The Therapist's Couch
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I'm reposting this chapter, 'cos I have to get rid of the review responses (I think they qualify as keyboard dialogue. FF rules can be stupid sometimes).
Chapter 2: Therapist or Party Planner?
"So, who have you got for this so-called party?" Sands asked the doctor.
"Well," he began enthusiastically. "I have managed to get the El Mariachi!"
"Not the, just el."
"What?"
"The El Mariachi means the the mariachi."
"Well okay then, I have got EL Mariachi for you!"
"God. How did that happen?"
"I'll tell you." Sanderson was rather proud of his amateur detective work. "It turns out the guy has reached a new level with his guitars. Some talent agent discovered him and he made a couple of albums. They were huge in Europe. A sort of traditional Mexican style-y thing. But then he got bored of that and just started this new design of instrument. A couple of big companies picked up on it and they went stellar. So I made a couple of calls and tracked down the guy's office number. He was running some kind of big production operation and said he needed to take a break anyway. I offered your money for his flight but he spat down the phone at me. Said something about stowing away in a double bass case or something. But anyway, he's coming!"
"God help us."
"And I'm getting to work on the others. So, you made a start on the preparations?"
"No."
"Well, how about deciding what to eat?"
"How about I tell you what you can kiss?"
"Come on Agent Sands, work with me for once?" Dr Sanderson pleaded. Sands sighed deeply, then agreed.
"Alright. I'll have to remember what those guys like, though. So that I can buy the exact opposite."
"That's the spirit! And what about the décor? I was thinking maybe traditional Mexican, lots of earthy shades? I hear it creates a very warm, cozy atmosphere!"
"Fuck off. I'll put up a banner if I can be bothered. Can't promise it'll say anything relevant though."
"Good, good. And the music? Mexican, again? Guitars?"
"Hardcore rock. I'm thinking Adam Ant, Sid Vicious, Johnny Rotten."
"Sounds great!"
The next week, Dr Sanderson had some more good news for the agent. He had managed to track down the little boy selling chewing gum and persuaded his mother to allow her son to attend the party.
"It turns out I used to be friends with his mom's cousin's neighbour's son's best friend's girlfriend's step dad's sister's husband's colleague's former pimp!"
"Fancy that."
"I know! And I spoke to the kid's mom on the phone; she seemed happy to let him go if he bought back some cherries on sticks. I don't know, maybe I didn't understand the Spanish properly or something."
"Yes, that's the thing about chicle chico," Sands interrupted. "Never speaks a word of English, but yet seems to understand it perfectly. Maybe it runs in the family. What else did his mom say?"
"She spoke really fast. She said a few things which I haven't been able to look up yet. Said I had 'cabeza de mierde'. Any idea what it means?"
"Yes, it means she said you're a shit-head. Couldn't agree more. What else did she say?"
"Well we arranged his flight. You're paying, by the way."
"I'm what?"
"Don't worry, it's one of those cheap-y flights," Sanderson explained. "He'll get on the plane at Mexico City, then change at Madrid, Edinburgh, Manchester, Chile, Mexico City, Paris, Canberra, London, Alabama then arrive in New York about a week later!"
"Well, if he has to change at Mexico City, can't he just skip the first five and start there?"
"Uh- yeah, if you want it to cost an extra four bucks! Chuh!"
"Ok, ok," Sands said, trying to see the logic in this, "so how much is it gonna cost me?"
"$12."
"Oh, I guess that's not so bad."
"No. So, have you thought about how much the entire party is gonna cost? 'Cos you know you need to plan these things."
"Yeah. Well, I'm gonna budget myself about $19 for the food, then the banner can be about $2.50 if I get it on sale. Drink- gosh, I'm gonna need about forty bucks worth for me. The others can bring their own or go without. So all in all that's-" Sands counted on his fingers "-around $80. That's way too much! I'll have to cancel."
"No! No, you can't cancel… I'll chip in for half."
"Why are you so keen for me to have this party?" Asked Sands suspiciously. "D'you want to get rid of me?"
"No!" Dr. Sanderson protested hastily. "Well… the thing is… ok. I'll tell you the truth. It's just that… you see…"
"What do I see?!"
"I just haven't been to a party in so long!"
"Wait a minute!" Sands exclaimed, almost laughing. "You think you are coming to my, my party?!"
"I have arranged practically the whole thing so far!" Dr Sanderson retorted, hurt. "The least you could do is invite me to say thank you!"
"Maybe…" Sands wheedled, picking up an item from the table to fiddle with casually. He did not know that the item he was holding was a purple model of a penis, as Sanderson was also (ironically enough) a sex therapist. "But what's in it for me?"
"Do you ever do anything that doesn't involve back payment?" Sighed the doctor.
"No. Is this what I think it is?"
"Yes."
"Agh!" Sands cried, throwing the model back onto the table and wiping his fingers on his shirt. "But what I was thinking, doctor, is that perhaps you'd like to help me out with the supplies. I mean, we're all friends, right? And friendship is the boat that never sinks? Um… all you need is friends? No-one told you life was gonna be this way, your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's DOA?"
"I'm your friend?" Sanderson was so touched.
"Of course! So, if you buy all the food and drink, you can come to my party! After all… urm… a friend always buys stuff for another friend's party!"
It wasn't until Dr Sanderson returned to his apartment that he began to wonder whether Sands was only using him. Nevertheless, he still wanted to impress him, and went out immediately to an expensive food court. He bought some bottles of champagne and tequila, and put in orders for chorizos, pinchaza, queso, patatas fritas and several other over priced American foods renamed in Spanish to make them sound cultural. After spending way too much, he was forced to go without lunch for many days. However, he convinced himself that this was a good thing, as it gave him more time to chase up Sands' Mexican acquaintances.
A particularly surprising conversation with Lorenzo revealed that Agent Ajedrez had not in fact died. At the time of being shot, she was halfway through a series of operations to make her some kind of superhuman or robot. It turned out that a mad scientist (similar to the ones seen in movies and TV shows such as Superman, Spiderman, Flubber, etc.) had decided she had just the right look to become the mother of his über-race of people. Sands was not surprised. He should have expected something like that from her.
After a couple of weeks Dr Sanderson had managed to put together a list of enough people to constitute some sort of a party. Unfortunately, Sands had not even met some of the people, but Sanderson was sure it would work out ok. The guest list was as follows;
El Mariachi
Lorenzo and his new girlfriend
His buddy
Agent Ajedrez
The buddy of the chef whom Sands shot
A random festival goer
A taxi driver
Chicle Chico
Billy Chambers
Sands was not amused.
"Did I not tell you that Ajedrez tried to kill me?!" He yelled at his therapist.
"Yes well," Sanderson countered, "you also tried to kill her, so I think you're quits."
"She's a cow."
"Now, now. There's no need for unnecessary aggression, remember? Go to your happy place-"
"I don't care. And the rest of the list is stupid. What the hell am I supposed to talk to them about?!"
"Well, why don't we make that your goal for next week? Try to think of some conversation starters for your friends." Dr Sanderson knew he sounded condescending and it made him feel powerful. Sands, however, was not happy at his tone. Reaching into his pants, he pulled out his gun and waved it at the doctor's direction.
"Say that again, asshole!" He yelled.
"Ok, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Dr Sanderson apologized hastily. Then he became distracted as Sands replaced the gun and zipped up his flies. "Hang on… you keep your gun and your cell phone down there?"
"Yes. What's your point?"
"Well, I'm just surprised you have enough room… there must be a lack of other things…"
"Shut up!" Sands shouted again, making to take the gun out, but Sanderson deferred, saying he was only joking. Sands let him off with a warning.
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