Chapter 2.

Boy, this guy is good. He got stuff out of me in fifteen minutes that I didn't even know was there. And he was awfully quick in getting right into the stuff I really didn't want to talk about.

Well, at least some of the stuff I really didn't want to talk about. 'Cause there was plenty.

"You said something just then that I'd like to follow up on," said Pritchard. "You mentioned that you had no control over anything. Is being in control something that's important to you?"

Oh, boy. Here we go. "I don't know," I hedged. "I mean, there's lots of things that I know aren't under my control, or anybody's. The weather. I don't care about that—it does what it does, and that's that. Other people—I mean, people drive me crazy sometimes. Go for a drive with me and you'll hear how pissed off I get at other drivers. But I know I can't really control them, and that doesn't really bother me as much as the fact that they're morons who might get other people killed." I looked at Pritchard out of the corner of my eye, and could tell that he saw right through my blathering. I was killing time, and he knew it.

"Okay. Let's back up a second. Way back. I'd like to hear, in your own words, how you would describe yourself, your personality, your habits, to someone who's never met you."

I blinked. That wasn't what I was expecting. "Okay … I'm quiet in groups—I don't talk a lot, socially. But just socially. For technical things, or stuff like this—" I waved my hand around the room— "I do fine. As you can see. I can talk plenty. Um, I'm very organized, and most people would say I'm a neat freak, I suppose. I like to be on time, and I like to do a good job at work. I'm good at my job—actually, this is the first real problem I've had at work. You have to be able to stay calm, cool, and collected in this line of work—and I'm good at that."

"All right," Pritchard said, jotting down some notes. "We'll come back to some of those things. What are some things you aren't good at?"

Another unexpected question. "Well, uh, sometimes I puke or pass out when there's a lot of blood. That can be a problem sometimes in my line of work, but I can mostly work around it."

"What else?"

"I guess it would be fair to say that I worry about things sometimes." Damn. Shouldn't've said that.

"What kinds of things?"

"I guess … things that bother me."

He looked at me. Yeah, I didn't think he was gonna let me get away with that. Okay. Fine.

"Mostly, whether things are the way they're supposed to be. Whether I did things right. And sometimes, I worry about what other people are thinking or doing."

"You can't control what other people are thinking or doing."

"Of course not. But—you know, when you have a conversation, or do something with someone, and then later, you think about whether you said the right things, or did the right things, and what is the other person thinking—that sort of thing. That's normal, right?"

"Well, 'normal' is a pretty complicated concept, if you ask me," Pritchard said. Now he was evading. Hah. "But sure—everyone's concerned about what other people think. If you truly don't care about the rules of society, and how your behavior affects other people, that's certainly not normal. But on the other hand, if you allow yourself to spend your days and nights obsessing about things you said or did, that's not very functional either."

"My mother always said I was a real worrywart. She was always on my case to just let things go."

"Do you think you're a worrywart?"

I had to think about that one for a second. "I think it's fair to say," I said slowly, "that I get bent out of shape about little things sometimes. Not so much worrying, but just that I can't stop thinking about things I don't even wanna think about. You know how it's like some people have a switch in their heads, where they can just stop thinking about something whenever they feel like it? I was born without that. So sometimes I get kind of … stuck. Thinking about the same thing, over and over."

"And you can't control that. That must be distressing."

I didn't really know what to say, so I just nodded.

"I want to go back to something you said earlier, when I asked you to describe your personality. Some things that jumped out at me were 'don't talk a lot socially,' 'calm and collected,' 'organized,' and 'neat freak.' What I noticed is that all of the things you said to describe yourself are about control."

I thought about that for a second. "Self-control, and being neat and organized—I can see that. But just being a quiet guy? I don't see the connection."

"Let me tell you one thing. When Captain Stanley referred you to me, I asked him to describe you. He said pretty much the same things you said, but with great emphasis on the 'quiet' part. He said that you all have worked together for over four years, but that he knows hardly anything about you. But he also made a point of saying you're not unfriendly, or standoffish. Just extremely reserved, particularly about anything personal."

