Polymath

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

          While Hancock was in alcohol therapy, I was in a psychologist office. It was drab and uninviting, with nude colored walls and squeaky leather chairs with fat wooden legs. The shiny, cheery faces plastered on the wrinkled magazines didn't belong there. I was about to leave when they called me back.
          The nurse who called me was six foot four respectively and wore completely white scrubs, a white coat, and white crocs. Yes, she was wearing crocs. But, of course, there was nothing wrong with that. She didn't look at me as she led me down the bleh hallway and I watched her brown hair stay stiff as she walked. She stopped at a room and pointed inside, so I walked in and sat down on the plastic covered bench seat. I felt like a child.
          The psychologist walked in five minutes later and sat in front of me. She was a redhead, and talked a mile a minute. She asked me questions about things I wasn't sure how to answer, and took a little bloodwork. My arm bruised. She never did introduce herself but simply diagnosed me with pareidolia and dismissed me.
          Let me share insight; pareidolia is a psychological phenomenon where one sees figures that may or may not be actually there, such as a face on the moon or on a piece of toast.
          But that was wrong. I knew I saw Freddie. I was not crazy.

          I wanted to talk to Jules about what my diagnosis was because he understood things a lot better than me, but he had taken Han to therapy and they weren't home yet. As I pulled into my driveway, Killian's Audi was pulled up beside my parking space. He came up to my car and I rolled the window down just a crack.
          "What are you doing here?" I asked, looking forward, my hands still at ten and two. "You don't need to be here."
          "This is the bill for my doctor's appointment," he said as he slipped a piece of paper through the crack. It was a fine for sixty dollars. Apparently I had done damage to the veins in his arm. Good.
          "I'm not paying this." I took the paper from my lap and ripped it into eighths, shoving the little stack back through towards Killian. It fluttered to the ground and I rolled the window back up as Killian stared. I looked at him and waved as he turned on his heel and got in his car. I waited a while before I got out, just in case Killian was still in the neighborhood.
          I walked into my kitchen and pulled a tub of Neapolitan ice cream from my freezer and a spoon from my utensil drawer. I sat in my living room and turned on the television. A documentary about megalodons was on, so I settled down and started to eat from the two quart tub. This was my regular Tuesday routine.
          Shark marathon or whatever was on Animal Planet or the Discovery Channel, Neapolitan ice cream, and the same spot on the couch. Occasionally, Jules and Hancock would join me, but today it was okay. I needed time to think.
          I was diagnosed with pareidolia, which didn't stick to the hubba bubba strands. It bounced around with Freddie, and I couldn't make them settle. It was like tiny tornado of gray ghosts and medical papers, ladies with hairspray-stiff hair, and fiery red heads who wouldn't introduce themselves to you.
          I took one last large spoonful of ice cream and closed the tub. Another commercial came on and I stashed the tub back into the freezer. The commercial was still on when I came to sit back down, so my mind wandered. Freddie was teetering around, knocking on the file cabinet of pushed away thoughts, and out of the blue, Hancock appeared beside him. I didn't want that.
          The show came back on, but I couldn't focus. It was just Hancock's face melted on my brain. No matter how hard I stared at the ocean displayed on the television, Hancock was the only thing I saw. I tried to ignore him as I lay down on my side on the couch and eventually drifted asleep.

          The sun was against my eyelids and I saw red even before I opened my eyes. It was confusing, because the only way the sun could have been directly on my face was if I was on the floor adjacent from the door. The window was my source of irritant in the mornings when I would make breakfast, because it shot straight on my countertops, making them shine.
          The television was still on, but wasn't a documentary. Wednesday morning infomercials filled my living room with monotones. I pulled myself from the floor, holding my hand in front of my face to block the fireball, and fumbled for the remote. My fingers grazed it and I grabbed it. The television winked off, and my house was filled with dazzling silence.
          I walked into the kitchen and put the spoon I used last night that I had left on the counter into the dishwasher. Except, the spoon fell from my hand and I was on the floor, an excruciating pain in my head. It was sudden, and I couldn't think straight. Someone was drawing jagged, swirly lines with a giant pen on my brain. A noise escaped from my mouth, and it sounded like a deflated scream. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone. I sat on the floor, palms outstretched on the tiles. There was a knock on the door, and I called out painfully for them to come in.
          Hancock walked in, stepping gracefully over the threshold, a skill I would never muster. He looked in my direction, and I saw his face turn from general generalness to concern. I didn't know he could move so fast, but he was quickly by my side and his strong arms where pulling me up.
          "Are you okay?"
          "I don't know," I confessed, noticing his hands were still on my arms as if he were scared I'd fall to the ground again. "The psychologist diagnosed me with pareidolia yesterday, Killian gave me a medical bill that I ripped up which probably means he'll come back with another, and I had like a chronic migraine or something just now and-"
          Hancock ran his thumb along the top if my cheekbone. I hadn't realized I started crying, but now I couldn't stop. I felt my face turn red from embarrassment, which made my eyes flood more. Han pulled me towards him, and he held me. The butterflies thrust themselves into my stomach, but were confused. They didn't flutter into my throat, but sort of swirled around my lungs, which caused my breathing to hitch. But, my tears had stopped.
          Was a hug from my best friend supposed to feel like this?
          Redford... Han probably feels the same way
          Shut up
          When Hancock let me go, he stared down at me. I immediately felt self-conscious. My face was probably red, I hadn't brushed the sleep from my eyes, and there were probably tear tracks. Before he could do anything, which I knew he probably wouldn't, I reached down to pick up the spoon and successfully placed it in the dishwasher. I was preoccupied as I asked, "How was therapy?"
          "Uh, it was okay, I guess."
          I turned a smiled at him, but he wasn't happy. He looked discouraged, which hurt me. "What happened, Han?"
          "It wasn't even therapy," he said as he made his way to the living room. He sunk down so low on my couch I could no longer see him. I shut the dishwasher with my hip and went to sit with him. "It was a bunch of pot heads that were trying to stop drinking and were using marijuana to do so. I don't want to be a part of that."
          "Did you tell Jules?"
          "No. But I'm never drinking again."
          I leaned back against the cushions and pretended they swallowed me. I didn't know what to say to comfort him. That was probably my worst trait.
          Trust me; I was seriously unlucky in the extreme category of words.