The Lay Psychiatrist: Back Story (20)
If he he needed a degree he’d steal it off a doctor’s wall
“Okay, boss, it’s time to rock and roll.”
The Layman looked down at the other man from the mountain on which he’d built his head. His eyes were sad today. Tender could see that. Not good when you go into the cage with faraway eyes.
He was called Tender not just because he attended the wrestlers, but also because he was quick to take offense. These men big as tanks were his heroes and he lamented being a skinny little man, with good muscles hidden underneath his tender feelings. Short men can be like that, the Layman thought.
He dogeared a copy of, “Fuck Yes,” by Wing F. Fing. He was nearing … not the end of his journey through contemporary Self Help literature … rather, the horizon where he will wither and die like corn rotting in the field. He’d been inside the even rows, once, but he’d begun to identify with the weeds.
He even went to market, but it was never going to be that way because it never is that way.
“It’s this way” he said. “I keep having to go through this life over and over again and can’t remember it because I think, surely, there must be some mistake.
But I knew what I was doing…
