CHAPTER 8

Dr. Onowa sat on her chair and calmly said, “…and you will feel refreshed, as if you’ve slept eight hours… four, three, two, one.”

Richard leaned forward from the couch and opened his eyes.  He glanced to his left and right momentarily, and then pulled his focus to Dr. Onowa.  

“How do you feel, Richard,” she asked.

“Think they got this too?”

“Pardon?” answered Onowa.

“Our monitoring friends.”

She handed him a glass of water.  “You mustn’t worry about the monitoring.  As you’ve explained it, that implant is only for private research.  Now…”

Richard sat up and gulped the water.  “Why do you feel so comfortable with them knowing everything we’re doing?”

“Like I said, Richard, Keyhole is private research and you have to just get on with your life as if it didn’t exist.  After all, it’s not as if you were some kind of TV reality show with millions of viewers watching your every move.  Now can we get on with the session?”

“Maybe you don’t get it, but whatever I see and hear, they see and hear.  That means everything you do here is getting recorded too, as long as I’m looking at you and listening.”

“And your point is?”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“You’re strange.  You know that?  Strange.”

“I’ve nothing to hide, Richard.  And, I don’t think they’re running out with your vision of me and doing a book or video about sex therapy, do you?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Would you like the curtains open now,” she asked.

“What good do the curtains do?”  He rose, went to the window and pulled the drapes open.  “They’re seeing me wherever I am... go… think… dream.”

“Richard?”

Richard remained at the window looking out over the street’s treetops.  “Yes.”

“Would you like to hear my take on it all?”

He turned.  “What?  Keyhole or me?”

“You.”  She motioned for him to return to the couch.  

As he sat, he sighed.  “Okay.  We saw some video, terrible acting, I might say, and…”

Dr. Onowa interrupted. “Let’s talk about while you were under.  You didn’t think it was such bad acting… said it reminded you of one of your church members.”

“So?”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to put these periodic brown bag trips to the adult store at the foot of your bed?” 

He lifted his glass.  “Could I have some more water, please?”  She rose and filled the glass with spring water, as he went on.  “I talked about that too, huh?”

“You did.  You hadn’t revealed that to me before.”

“Well, guess I didn’t want to… I guess.”

“Yes.  Hypnosis is peculiar that way.  Your will is never bent by design.”

“So, maybe there was a reason, yes?”

“Most definitely.”  She returned and handed him the water.  Sitting back down, she lifted her legs and curled them under her seat.

“That’s a nice… whatever, you’re wearing,” said Richard.

“Thank you.  It is what it looks like… a painting tunic.  Sometimes I think the splattered paint tunic looks better than my canvases.”

He put the glass down.  “You paint beautifully.  I’ve noticed each time…”

“Richard?  While you were under you also expressed how rewarding the Men’s Room attendant job was.”

“From pastor to toilet Guru.”  He grinned.  “I do enjoy the captive audience though.  Is that part of my demented brain working, too?”

“Just because you’re in a restroom, with ‘the captive audience’ doesn’t have anything to do with a demented brain.  Sharing literature is important to you.  You said on several occasions that literature was more your scriptures than the Bible, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Literature being what it is to you is important, but the more serious issue is you want to prove something to yourself.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well…” she uncurled her legs and leaned forward.  “Knowing there are few absolutes, let’s just explore the possibility that you’re trying to prove you can be satisfied without ever touching a woman again.”

“Not good, eh?”

“What if it’s not realistic, Richard?”

“So?”

“So, I think that maybe you best allow yourself to look at the magazines and the videos if that is what you crave.”

Richard paused, then lifted a Life Saver and popped it in his mouth.  “That’s crazy.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because a fucking sex addict doesn’t do that.”

“Who said you were a sex addict?”

“Oh, c’mon, Doctor.”

She waited a moment, and then rose.  “Some coffee?”

Richard shook his head.  “You can be so glib, sometimes.”

Dr. Osama walked to the kitchen and took some boiling water from her spring water cooler.  “You might be wrong on that one, Richard.”