I shook my head. "I still don't see what just being quiet has to do with control."

"Well, if you don't say much, you're in control over what people know about you—about what you think, how you feel, your opinions—everything."

I couldn't disagree with that. And maybe I just felt a sudden need to assert what was left of any control I had over my current situation, but I didn't respond, either.

"I think we'll be coming back to the issue of control, Mike. But let's leave it there, for now, unless there was anything you wanted to add on the topic."

I shook my head minutely.

"All right. So, as I mentioned, Captain Stanley said he feels that he hardly knows anything about you. I'd like to ask you a few questions, about things that won't seem like they have anything to do with your current problem. The reason I want to talk about other things is that I find that problems like yours, that manifested at work, rarely exist in total isolation—work affects home, and vice versa. So I just want to ask you some general things, just so I have a more complete picture of you."

I nodded. "Okay," I said. "Just as long as it stays in this room."

Dr. Pritchard looked back at me. "I'm sorry—I should have said, first thing, that anything that's said in this room, stays in this room, between you and me. The only exceptions are if I feel that you're a danger to yourself or anyone else. And as far as the department is concerned, what I do is make a recommendation about whether and when you can return to work."

"Oh," I said. "When do you think you'll know," I said slowly, "when I can go back?"

"Soon," he said. "We'll talk about that today, before you go. But for now, let's get on with some of the basics. Like, for instance, a brief summary of your early life, and anything about it that was particularly unusual or significant."

"Well, I'm the youngest of three. My sister and brother are both more than ten years older than me, so I suppose it's a fair guess that I was an accident. My mom was almost forty when I was born, and my father was forty five. So they're up there in years at this point. I definitely remember having people think they were my grandparents when I was a kid. But whatever."

"Did you grow up in L.A.?"

"Yep—well, north of the city. I didn't really get it when I was a kid, but I think we were pretty well off. My father was a lawyer, and I guess he did pretty well. Anyhow—my folks and I got along fine when I was a kid. I did all the normal kid things—Boy Scouts, Little League. I did fine in school."

"You said you got along with your parents fine when you were a kid—have things changed?"

Damn, he's sharp. I didn't even mean to say it that way.

"Uh, yeah. We don't talk much. They wanted me to go to college, I wanted to be a fireman. I spent a year at UCLA, and then dropped out and went to the fire academy. They weren't happy about that." Among other things, I thought silently.

"Why not, do you suppose?"

"Oh, I know exactly why not. They're complete and utter snobs, is why. I didn't really understand that when I was a kid. But they totally look down their noses at anyone who works a blue-collar job. I mean, I don't know what they think would happen if all us folks who hold things together suddenly disappeared, but they seem to think they're better than us working-class types."

"And what made you want to be a fireman?"

"I had an uncle—my dad's brother—who was a fireman. I never saw him much—see above at 'classist snobs'—but I always thought his job was so exciting, so interesting, so important. So I knew from early on what I wanted to do. I guess a lot of little kids want to be firemen, but then they grow up and decide to do something else. Maybe I just never grew up—I don't know. But I was always sure about what I wanted to do."

"Tell me a bit about your life now. You live on your own, correct?"

"I inherited my uncle's house—that same uncle who was the fireman. I had no idea I was in his will, so it was quite a surprise to find out at twenty three that I was a homeowner."

"And you live there on your own?" Dr. Pritchard repeated.

"Uh, yeah. I do." Well, it was true. Nobody else was living there.

"What do you do outside of work?"

"Well, I actually do a lot of overtime these days. It's pretty much the only way I can afford the taxes on the house. So between the OT and just keeping the house and yard up, and all the day to day stuff—not a ton. I'll go to ball games, and the movies, and that sort of thing."

"On your own?"

"Sometimes with one of the guys from work. But otherwise, usually on my own these days."

"These days?" Pritchard queried.

Damn it.

"Uh, yeah. I was in a relationship for a few years, but they just moved to Boston a few months ago."

