5. Relentless | Dr. Rogers

The doctor is in.

Patients never make me feel uncomfortable. After years of practicing and hours of therapy, I’ve mastered separating myself from my work. Any mental health professional will express how crucial this is to our profession and personal lives. It’s easy to get caught up and ultimately left out.

Some of my most trusted and esteemed colleagues saved me from almost getting too deep with a patient back in the day. The circumstances were…unusual, but the minute I got out of it, I vowed never to retread those waters. I worked too hard to achieve the life I live and could not afford—financially or otherwise—to lose focus over another damsel with a pretty face. So, when I leave the office daily, I reclaim my time and mind for my pleasantries.

And to keep things copacetic in a melting pot of a town like Grand Rose, where the urban millennials consider therapy more of a social media trend than a tool, I go to Ingo’s on Tuesdays instead of Saturdays. It’s just better for us all. I don’t have to juxtapose between being Tim and Dr. Rogers after hours, and they don’t have to pretend not to see me while acting judged and accused in the corner.

This knowing is hardwired into my Tuesday routine. It creates a flow.

Timmy Tuesday

0500: Wake, bake, Hoe Bath, smoothie

0530-0630: Hardcore gym time

0635-0715: Wash, groom, dress

0725: Breakfast and “me” vibes

0800: Leave my building for work

0832: Stroll in my office

0915: The first patient rolls in virtually or in person, depending on his mood

WORK UNTIL 1645!

By 5:07 PM, my key unlocks the door to my new apartment, which is in proximity to work, Ingo’s, Whole Foods, and a whole bunch of other shit, thanks to gentrification. I hate that shit, but being able to stroll down to the ground floor to work out in the building’s top-of-the-line gym? It isn’t priceless, but it's close. That dissonance is why, even as a therapist, I have my own.

I couldn’t help but think about calling John to schedule my emergency appointment when one of my sensitive patients, aptly nicknamed Typical Tuesday, texted me 9-1-1.

Receiving the text from him wasn’t alarming. He’d gotten more comfortable with me and, unsurprisingly, his quirks at every session. While most folks at his length in the game would typically begin expressing remorse or at least some accountability, this guy jumped to harboring dangerous levels of empowerment. I’m glad the brother finally started feeling good about himself. It’s just the person he was slowly becoming in the process (and the one he was silently damaging) that gave me pause.

Again, patients never make me feel uncomfortable. But how would YOU react to receiving a wild text about the partner he secretly hates to love moments after innocently chatting with her (and her insane best friend) at dinner?

I’m a professional. I’m a professional. Don’t make eye contact, fool. Damn it.

This is why I come to this wildly popular spot on Tuesday nights when the crowd is low.

Me and a handful of the bros get together to catch up and play pool, even though I know Rod and Trent use it as a break from their kids. Active fatherhood, as they frequently say in unison, is exhausting. My childless ass enjoys the camaraderie and, as I mentioned to Amaya and company, the wings. Fine women occasionally stop in for Happy Hour. Seeing them…her…on Tuesday was a first.

Remnants of the harmless run-in must’ve stained my face. It might’ve impacted my memory, too, because I left my wallet on the table when I hurried out of Ingo’s. Rod dropped it by the office on my lunch break.

“Waddup, boy?” he inquired in a deep tone.

“About to demolish this box. Come on in, bro,” I responded. He retrieved my wallet from his back pocket and slammed it on my desk like he was playing spades. I choked back a laugh. Rod didn’t have a lick of sense.

“Thanks, man,” I took a quick inventory of its contents before putting it in my pocket.

“I know you ain’t checking to see if I hit you over the head. Negro, please.”

“Aye, man, you know I gotta be careful.”

“Yeah, well, how did you leave it in the first place? Tell me that,” he slammed his bare hand on the desk like he was winning the same game of spades.

“Hell, if I know. I guess I got distracted,” I said, shoveling a spoon of quinoa into my mouth and avoiding eye contact.

“Mmhmm.”

“Whatever, man.”

Rod knew me better than anyone. We’d been friends our entire lives. My colleagues helped me recover professionally from that snafu yesteryear, but Rod had my back personally. I would've been absconded if I had listened to him from the jump. Again, though…pretty faces and sordid ass spirits, man. (And a fat ass. She had a fat ass, too.)  

The other bros might not have picked up on whatever-the-fuck that was last night, but Rod did. I couldn’t avoid it – him, really – if I wanted to. His big ass eyes pierced a hole so prominent in the side of my face that the quinoa would spew out if I took another bite.

“I saw her, too,” he said, breaking the silence he’d grown comfortable in.

“Who?” I inquired.

“Tim. Please. She and her friend. Both are gorgeous, but I saw her. The one that’s your type.”

“I don’t have a type, dawg. Come on,” I lied.