“I come here and you take me into places I don’t want to go, like that sleazy video, then you dismiss everything like it’s unimportant.”

“My suggesting you’re not a sex addict is hardly being glib.”

“What do you call it then?”

She scooped some grounds into her French coffee press and poured the water.  “Why are you so agitated?”

“I just woke up, remember?  How do you feel when you get up?”

She walked back with the press and cups on a tray.  “After eight hours, I feel like I need a cup of coffee.  You?”

Richard looked at her pouring the coffee.  A quick glance at the brown bag prompted, “This is going to be a long session, isn’t it?”

“Probably.  We still have the other reason for this emergency session.  That little matter of yours and Gloria’s dreams intersecting, remember?”

“Trying not to.”  He took a sip.  “Damn, the coffee’s worth your fee, you know?  So, what’s the dream of a guy fucking me all about?”

“A challenge, isn’t it?”

                                                      ---

Saeger, Skitter and Urian prepared to leave their shift as their replacements, Krauslin, Ramon, and Wyatt arrive.  Skitter affixed the last post-it note on Richard’s screen fifty-four as Urian stepped up.

Urian said quietly, “Richard might be interesting for you guys, tonight.  I want to see another dream scan on him.”

“But I thought…” said Ramon.

“Just do it,” said Urian, his voice suggesting a concern.  As he walked toward the exit, Skitter and Saeger shrugged to the new shift, and followed Urian.

Ramon, another young collegiate type, sporting a button-down oxford and bowtie, looked up at Richard’s screen.  “I thought after that satellite screw up, we were supposed to lay off Richard’s dreams.  Guaranteed, neither he or Gloria want that again.”

Wyatt, a complete opposite type man in his 20’s, scratched his shaved head, removed his horn-rimmed glasses, and thoughtfully polished the lenses.  “Chances are that order is coming down from Quill, right?  So, we get it.”

Krauslin, the senior man of the team, an Urian’s counterpart, stroked his graying beard and smiled as he peered over the monitors.  “That SAT-VI upgrade… pictures get better with time.”

“Adjustments are forever with those beasts,” said Ramon.  “We’re lucky this time.  You’re right.  Clearer.  We’ll be watching in holographic before you know it.”

“SAT-VII and VIII getting same thing next month, right?” said Wyatt.

Krauslin nodded and looked over at the quad monitor for archived footage showing corridors of the monitoring and data building.  One screen displayed Urian standing before a glass window on his recent visit with Quill.  His POV showed a gigantic warehouse sized room with hundreds of white, volleyball-like structures, rotating as if levitating.  With their sectioned surfaces appearing as multiple picture screens, they maintained a constant turning in all directions, rotating various POV images from many people, not just the Godard tenants. 

Skitter paused at the shoulder of Urian.  “Everything alright?”

Urian, deep in thought, jumped.  “Oh, sorry.  Kind of daydreaming.  Yeah… everything’s fine.  Just thinking how far we’ve come in just this past year.  Remember when the archive room had one rotating storage-ball to start?  Look at it now.”

Skitter nodded.  “Never let it be said that Quill rests on his laurels.”

“Or A-2, right?”  said Urian.

“Just another work-a-holic, I guess.  What else is there for A-2 to do but create models of its analyses?”

“It’s had a rather busy schedule, hasn’t it?”  Urian glanced at his watch.  “Which reminds me, I’ve got another porterhouse waiting.  Wants another meeting.”  He strode off.

“Hey, see if you can smuggle the bone out this time  Saeger and I aren’t particular.”

Urian laughed and waved behind him.  “Assuming I’m being served something besides his virtual reality steak.”

Skitter stared at archive monitor.  All this hi tech and we still have to eat astronaut food.  I wonder what a virtual steak tastes like?

“Hey, gentlemen,” said Wyatt.  “Screen 55 might be heating up.  They all turned.

                                                      ---

“You’re not a sex addict, and you’re not a deviant.”  Richard made a chant out of it as he walked the quiet paths of Central Park, his hands turning coins over in his pockets as if to make an accompaniment to his haunting.

