Sol prided himself on taking good notes and the insights that came after he reviewed them. He had a safe where they were securely locked when not on his desk. He treated them as TOP SECRET and never would dream of taking them home. After a client moved on, he’d wait a year or so and if there was no further need for continuance he would shred and burn the file. Ike was a case in point. They finished over a year ago.
*
When Ike started counseling, Sol explained that the process was mutual, “We both have a lot to learn and growing is a continuing process.” Ike was not a happy camper. Ike was never happy and if left alone, never would become happy. When he was growing up his mother constantly reminded him, “Isaac, you were a colicky baby and there were times we didn’t know how we’d survive. You were always crying about one thing or another. First it was because you filled your diapers with the most – well never mind. And then after you learned to walk and run, you were always tripping and skinning your knees. It’s a wonder that you can even walk.”
Sol continued reading his notes. “And then she would sigh, tell me she had a migraine and I should go entertain myself in my room – QUIETLY! Is it any wonder why I’m always frowning. No, I don’t think so.” He recalled how Ike would fold his arms across his chest and dare him to say something. Games, I’d sit back in my chair and scratch my chin, murmuring, “Hmm.”
He chuckled reminding himself how in the early days it was like two donkeys facing off on a narrow pass; we were both of us mulish only I was so on purpose. We could sit for the remainder of the session without a word and I’d watch Ike’s frown rolling up from his chin and down from his forehead. At times it was the devil to stay awake.
They met Wednesdays at noon.
Sol scanned his notes, tallying hash marks indicating their progress. He folded one finger – warm up: three months. The second finger down – the pitch: “What do you feel caused you to be unhappy?” Sol raised an eyebrow, three sessions for that. So after four months we finally got to play ball.
He smiled. Six more months before Ike connected with the home run pitch. Out of the ballpark, winning runners on base. For Ike, coming up to the batter’s box was the Happy Seat. We decided that standing at the plate would be like sitting in the saddle in a Happy Seat. “Sure, Ike, it’s crazy, but so are we all. Standing or sitting, doesn’t make much difference if you’re unhappy. We have to get you up and you have to swing. Batting practice seem like a good idea to you?” Ike agreed after I told him I’d already sealed the signing bonus in an envelope that I was keeping in his file. “You get it when you walk out of here ready for the majors.”
When I thought he was ready to play ball I opened the door instead of calling out from behind my desk. “Ike, before we sit down, I want you to imagine that you’re about to sit down in a Happy Seat, one where you can only have happy thoughts. Think you can do this?”
Ike was taken by surprise and said, “Sure, why not.” Given another 30 seconds he would have said, “What’s with this bullshit.” Too late he realized his mistake. He sat down with a grunt and immediately frowned, clenching his jaw and squeezing his lips shut.
I waited and waited but when nothing was said for 10 minutes began. “OK, I’d like you to close your eyes and think back to when you were a kid, doesn’t matter how old, just a kid, maybe in grade school. Is there one grade you liked the most?”
“No, they all sucked.” Ike folded his arms across his chest.
“OK, which grade sucked the most?” A curve ball.
“Seventh.”
“Neat. So you were just entering adolescence, voice changing, pubic hair popping out all over the place. Mother not letting you lock yourself in the bathroom. Sticky sheets in the morning. Stuff like that.”
“What do you know?” A swing and a foul ball back of home plate.
“Comes with being a guy; we all struggle through it. For most boys becoming men it’s not much fun. So, can you think of anything you did back then that was fun?”
“No.” A lot of hitting his cleats with his bat, stepping in and out of the batter’s box.
“You have any friends then, guys you hung out with?”
“Nah, my mother scared them away. I wasn’t allowed out after supper weekdays. Homework. ‘Ike, you need good grades so you can get a scholarship to college.’ I think my father left before I was two. Mother said he was a bum anyhow.”
Time for a change-up. I guessed. “So when you were in your room doing your homework, ever look out the window, up at the clouds or people walking out on the street?”
“Yeh – all the time.”
“I’m guessing you made up stories better than ‘Star Wars.’”
He was hesitant but then drove a solid line drive back into the left-field corner.
I waved him around to second, a standing double. “We’re going to work with that. You’re no dunce and have a great imagination. A little work and we’ll have you crossing home plate. Here’s what I’d you like to do. First let’s move your chair over by the window.” I coaxed him to take a lead off 2nd base. “Now look out, up or down, it doesn’t matter. Get comfortable and close your eyes and breathe slowly and fully. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
And then I explained all about the Happy Seat where he has only happy thoughts and memories, ignoring all else. “Anything that comes into your mind that is not happy just grunt boring, boring, boring until it goes away. You’ve demonstrated you have the talent for that.” Ike fought back a smile.
Two sessions later, when Ike got on base he would be playing games with the pitcher, even stole a base on occasion. He was finding good things to keep him company in his Happy Seat.
When he told me two months later that the chair by the window was his favorite chair I explained the difference. “Ike, notice how I referred to your Happy Seat. That’s yours – the seat is with you wherever you go. You just need to pause and take a couple of slow breaths to access it. I want you to try this at least once on your own this coming week. I’m going to write it on a prescription pad: Set alarm on Sunday. Turn it off and sit in your Happy Seat.”
A grunt. A swing and a miss.
“Tell you what. You don’t need any meds.”
“Yeh, really.” But there was a smile hidden underneath. “I think I know what you mean.”
We continued meeting once a week on Wednesdays as usual. Ike was becoming a 300+ hitter. We talked about self-acceptance, knowing where you are, who you are and yes, not every moment is a happy moment. Part of being healthy is the ability to get back up when you’re knocked down. Little light bulbs were getting turned on. Ike was brightening his wardrobe. One summer day he came in wearing an Hawaiian shirt, told me he’d taken the day off and was going to the zoo. “Maybe I’ll leave the monkey on my back with his cousins.” I’d called that a stand-up triple.
Another month, and Ike told me he got a used lazy-boy for his living room. “Yeh, it was fifteen bucks, uncomfortable like hell no matter how many cushions and blankets you throw on it. You got your Happy Seat; I’m going to have my Grouch Chair. Figured if I get down I may as well sit down. Don’t think I’m going to be able to last more than ten minutes before I have to get up. I tried it already. It works.” Ike laughed. I asked if I could buy his Grouch Chair when he was ready to toss it. “Hell no. Life’s a struggle like you said. Get your own.”
Home run out center field.
*
Sol pushed back from his desk and carried the file to the shredder. He took a picture postcard from his jacket pocket. “Greetings from Disney World. If I’m happy in Florida I can be happy anywhere. Doesn’t matter where I sit. Best – Ike. Been more than a year since Ike said goodbye.
Sol fed the postcard into the shredder after the last page from the file dropped from the shredder into the brown grocery bag. I’ll grill some veggie burgers tonight; this makes for a good starter.
Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. He was a homebrewer for more than 50 years and runs whitewater rivers on the foam that's left. His essays appear online in havokjournal (.)com and articles in shepherdexpress (.)com. Please visit www(.)kmkbooks(.)com.
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