companionship. But there in itself is the problem. It's chronic."

I stopped. "What?"

"You have gone from one woman to the next, looking to maintain control by breaking things off whenever it's convenient for you to avoid pain, then charging full bore into the next woman who catches your fancy."

"That's not true," I replied. "I'm not in it for any relationship. I'm in it for sex."

"Maybe now. You've recited that mantra so many times over the years that you've fooled yourself into believing it."

"Hogwash."

"Denial is very healthy and normal part of this process."

"What the hell do you know about me, about my situation?" I began. My voice was getting louder. I could feel the hairs on my neck standing up. "So I like having sex with women. I'm not alone in that regard. There happen to be many women who like it too. Women like sex as much as I do. So I test the waters, so what? Does that make me a sexaholic? Does that make me anything other than just another guy?"

"The human condition is a lonely one," the Doc replied.

"Oh, don't give me that. The one thing I haven't been, ever, is lonely. I'm proud of my consistency there. I have friends, I have a job, I have hobbies that keep me busy. I see my dealings with these women for what it really is, just sex. Casual, meaningless, no-strings-attached sex."

He made some additional scribbles in his pad and folded back a page. "And you're comfortable with that? You don't sense a void?"

I looked at the clock and noticed my thirty minutes were up almost ten minutes ago. Either he was enjoying whatever problem he thought I had, or this was a case study waiting to happen. In any event it was time to make an exit. I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair I'd been seated in and made for the door.

"What is it you're running from, Reed? What are you afraid of seeing in yourself?"

"My time has been up for over ten minutes, Doc. I've enjoyed our little talk, but I'm all right."

"You'll be all right," he said as I opened his office door. "But only until next time."