Once he emerged out of the park onto Broadway, he worked his way uptown.  There wasn’t any place particular he had in mind.  Just a quiet bar.

Torino’s was so vacant when he looked through the window, his first thought was it must have a health department warning.  There were a lot of restaurants and bars getting shut down lately.  People were getting sick for no reason.  Medical exams only showed toxicity levels with the ill well above normal.  Nobody knew for sure, but the news broadcasts were carrying rumors of terrorists planting small amounts of poison in fresh fruits and vegetables going to the restaurants and bars.   

He cupped his hands against the window.  At the far end of the bar, he picked out one customer.  A female.  Well, he thought, somebody’s alive in there.  Why does she have to be a female?  He grinned to himself.  You’re really getting yourself fucked up, you know?  If it’s a she, she has to be female, you dork.  Paranoia’s settin’ in now, buddy.  Advanced stages of sex addiction.

He pushed the door open and shuffled to the opposite end of the bar.  The bar tender looked at the two ends and sighed.  “This is the longest bar on Broadway, now Mister.  Think you could make my life a little easier by taking a seat in the middle at least?”

That’s what everybody told me about New Yorkers… right to the point.  No messing around.  “Sure.  Why not?”  As Richard got up and moved, he knew the answer to that question, but didn’t dare utter it to himself.  Twenty or so feet seemed safe enough.

“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender. 

“You know,” said Richard.  “I’d like something mild to the taste, but give me a nice feeling, you know?”

The bar tender looked at him, glanced down at the end of the bar at the lady, and said, “Why don’t you have a glass of water and move on down next to her.  You two are a pair if ever I’ve seen one.”

“Oh, no.  That’s not why I came in here… for…. You know?”

“Well, if my fifteen years at this bar has taught me anything, it’s when one guy and one girl are all that’s left, there’s definitely a different night about to happen.  Rum and coke probably get you started, eh?”

“Fine.  Rum and coke sounds good.”

The mirror behind the bar was one of those impossible to avoid kind, so Richard stared at the counter while the drink was made.  Not being a bar hopper, this was strange, he thought.  It’s only 1:30, and all the other bars are jammed.

“Rum and coke, six fifty,” said the bartender. 

Richard took out a ten and asked, “Could you turn that music up?  Not often you hear just a plain jazz piano.”

“No problem,” he responded.  “You like jazz?”

“Yeah.  Hard to find around New York anymore without pawning the family jewels.”

“Friday nights, here.  What you’re hearing on digital is here live on Friday.”

“Really,” said Richard. 

“No cover, two drink minimum, so if you’re around…”  He brought Richard the change.  “Drop by.  She comes around on Friday’s too.”

Great, thought Richard.  A hooker.  Just what I need.

Wyatt snickered.  “This Richard dude is somethin’ else.  And he’s supposed to be an addict?” 

Krauslin looked up.  “The way he’s nursing that drink, he’s never gonna get to the ‘Hi’ part, let alone the sleepin’.”

“Oops.  Maybe he’s about to get some help.” 

The monitor showed the woman moving down to a stool next to Richard.  “Not trying to be nosey, but heard you say you liked the piano.”

Richard glanced over.  The woman, every bit of a late twenties, early thirties plain Jane type.  Very plain Jane type.  It brought a smile to Richard’s lips.  Nothing here gonna get me in trouble. “Yeah.  He plays good, don’t you think?”

“Nice,” she answered.  She pushed her hair back, revealing more of her face. 

Oh, oh.  Spoke too soon.  She’s not bad.  Shit, am I in trouble?

“Yeah,” said Krauslin.  “Could be.  Might get a new dream or two after all.”

“My name’s Kathy,” she said rather shyly.  “I used to date the piano player.  That’s kinda why… anyway, he plays well, doesn’t he?”

Richard turned on his stool, paused, took a sip of his coke and rum, and said, “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m Richard.”

She extended her hand.  “Nice to meet another jazz fan.  Nice.”

“Nice.” repeated Richard.

“Nice?” said Wyatt.  “Oh, boy, gonna be a long night.”