The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories by Robert Chazz Chute Page B

kept Chad in goal for the rest of the game and finished with passing drills. When he blew the final whistle, the humidity had taken its toll and the kids went to their parents soaking wet, their jerseys plastered to their bodies.
    Jack watched Peroxide Woman go. He was reminded of Lot’s wife in the story of Sodom. When she ran, her two children in tow, she did not dare look back upon him, the force of God who had chased her away, lest she turn into a pillar of salt.
    The pretty young woman appeared at his side. “Hi, I’m Gina. I’m Maddy’s mom.” Jack gave her a smile and shook her hand. I got your schedule in e-mail and I’m first to give out snacks. Any recommendations for what I should bring?”
    “Something cold,” he said. “And please, no nuts.”
    “You bet,” she said. “We certainly don’t want any nuts around our kids.” She smiled at him and, in some small seductive gesture, she touched her long brown hair and they both felt self-conscious. “And this is my mother,” Gina said.
    The old woman with the stack of curly white hair and the binoculars smiled up at him. 
    “Oh, hello, ma’am,” he said.
    Gina’s hands flew in a mixture of signs Jack had no hope of following and after a moment both women laughed. When they looked at Jack, they gave him kind smiles and he could see the resemblance between the two, despite their age difference. The old woman must have been a beauty once, too.
    “Never mind me,” the old woman said in a dysphonic, nasal voice. “I’m just an old deaf woman.” The old woman gave him a wink and clapped him on the shoulder with a surprisingly strong hand. “I can’t hear you, but I read you!”
    One of her eyes was shot white with a cataract. The other was dark and pierced him with a knowing look that said conspiratorially, “Hello, brother. Does my mask look right?”
    His words to Dr. Papua returned to him: “The world is divided into three categories: The Prey and the Witnesses. And things like me. The Predators.”
    We are everywhere.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Vengeance is #1
    F act: Most shrinks—like 99% of them—are nuts. Psychos are attracted to the profession. Here’s how I think it happens: Neurotic parents breed and send their kids into therapy so they can become more like their parents. At first, nobody wants to talk to some useless stranger about why their parents hate them, but why else would parents send their to a psycho therapist? Then the kids start talking and get used to the taste of their bathwater. I, I, I. Me, me, me! Who can resist that?
    After all that scab-picking—once the hate is really ingrained—the little patients notice that their therapist has a pretty sweet job. Psychotherapists listen to them go on about how fucked up their parents really are for fifty-five minutes at a time for a whack a cash. What real skills are required besides patience, doodling and the ability to speak the magic words, “How does that make you feel?”
    The psychos on the couch eventually become the psychos in the chair with the notebook, finally and officially cured because they are fixed, better than you, the healer. Turning patients into colleagues: That’s the greatest success the fields of psychology, psychiatry and social work are likely to achieve. 
    I know. I’ve sat in enough of their waiting rooms, from Bangor to Orono and even New York once, looking at old magazines. When I started out, none of the waiting rooms needed new paint jobs. Mama started me on the shrink treadmill early. When the best and most expensive didn’t work out, she hunted through the phonebook. I’m into the Ps now.
    My mother doesn’t understand the therapeutic process. For instance, we’re standing in the kitchen. Mama’s in her PJs with a coffee cup holding her up even though it’s four in the afternoon. Mama is big on appearances when she goes out the door but inside the house it’s housecoats and the fuzzy grizzly bear slippers she gave me for Christmas.