“You don’t have a type?” He guffawed so loudly that Joy, the nosy yet nurturing front desk clerk, walked by.

“Man, hush. I’m at work. And no, I don’t have a type,” I whispered.

“You ain’t doing shit anyway. She checks all the boxes. Pretty? Check. Sexy? Check. Smooth ass skin? Check. Mysterious, quiet vibe? Check. Doey eyes? Check. Possibly a silent killer who smells good? HELLA CHECK! Yeah, I walked by her, too,” he sounded off.

“Rodney. That’s not what…no,” was all I could muster.

“Can’t even finish your sentence. I’ve never seen her before. Who is she? Do you know her?”

“Kinda. Before I say this, you gotta chill. I got your word?”

“Tuh. You got my word,” he shook his head and slumped into the seat.

I ate the remainder of my kale-quinoa mushroom bowl first, not to make him sweat it out but to reduce the sweat begging to form on my brow. The anticipation of Rod’s reaction scared me. I knew he wouldn’t judge my feelings or fantasies. I didn’t want my friend to think I’d get sidetracked as I had before. I now refer to “the incident” as a snafu, but it was so much more than that.

“Hungry much? Get to it, my nigga,” he said, the indifference lacing his tone.

“She’s a patient,” I blurted out. We both jumped up from our seats at the same time.

“I just be damn! No wonder you flew out of there last night. Only you would do this.”

“That’s the thing. I haven’t done anything. I talk to her boyfriend more than I talk to her. They do couples therapy, but he’s the most talkative in their sessions, and now he’s started having his own. He texted me about her damn near ten minutes after I spoke to her,” I said.

We silently looked out the tenth-story window at people gathered in the courtyard. Rod didn’t have to say anything; I knew what he was thinking. I can imagine his sentiments were compounded with words like crazy, wild asf, unprofessional, wtf, and not again. My thoughts aligned, except that’s all they accumulated to—thoughts, not actions. Before I could break the silence to at least comment on the mullet and overalls some dude had on in the courtyard, Rod interjected.

“Look, bro. You’re a grown man, and you know right from wrong. I’m not even going to infantilize you like that. Just stay safe and be smart,” he said.

“Thanks, bro. I am. I promise. It’s nothing,” I responded.

“Yep. Love you, dawg,” he said before pulling me into our decades-long dap ritual.

“You, too.”

I touched my back pocket to ensure my wallet had filled it before he left. The alarm on my phone in my front pocket went off. TYPICAL TUESDAY – EMERGENCY blinked across the screen, reminding me of Dex and Amaya’s session in 30 minutes.

Rod looked at my name on the door as he opened it. He threw his head back and shot me a smirk. I didn’t say a word, knowing what he would say next.

“It’s about time you upgraded this tag. You aren't just a therapist anymore, dawg. You’re a doctor now. All the work you did to get here? Flex that shit.” He looked at the wooden doorframes and floors throughout the hallway before finally taking off. “Nice floors.”

“Bye.” I slammed the door. Rod was right again. Sometimes, I think he should be in the office instead of me.

I am a doctor with the debt and degree to prove it. It just doesn’t feel real sometimes. Nah, it feels like it doesn’t matter sometimes.

My office and pay changed. I am invited to more private meetings and events than ever before. People want to hear my thoughts about the latest trends or patterns in mental health. Suddenly, my peers are looking to me for guidance. What none of them understand is that I threw myself into that program (and the gym; you see these gains?) to forget the harm I almost caused myself and that damsel. Patients call me Dr. Rogers because Joy tells them to, not me. I am just flawed Tim from around the way.

Feeling the furious thoughts form in my mind, I took deep breaths and affirmed myself. This spiritual shit really works; word to Jay-Z. Zen returned, and I gulped the alkaline water sitting on my desk. Lord knows I’d need it for the upcoming session. No sooner than I could part my lips after swallowing, my phone vibrated with a text from Amaya:

Please don’t tell Dex that I saw you last night. I know nothing happened. He’s just been extra weird about everything lately.

I prefer to ask the dude in the courtyard with the mullet who his barber is than participate in this session. I’d rather do anything than listen to Dex whine about Amaya as she quietly sits there, pretending to be unbothered and so fucking sexy at the same time.

“THIS IS GONNA BE AWKWARD AS FUCK,” I screamed at the dusty plastic Ficus tree in the corner. Joy loudly cleared her throat, to which I mouthed fuck off, Ms. Joy. I was annoyed, not crazy.

As her therapist, I had to respond reasonably. As a man who saw her smiling (without her ball of stress named Dex) in my favorite bar last night, I wouldn't say I liked the former. But work comes first.

I texted back:

You don’t have anything to worry about, Amaya. I will see you both soon.

A new notification came through. “Amaya loved your text.” She was pleased, and that’s all I cared about. The problem is I cared about her pleasure more than I should.