Each one of us has a harmless fantasy
dancing about our minds, like a ball of gold light
For it to become the sun, we must believe
despite rejection, and impossible odds
the world has a habit of saying “no”
until it gets exhausted by your spirit
like the weight of water
building at the back of a dam.
What motivates you?
If you get it, your motivation is done
a nameless motivation is okay, if it continues to build
but it won’t be okay, for those without it
they will want to know, WHY?
and there is truth in this statement:
that a truth examined, ceases to be true
some knowledge must be known, and not pulled apart
to understand each piece
is not to understand the whole.
I started to change, at work.
It happened slowly, and then
not so slowly
People started to notice—
it was like, my position
no longer defined me,
and that wasn’t okay.
“Dr. Johnson, would you come over here for a moment?” The vice principal asked.
It felt like I was in trouble. He never called me Dr. Johnson.
“We have a sticky situation on our hands—parents want to sue us.”
“Oh—and you want me in the meeting?” I asked.
“Yes. You have an unusual way of talking to parents who want to sue us. I can’t describe it, but everybody knows about it.”
“Oh—I’m surprised. I didn’t know.”
“You’re being modest.”
“Just wait until the meeting—I might flash everybody.”
He laughed; a nervous high-pitched laugh—the kind of hysteria caused from saying the right things all of the time.
When I got into the meeting, everybody looked at me, but I didn’t say anything.
I sat down.
The words went back and forth, with the school acting official, and the parents getting pissed off.
Soon, the vice principal was quoting the law
the mother looked like she was sucking a lemon, and the father had mis-place his hatchet.
What the school failed to consider, was that both parents had been delinquents when they were their son’s age, and now they had more money than God.
“Does it take 7 years of higher education to become incompetent?” The father asked. He had his sons tattooed on his arms.
The vice principal tried to speak, but no words came out.
“At least 7,” I said. “But if you go for a full 10, like I have, your brain is completely wiped, and you become clear.”
The man smiled, and his wife balled-up her fists, nervously. She had skulls tattooed on both of them.
“Has anybody asked your son what he wants?” I asked.
The parents looked at their boy with love.
“I want this school to burn to the ground,” he cried.
“Why?” I asked. I was getting at his motivation.
“Because the teachers don’t listen to me. I do my work.”
“Oh…” I nodded, understandingly. Then the lighting in the room changed, and it became softer.
“We like Dr. Johnson,” the parents said. “We will withdraw our lawyers, if our son can check-in with him, periodically. Is that okay with you, sir?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You are one hell of a psychologist. Why are you working here?”
“There are many questions I ask myself— that’s one of them.”
“Well, we should do business one day.” He handed me his card.
“Pussy Cat Poles?” I asked.
“Yeah. Many of the dancers have psychological problems. We call them fucked up, but you probably have clinical terms you use, like attachment disorders, and shit.”
“From a business perspective, why are you looking for a psychologist?” I asked.
“An emotional mess with daddy issues can’t get it done on the dance floor. They need a real man to listen to them.” He looked at the vice principal when he said this.
“How much does it pay?” I asked.
“300 dollars an hour, and the rate is negotiable. Call me at this number. You dress conservative, so if you mind nudity, it’s not going to work.”
They walked out of the meeting, and it was dead silence in the room.
“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” The special education teacher said. She was shocked and horrified that the father casually spoke of owning strippers.
“How did you do that?” The vice principal asked. “It was like you hypnotized him.”
“I just listened,” I said modestly.
“You’re going to tear-up that card, aren’t you, Dr. Johnson?” The special education teacher asked. She didn’t like the idea of a man owning naked women who danced. They were wage slaves for their master. She was a feminist, and believed women should own men.
“Of course, I’m going to tear it up,” I said, casually. I had already memorized the number.
After the workday, I picked-out a blue suit at the department store.
“That color is like a suit of armor on you,” a gay guy said. “You could go into battle with that on.”
I admired myself in the mirror. My face had changed. It was no longer gullible and happy. It was fierce, and down-right masculine.
“I’ll take it.”
“That’ll be 300 dollars.”
I paid in cash.
On the way to my apartment, I drove past a blue lake. I thought about it, but my belief hadn’t caught up to my ambition yet.
“Maybe, next week,” I said.