"So you've split up?"

Double damn it. "In my book we have. I mean, you don't take a job all the way across the country if you really want to be with someone, do you? I mean, my job was here, our house was here, and I was pretty clear on not wanting to move."

"You said 'our house' — you were living together?"

"Yeah. For four years. I mean, things hadn't been going so great, but I thought we were kind of working things out—but then, bam! Off to Boston."

"Were you married?"

"Ah … no. Just living together."

"Are you still in touch?"

"Sort of. I mean, we talk on the phone, but it's mostly logistical things. There's still a lot of their stuff in my house. But relationship-wise? We're done."

"I see," said Dr. Pritchard. "To be honest, you don't seem very upset by this."

"I'm not, any more. I guess I realized, once I was on my own again, how bad things had been."

"Did you ever consider moving to Boston as well? Applying to the fire department there?"

I laughed. "See, that wasn't the idea. The idea—not my idea, of course—was that I'd go along to Boston, and get a totally different kind of job. A nice, easy, normal nine-to-five type deal. And that's one reason I didn't go—because that was the expectation. And the other reason, before you ask, was that I guess I didn't really think we'd be able to work things out no matter where we lived. And that's about all I have to say on that topic right now, if you don't mind."

"That must have been a hard transition. Were your colleagues supportive? I know sometimes that can make all the difference."

Triple, quadruple damn it. "Look—I prefer to keep my home life at home, and my work life at work. So, no, they weren't supportive, but only because they didn't know what was going on. They're all great guys, but I just keep everything … separate. And I really don't see what this has to do with how I freaked out the other day. Can we just talk about that, instead, please? Because I really need to get back to my job."

"All right. We can talk more about that, if you'd like. Our time is nearly up, anyhow."

"You said before we'd talk about me getting back to work soon. I mean, you figured out why I froze up, right? So isn't that enough?"

"It's a start—a good start. But there are a couple of things I think we need to do first."

"Like what?" I asked. I tried not to be too hostile, but I really didn't see what else he wanted.

"For instance, I want to see you actually handle the controls of an engine, in a non-stress situation. It'll be good for you to do that, as well—to break the association between working the controls and bad things happening."

"How the hell are we going to do that?" I asked. "I mean, there aren't just spare fire engines lying around for people to play with." I didn't mean to snap at him, but that last line of conversation had really ticked me off.

"What I usually do, when I have a client who I need to observe using equipment—which happens a fair amount—is arrange with the academy to use their equipment in the evening or on the weekend. I'll make the arrangements—you just have to show up, and show me what you do. How does that sound?"

"And if I can do that, I can go back to work?"

"We'll have a session right afterwards, and we'll discuss it then. But it's likely that I'll be willing to sign you off, with the condition that we continue to meet for a while after you go back to work."

"Why? I mean, if I can do what I need to do, without freezing up, why do I have to keep coming here?"

"Because, Mike, I think there are some underlying things to work on. Things that if you don't get a handle on them, the sort of event that happened yesterday could happen again. Issues around control, and lack of control, and what happens when you're not in control of a situation. Don't you think maybe that's true, too?"

What are we up to now? Oh yeah. Quintuple damn it. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Good—I'm glad you agree. So—scheduling wise, are there any evenings this week that are bad?"

"Nope—my schedule is an open book, without having any shifts to go to, and without subbing." Yep, my house and yard were gonna get really, really tidy.

"All right. I'll arrange something for as soon as I can—hopefully tomorrow evening. I'll call you when I have a time."

"Sounds good."

Pritchard put his notebook and pen down again. "I want to tell you, the fact that you were frank and open about your difficulties at work made this whole process go a lot faster. If you hadn't been willing to discuss your problem at work, I wouldn't be talking about clearing you any time soon. But you were willing, and we got right to a piece of the problem."

"A piece. Right."

"You have to start somewhere. So: hopefully, I'll see you tomorrow evening at the academy. If not, we're scheduled for the next morning anyhow."

