I was just checking my calendar for counseling sessions for the day when my neighbor George poked his head in the door of my office. True to his monthly habit, he winced and asked "you got time for some quick advice?" He always said this as he was walking in to sit down and start what would always be a free session.
About once a month George would come in to unload all of his latest concerns over his 20 year old daughter Hanna. In addition to living next door to me, George's office was in the same building as mine. The unloading always took place early in the morning, before I had real clients, usually took place in my office, and hopefully only took about 15 minutes, as George wasn't one of my paying clients. George just figured that since I was a neighbor, my therapy time as a psychologist came at a 100% discount.
For some time George had been convinced that Hanna had become involved with an older man. As a single parent, he was in a constant struggle to do the right thing. Today he felt he had uncovered viable evidence of the relationship.
"I found a diary in her room," he stammered. "The words she has written on the front of it are HT Diaries, and I'm certain that it's a diary about Howard Thurland."
He hesitated, for effect. "Howard Thurland, the 55-year-old, married Mayor," he said with a sinister air.
"Howard Thurland, the fat bald guy with eyebrows that look like squirrel tails?" I asked. "What in the world makes you think Hanna would be scr...," I stopped myself, just in time, but was not able to come up with a better word that started with scr. "screwing around with him?"
"I checked out her facebook friends," George grinned maniacally. "She has only one friend with the initials HT, and that's Howard Thurland. Plus, he lives down the street from us, and she is always disappearing for hours at a time but not driving anywhere."
I briefly had a vision of the fat, dopey, Howard Thurland in a passionate embrace with the young, athletic Hanna, and came perilously closely to remembering what I had for breakfast.
"That seems pretty unlikely," I said, standing up and checking my watch, which was my standard move for reminding non paying customers that I was paid by the hour.
"Well I have it on good authority that Howard is a bit of a womanizer, and likes younger ladies," George said.
"Really, where did you hear that? I asked.
"I have sources," he whispered. "This is still a pretty small town."
"Well, did you read the HT Diaries?" I asked.
"No, it was locked and I couldn't get it open," George replied. "This is my question: Do you think I should bust open the lock and read it?"
I ran the question over in my mind. If I had a 20-year-old daughter who might be fooling around with some dorky old guy, I guess I'd break the lock. But I wasn't, I was a 45-year-old, divorced psychologist, so I went with the responsible answer.
"I would talk to her about it, tell her what you think it is, and tell her that if there is anything she wants to talk to you about, you're there for her," I said. "She's old enough to make mistakes, but she's not too old to need advice."
It sounded so good coming out of my mouth I made a note to write it down and use it again.
The line also seemed to work with him, he stood up and shook my hand, said "thanks doc," like he always did. I was just about to start my standard spiel about how he didn't need to call me doc, I was not a doctor of any kind, I had a masters in psychology and practiced counseling, not psychiatry. I never got started though, as George had already headed off to develop new delusions.
After a dozen more "paid" therapy sessions, the day came to a close and I was closing up when George dropped back by, in a noticeably better mood.
"Doc, I talked to her, and she assured me there was nothing going on with Howard," he said. "He was on her friend's list because she voted for him."
"Ah, well, that makes sense," I said. "I'm glad it worked out."
"You have no idea," George continued. "I was about to cancel a business trip out of town because of this, but now, I'm on my way to the airport. Thanks again, doc."
"Right, glad to help, but you don't need to call me doc...." I started to say, but he was gone before I got halfway through the sentence.
By the time I had eaten dinner and made the five mile drive home it was closing in on 8 pm and darkness. It had been a long day and all I wanted to do was jump in the hot tub for a half hour and then go to bed. I had a private patio with a comfortable four person hot tub. The tub was blocked on two sides with a thick hedge of bushes, so I could jump in naked and not worry about being seen.
But as I opened up the sliding glass door to the patio I suddenly became aware I was not alone. The hot tub was already in use, by a girl, facing away from me, so that all I could see was her long black hair and her shoulders.
Immediately I began searching my mind for recent girlfriends with long black hair, and I came up empty. I tried to think further back, but while there had been quite a few girls who had enjoyed my hot tub, none looked like the back of this girl's head. So I did what any bold, mature man would do. I cleared my throat and made some noise closing the door.
Which might have worked had the whirlpool jets not been on, the bubbling noise could be deafening. So I walked around to the side of the tub to get her visual attention.
Which might have worked had her eyes not been closed. I was able to identify her from the front however, it was Hanna from next door. Hanna, the daughter of my neurotic neighbor. Hanna, who I hadn't actually laid eyes on in a few years. Hanna, who had grown up quite nicely and was wearing a red bikini and sitting in my hot tub. Hanna, who as I stood there checking her out from head to toe, had opened her eyes and was looking at me looking at her.
"Hanna," I said, a little too scattered to think of anything more clever to add.
