“I know why you’re here,” the pudgy blind man assured me from behind his cluttered gray metal desk. “But I’d like to hear you say it.”
“Punched my boss,” I said. After, it should probably be noted, leaping over his desk and trying to throttle him. In retrospect, maybe I overreacted, but it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time.
“No doubt, that precipitated your visit. But why are you here?”
A lot of factors simply didn’t come together, allowing me to make it to the first of three scheduled anger management appointments. I failed to get lost on the way to the Staffer Support annex in downtown Orlando. A wayward jet en route to the airport didn’t drop an engine on my head. Physics hadn’t chosen me, minutes before my arrival, for the gift of spontaneous combustion.
Something told me that none of these answers, no matter how perfectly valid, would satisfy the shrink.
The framed diploma on the pale yellow wall behind him – a doctorate from the University of Central Florida – identified him as William L. Brooks, but he had insisted that I call him Billy Lee.
I sighed. “Look, I had a choice: this or unemployment.” Technically, it was this or jail on battery charges AND unemployment.
Billy Lee, certified psychologist, swiveled his chair to the right so that he could reach the door of the mini-fridge that hummed in a corner of his cramped office. “Mind if I eat a sandwich? Blood sugar.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he plucked a hoagie wrapped in white wax paper from the top shelf and a can of diet Sierra Mist from the second shelf.
Shrugging, I took the iPhone from my shirt pocket and revved up Angry Birds in silent mode.