"Right. When I would've been working, but now I'm not."

"You will, soon, I think. Keep doing the work you need to do with me, and you'll make it back."

"Okay."

He stood up, so I did the same. I ducked out of the office, hoping nobody saw me. The hallway was deserted, which was fine with me. I made my way down to the first floor of HQ, and out to the parking lot. In the car on the way home, I thought about some things I needed to do, that I'd been putting off. I suppose putting things off is one way of controlling them, isn't it.

But you're probably actually in more control of tasks if you're doing them, rather than putting them off. So I knew what the first thing I needed to do when I got home was. I was dreading it, but it had to be done.

It was four o'clock by the time I got home. Seven, in Boston. Perfect. I picked up the phone, and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hi. It's Mike."

"Oh. How are you?"

"Fine," I lied. But what was the point of telling the truth? "But listen: we need to talk about some things."

"All right. Like what?"

"Like the fact that our relationship is over," I said, getting straight to the point. "You know, we never actually said that to each other—not really. But we're done. I know it, and you know it."

"You could have come with me. But you didn't."

"You knew—you knew when you took the Boston job that I wasn't going with you. So don't try to make me feel guilty. You didn't have to take that job—we could've tried harder to work things out. Or maybe not. But you took it. And now I'm here, and you're there. And half your stuff is here."

"Oh, so you want your space back. I see."

"It's not about the space. There's plenty of space here for one person and one-and-a-half people's worth of stuff."

"Then what is it about, if it's not about the space?"

"What it's about, is the fact that you left, which says to me that you're done with this relationship, but you left half your stuff here, which says you still want to have some kind of hold on me. But you know what? I can't deal with that any more. It's been six months—and I need your stuff out of the house."

"It's my stuff. I'll deal with it."

"I know it's your stuff. That's what we've been talking about, isn't it? But it's my house—my life. You needed me out of your life, so you left. I need your stuff out of my house. So here's the deal: I have a few days off in a row. I'm gonna pack up all your stuff, and put it in the garage. You can come get it, or send someone for it, any time in the next four weeks. And if you don't show up by then, I'm going to rent a storage unit somewhere, and put your stuff in there, and send you the key and the bill. And then it's up to you what happens to your stuff."

"Four weeks? How am I supposed to get across the country in the next four weeks?"

"What do you want? Five weeks? Six? Fine. Six weeks from today, anything that's left in the garage will go into storage."

"There you go again, always so overly controlling."

"It's my house—and you don't live in it any more. And in six months, you've made no effort to do anything about your things that are still here. So why shouldn't I be 'overly controlling' about it?"

"To prove to yourself that just once in your life, you don't have to be in charge. That if something is out of place, or not just right, that the world won't come crashing down. That's why."

"You know what? To be honest, I don't really care what you think. And here's what I think: I think we should just end this conversation, because there's really nothing left to talk about."

"I suppose not. I suppose there hasn't been anything to talk about for a long time. So yeah. I'll admit it. We're through."

"Fine—if you're gonna come get your stuff in person, just tell me when, and I'll leave you a key to the garage somewhere. I don't really think it would do either of us any good to see each other."

"No. No, I suppose not. Jesus. We're really done, aren't we. I know we need to move on. But—I guess I'm kind of sorry."

"Yeah," I said. "I'm sorry too. But it doesn't matter any more, does it. Take care of yourself, all right?"

I hung up the phone, and stared out the window at absolutely nothing for about ten minutes. Then I started packing. I started with the bedroom—that didn't take long. Not much left behind, there. I looked around the room, at the light green walls, and the beige carpet over the tiles. I hated that carpet—and it wasn't my idea to put it in, either. I wasn't the one with cold feet, winter, spring, summer, and fall. Cold feet—in L.A., for crying out loud.

I started moving furniture out of the bedroom, into the living room. Because, starting tomorrow, I was taking my house over, for myself. The bedroom carpet would go, and I'd repaint in there, too. And after that, who knew? I could do whatever I wanted.

TBC