Grant (part 3 of 3)

Grant

"You're not broken like this next one."

Clair Newbody PHD

Today was not unlike his first day or last Friday or Monday.  There was a single pale square ceiling light that lit the room to a mild glow.  The noisy metal desk made loud thuds whenever Grant stretched and accidentally kicked its aluminum paneling.  Dr. Newbody showed up only once today. 

The psychologist, Dr. Newbody, walked in and threw her raw notes on a higher tier of the desk.  A small painful throb began in Grant’s head.  She started a sudden rant simply by uttering something under her breath and then continued louder, “and if they only kept to the script. I mean I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” Grant broke from his typing and turned to her.  Because I’m not supposed to be here, he thought. “The things I say to motivate them him them where they speak but not where they sense.  Like: they can understand the concepts and they can talk about them but can not act them out.”  She ended with a short, high-pitched laugh. 

Grant began to say something quietly and then said more loudly, “because it sounds like they just don’t know how to fake you out.  In what capacity are they interns? How do you pay them?”

“It’s- it’s just a stipend,” she stuttered. “But they’re in it for the recommendation.  I don’t blame them for that.  This might just be the biggest study performed on international criminals.  Psychology will thanks us.”

There was a silence while she marveled at how great she was and Grant marveled at how large her ego was.  “Psychology is incomplete,” Grant abruptly declared.  It was a deep belief he held about the field but said it because it was the only thing he could think to say.

“Well,” she said calmly. “I aim to complete it.”

“No, I mean it destroys lives: Senator Glass’ mother was diagnosed with depression in her forties-“ Grant began.

Newbody interrupted, “Well that right there is a problem in your argument. No psychologist in their right mind would ever claim we completely understand adult depression.”

“My point exactly,” Grant continued smoothly, thinking of his days debating for his local congressional seat. “But psychologists who are supposed to be in their right mind prescribe medicine for adult depression. You would claim this medicine works or that one.  But you don’t know.  Short term successes.  That’s all you have.”

“So you don’t believe in psychology?”  The accusation caught Grant off guard.

“Well, I mean, it’s just not complete you know? And that can hurt people in the process of all this research when medicines become involved.”

“That sounds like a burdensome construct to maintain,” the psychologist said pivoting one heel back and forth.

“Not at all,” Grant said. “Glass’ mother was given eight different drugs and none cured or fixed a thing.  He was a proponent of it and spoke in favor of it during the six year they treated her.  But now he’s beaten.”

“Yea, you can’t guarantee they all get fixed.”

“I don’t need to be fixed.  I have only one need from psychology and that’s to gt rid of my splitting headache right now.”

“You’re not a baby,” she scolded him.  “And you’re not broken like this next one.  Jabar Cornish is seriously disturbed and he’s coming in in five minutes.  You can finish what you didn’t on Friday.”

“No, I’m all done.  But you’re not,” and he pointed at her fresh notes.  “You see the thing is-” Grant began but was interrupted by a knock.  “Looks like our time is up for this session,” he continued.  “My secretary will set up the next appointment if you like.  Her name is Cleaver.” She let out a low throaty laugh, as if she was getting away with something in school.

“Good bye Grant.”

Lone by Steve Roll see www.steverollart.com