[SESSION NUMBER 1]
"Alright then, Doc. Let's get this over with."
Curly ruefully sauntered Dr. Bliss' office, snarling and seething to himself as he gravitated toward the couch. Like a Roman or Grecian ruler of yore in the middle of a Bacchanalia, the lad lounged on the therapist's furniture; closing his eyes as he awaited whatever deluge of brain-picking the day had in store. But instead, Dr. Bliss cleared her throat and pulled down from her bookshelf a small CD player.
"Actually Curly. I had something else in store for us."
"Come again."
"Well, as I tell all my clients, we are here to discuss these anti-social tendencies and examine possible strategies for improvement." Dr. Bliss told her charge. "And given what I have read from your file coupled with your…(she chuckles)…rather animated attempt at escaping the other day, I'm thinking we embark on a less sedentary approach to your sessions."
As the disc tray opens, the pedagogic psychoanalyst pacifically picked a compilation album containing the works of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Giving the skip button two taps and adjusting the volume to an appropriate decibel, she watches her charge as the Theme from Swan Lake slowly begins to pepper the atmosphere. Wafting from the radio, almost like a temperate breeze on a summer's eve, Curly immediately recognized the piece and could feel his apprehension start to waver.
"A little bird told me you're quite the pupil at a certain local dance academy."
"Yes…" Curly began.
"So, use your body to convey what words cannot."
Upon rising from his place on the couch, Curly closed his eyes and surrendered his body to the music. It quickly became clear that with each Arabesque, Pirouette, Chasse and Releve', all the time he had spent at Madame Bovary's Dance School for Boys was far from in vain. For the briefest of moments, Dr. Bliss forgot herself; her jaw hanging precariously in awe as she struggled to reconcile the Gammelthorpe Lad's storied history of troubling behavior with this gentle dancer before her whose moves were free and smooth like butter on a bald monkey.
Then came the minute mark.
As the melody evolved into an ominous crescendo, introducing the portentous horns and trombones, so too did Curly's dancing become harsh and dark. A single labored exhale came from his mouth like a furious beast and his face screwed up with rage and pain; as if he was Atlas shouldering the world upon his back. The once tender ballet became a series of furious leaps akin to a tango or a passionate swordfight. For the remainder of the piece, Curly betrayed no sense of joy in what he was doing, and his moves got wilder and angrier with each step he took. With the last 30 seconds remaining of the piece, Curly violently Jete'd atop Dr. Bliss' desk and preened like a rueful eagle. He made ten violent stabbing motions into the air, before giving a deep and sardonic bow to an audience he and he alone could see.
Whatever trouble Dr. Bliss had before had long since evaporated, and now a slight twinge of fear took hold of her in regards to the spectacle before her. Her hand had gone white gripping the notepad as she struggled to articulate her thoughts.
"That was…a lot…"
"You don't say." Curly curtly replied as she sat himself back on the couch. "An entire childhood at that damned cattle house they call a dance studio-"
"And yet you have the makings of the next Baryshnikov or Nureyev if you tried hard-"
"How many times I have heard that chestnut. How many times I told my father I'd rather die than go back to those classes. You think he listens…(He holds his nose shut)… ^'These classes cost 6k a pop and you're getting them for free! Mme. Bovary had her choice of laundromats but came to mine and I'll be DAMNED if you squander this.^"
Dr. Bliss let out an interested grunt.
"Oh yes, one fateful encounter with Mme. Bovary herself and suddenly my dad thinks he's hit the social lottery."
(Flashback)
Curly: [It was closing in on a year since dad's all too precious laundromat had opened. Business was steady, but the old man was still itching for that one customer whose patronage would put the place on the globe…that's when she walked in!]
