Soloman Road

Every Tuesday night, I pay a visit to a shrink so I can have an excuse to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to somebody that can‘t tell anyone else. A friend of the family had recommended that I go to, “realize the good things in life.” I don’t necessarily buy into all that sentimental bull shit, but I don’t hate going. The psychologist that I see is a woman who is probably in her early thirties. Her name is Dr. Sarah Bromley. Her office is pretty typical for a shrink. She is the kind of professional that makes it a point to post her diplomas and certificates on the wall behind her desk for all her patients to see how well educated she is. I don’t know what she is trying to prove. I’ve seen things.

She hides the booze in the bottom left drawer of her desk, and the cigarettes and Zippo lighter in the top. She drinks an expensive scotch. She treats her leather armchair as a throne and her patients lay defenseless on her counseling couch. Every week, she does her best to sound open and willing to listen and help, which is appropriate because she will become your conscience. She will tell you what you should do to make your life better. Whether it be saving your money rather than spending it, going to the gym and dropping some weight, or confronting a friend about something they said twenty years ago. It’s all fake, thought. The look they give you is a dead giveaway and it is no secret that that when a person wants to express sympathy, their voice changes. Their words flow a little smoother and their voice becomes a little softer and higher pitched than normal. This is how she speaks with me. It’s similar to how a waitress talks to her friends versus the way she talks to her customers.

Despite her few vices, Dr. Sarah Bromley is a very attractive woman. She has straight, brunette hair that stops at her shoulder, but you wouldn’t know because it’s usually kept up in a tight bun. You would most likely find her at work, sitting in her black, leather chair in her tight, pinstriped skirt that sneaks down to just above her knee. Her skirt has a slit on either side for easier leg movement. Her legs are always kept crossed in an elegant, ladylike fashion that also seems to show off her shiny black high heels. The button-up jacket she wore matched her skirt and hugged her curves tightly. Her dark brown eyes would stare me down behind a pair of black rimmed eyeglasses. Her notebook is held in her left hand and an expensive pen in her right.

So every Tuesday, the secretary sends me into her office and I often wait there until she arrives. Eventually, Dr. Bromley walks in; clicking her heals in perfect tempo against the hardwood floor, one foot in front of the other. She shoots me an insincere smile and asks, “How are you, Bryan?” She always calls her patients by their first name to insure a personal connection, not a “business relationship” with each of them. But something was different about today. She wasn’t wearing the business suit. She also hadn’t been using a pen and clipboard. Instead she is wearing a pair of blue jeans and a tank top with her hair was down. I immediately expect that she is going to cancel today’s session.

“Hey.” She says with a smile, “Would you wanna have our session outside of the office today?” I nod. Instead of that wretched fake voice and the taunting notepad, she had transformed into a beautiful, exciting woman. She pulls out a set of keys and presses a button on a small remote control that causes a new sports car to come alive, which still has the temporary plates taped on the rear windshield. She enters through the driver’s side door and I sit in the passenger seat. She turns the ignition and the engine revs. The headlights turn on, and she quickly throws the clutch into first gear.

We bolt out of the parking lot toward the busy street ahead. She takes an immediate right turn, barely looking to see wear she is going, and I suspect that she is getting a rush from driving like this, because there is no other explanation for going this fast. I grasp the armrest tightly and push my head back against the headrest. I wonder about where we are going, what we were going to do, or when we are coming back. “I’ve been thinking about how to work through some of your problems.” She says, still weaving through traffic.

“Oh yeah?” I respond nervously. She is inches away from hitting a teenage girl driving in the lane next to us. My hands are gripping the armrest so tightly that my knuckles turn to a pale white.

“I was thinking that maybe we should try a different form of therapy.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“What happened with your father?”

At first, it is hard to concentrate with Sarah snaking through traffic. I think hard about her question one more time despite the discomfort. “Well, he screwed up his life. He drinks. He judges. He lies. He has lost touch with reality and has gotten caught up in his own head; He’s created his own little world and denies the truth and embraces these lies that he makes up in his head in order to justify why he is right about everything.” She looks at me without saying anything but she is hanging on every word. “Not only that, but he also needs someone to love all the time. Always needs someone, no matter how pathetic. That is an insult to true love. I mean, what if I grow up to be like that? What if I grow up lost in my own little world and empty hearted? That’s my biggest fear, that I am going to be like that.”

In the midst of my rant, I fail to notice that we were now on the highway, in the exit lane to Soloman Road. Soloman Road is a old road that leads to miles and miles of nothingness. It has a single lane going west and another lane going east. “We all have fears. I’m scared, too.” She says to me. It’s weird how sometimes you can forget that everyone else can feel, too. We continue to speed westward toward more nothingness. The sun is completely hidden behind the Rocky Mountains. I begin thinking that I wouldn’t mind driving forever.

“What do you fear?” I ask.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I picked psychology as my career. I grew up in the suburbs with two responsible, loving parents. I was educated in private schools and I have never struggled in my life. What do I know about life? How can I help people with their problems if I have never had any of my own? I don’t have any stories about myself. Even my patients have stories, and you have stories. I have nothing except for meaningless degrees and certificates. My biggest fear is that I will never live my life the way I want to; that I’ll just keep doing what will make my parents proud. I will never feel inspired.”

We don‘t speak for a minute, both having a once and a lifetime revelation about nothing. “I want to do something exciting and new.”

When Sarah finishes her sentence, she slams on the breaks and the tires squeal. The car struggles to grip the asphalt below us. My body presses against the seat belt, and my nose points to the floor of the car. When the car finally comes to a halt, I shoot back into my seat and I look over at her to see why we have stopped. Sarah had her hands planted against the steering wheel and her back flat against the back of her seat. She hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. She shows hints of a faint smile. I feel comfortable for the first time. It was like I know that everything is going to be okay.