Pornography Kiss (chapter 5)

5. Dr. Greenway’s unnecessary mentoring session #1

The door, as I hoped for, was locked. The big bold letters, reading “Dr. Greenway’s office”, are going to be repeated in my mind for so long. It would have to be MY school to be in partnership with this guy. I don’t know what he looks like yet- I couldn’t be asked to care. I heard keys jingling in the distance. Footsteps touched the stairs in a steady motion. I go to leave when someone opens the door I am approaching. His ID card read “Dr. Greenway”. This must be the guy.

Actually he is nothing special. I have seen types like him around before. His beard is the exact same as every other male teacher in this school, his coked up eyes, his chubby cheeks. He is just the same as everyone else. What a waste of my mum’s money. I can’t believe I am to be counselled by a fucking joke.

“And you must be Robert,” he says. “Hello there. I am Dr. Greenway.” He exchanges his hand expecting a handshake from me. I simply smile and that is that. He opens the door to let me in.

I was expecting an office, not a landfill. Everywhere food is scattered. There are about 50 magazines, which probably haven’t been read, flooding the floor like vermin. The smell of rich, burning fat caresses my nostrils with the thick touch of road kill. The music I am hearing is dry, repetitive, stale. It resembles the dark green patches you are likely to find on rotting food. Apples, posters on “faith” and “motivation”, wretched carpet. This must be a junkie’s room alright.

As I sit down on one of the sofas, and he by his computer desk, I observe this new environment. There are birds outside, screaming at the wind. Those sounds had my mind on rage, for they are repeated in my dreams as a woman’s orgasmic scream. The faces peering up above to me are maggots, wishing they had the power I am to have.

Dr. Greenway sits down, pen in hand and legs crossed. He has paper with him to take notes, though whatever I say is not for him to “be my friend” or anything.

“So Robert, what is your mother’s name?”

“It doesn’t matter to you. I wouldn’t know anyway.”

“Ok then. How about your father’s name?”

“I think it is Stalin. Or Satan. Or Hitler. Or Mussolini.”

“Do you always think this?”

“Yes. I do.”

“How does that you feel?”

“It makes me feel like the antichrist.”

“Why do you feel this way? Your mother says you hate being intimidated by anyone. Has this got anything to do with this?”

“No, of course not. That’s just random. You’re only here to get paid.”

“So why do you think this is?”

“Because I have seen people like you before Dr.”

He sits up, obviously intrigued by our first conversation. He coughs for the nineteenth time- he must be a smoker- and clears his throat.

“How old are you Robert?”

“I am much older in thought and intelligence than you are.”

“What makes you think like this Robert? What have you seen?”

“Things that…you have yet to experience.”

“Are you confused about anything, or anyone?”

”I don’t know what I’m supposed to fear. I don’t know what to love, what to hate, what to have sexual feelings for.”

“Sexual feelings, Robert?”

“I know what’s going on. This is all part of the system.”

“What is the system Robert? What is going on?”

“You’re too idiotic to understand.”

I sit up, and peer outside the window. He sighs and realises this isn’t going anywhere.

“Your mum started giving you medication when you were 8. She says you have a form of schizophrenia. When was the last time you took the pills?”

“I don’t need to takes pills. I don’t need them.”

“Why is this?”

“I don’t want to sleep for the rest of my life. I want to be awake. Always.”

“Does this worry anyone around you?”

“It isn’t worrying for me. Besides, what is schizophrenia? It sounds like a cartoon character. ‘Johnny Schizophrenia is here to save the day kids’!”

While I am laughing, Dr. Greenway looks very confused. He obviously didn’t get the joke. So I repeated it over and over in my head, to make sure he has a very bad sense of humour. Dr. Greenway, obviously defeated by my opinion, shows me the door.

“I hope we can make progress.” He closes the door on me. How unprofessional for a counsellor.

But that word progress sticks out like a sore thumb. I have been held back by his very stubborn, ass-kisser, slow learner approach to life. His goofy smile on the display board down by the corridor is a lie. Dr. Greenway has nothing to say that will help me.

I bet him and my mum are to be married in less than two years. She is a sucker for men who help out other people, even if he doesn’t actually help out properly. I refuse to speak to anyone who will help. Huh. Schizophrenia is a peculiar name. I should name someone Schizophrenia. That would be unique.