[Lawrence was ready to turn the little placard on the door, announcing to one and all that he was closing up shop for the night. Yet as he took one last look across the street, he saw a stern and toned looking woman struggling with the drawstring bag flung across her shoulder like Santa Claus. Her hair, a short blonde bob parted in the middle, a had been pulled back in a tight bun, highlighting the angular features of her face. Ornamenting the right side of her upper lip was a beauty mark. As she purposefully strolled closer to Lawrence's laundromat, they locked eyes in silent acknowledgement that he had something she clearly wanted.]
Curly: [Even though Mme. Bovary's presence was heralded by the dinky bell on the threshold, nothing about her was modest or insignificant; she strolled into the laundromat like a general surveying the barracks of his men, pursing her lip in desperation as she awaits to be serviced].
["How can I help you?" Lawrence asks.]
Curly: [For a tiny woman she was fearsome, mincing no words as she laid upon the counter a really elaborate Nutcracker costume that had definitely seen better days; scuffed boots, missing sequins, tarnished buttons, you get the idea. If the resigned desperation with which she gazed upon the store with didn't already make her a pillar of charm and warmth, her surgeon's scalpel of a voice really did the trick].
"Sorry to interrupt for a minute." Dr. Bliss responded. "But by 'surgeon's scalpel of a voice you mean…"
"Clear. Cutting. Direct." Curly replied with venom. "Almost as if the world was simply an extension of her studio, and we mere students...(he continues in a mocking Slavic voice)... ^Clean this. I want costume pristine^."
"Mhm." Dr. Bliss said going back to her notepad. "Please, continue."
(Flashback)
Curly: [But while dour dance instructor fatalistically acquiesced to our establishment's services, Lawrence all but slobbered over this chance as if God himself asked him to restore the Shroud of Turin. Each blathering assurance that this costume was in good hands was followed by a slight bow, as if that would somehow change her opinion of the situation. Naturally of course he did a good job with the suit and even managed to draw a small Mona Lisa grin from her. And in a normal world, she would have paid him handsomely, maybe passed his name along to an associate or two, but all in all never have need for our services again…]
[…but this is not a normal world, is it Dr. Bliss]?
["So what Lavrentiy is telling me is son behaves, how you say, 'Tough and Rumble'? And is needing somewhere for energy to be put in good use?"]
["You have no idea Ma'am." He said pouring for her a second spot of tea. "I'm at the end of my rope with the kid..."]
[Sometimes, there comes in life the opportunity to impress and forge rapports with those who occupy society's uppermost rungs and relish in whatever fringe perks they chose to throw your way, and in some sad hope to keep these embers of glory from fading, Lawrence and Mme. Bovary wound up talking shop for about an hour. Of course, part of their conversations included me; how I was boisterous, incorrigible, exuberant, addle-headed, and all that. Naturally she won him over with her rigorous yet supportive philosophies on managing her students. In the end a deal was struck that in exchange for being her official costume cleaner, I would be under her tutelage pro bono].
"Wow…" Dr. Bliss began. "But what say if any had you in any of this?"
Curly let out a bitter and barking laugh, one that answered her question better than any words ever could.
"I woke up to the news the following morning."
Dr. Bliss' eyes widened.
"Oh yes." Curly replied. "And damned if I show any signs of complacency or sloth in her classes. But hey, they were in theory supposed to be an outlet for my outlandishness…they just failed."
"And your mother-"
"Was on board with it as well." Curly continued bitterly. "After all, she didn't get to do anything nice as a kid like dance classes or Junior Miss competitions. She got the fuzzy end of the lollypop growing up. Not like Aunt Wanda…that's why she moved away from here as fast as she could once the opportunity presented itself."
Curly robotically walked to the window of Dr. Bliss' office. A far off look began to manifest in his eye as he leans his forehead on the glass panel. Hillwood lay at his feet like an anthill, and the sidewalk teemed with its denizens as they passed by on their way to parts unknown. But it was the horizon Curly focused on; the expanse of what lay beyond all he knew and tolerated. Past the city line, beyond the county and dare one say so, the state of Washington altogether.
"You like word-association head games, so I got one of my own for ya; 'Bohemia'. What comes to mind?"