In Confidence

Pt. 1/x

“Good morning Javier, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, come in.”

“Sup Doc,” muttered Javier, stepping into the consulting room. He held his head low, avoiding eye contact. The door shut behind him with a loud clang that echoed through the small space.

Doc hated the door of his makeshift office, but tried to make do once he realized this was the best he was going to get. The acoustics were terrible, everything echoed, and building policy prohibited hanging tapestries or other acoustic absorbers. Sometimes he wondered whether admin would let him move his office to the boiler room—at least there he’d have some privacy—but there was probably a safety protocol against that sort of thing.

“Do you prefer the couch, or the chair?” Doc gestured to the only furniture he could offer. The “chair” was a short, four-legged stool that sat about 5 feet from another stool, on which sat Doc’s notepad and pencil. The “couch” was a small, repurposed Murphy bed that was as much a cot as a bed, with a few pillows stacked at the head. “If you take the couch, I’ll be sitting a few feet behind you on my chair. You won’t be able to see my face unless you sit up and turn around, but some patients find lying on the couch helpful. You don’t have to worry about eye contact or my facial expressions or anything like that. You can just say whatever comes to your mind.”

Javier shrugged, sat on the couch, and laid down. Every few seconds he squirmed and shifted positions. This went on for a minute or two. The silence was broken by the occasional drop of water plopping on the floor from a crack in the ceiling. Doc noted Javier’s discomfort but remained silent, having taken a seat on his stool, pencil and notepad in hand. He saw Javier’s nares flare slightly.

“So, you gonna do this, or what? I ain’t got all day,” Javier blurted out, rolling his eyes as he looked at the gray ceiling and adjusted the uncomfortable pillows yet again.

“We are doing it, Javier. You talk, I listen. You try to let yourself say whatever comes to mind, without judging or filtering it. It doesn’t matter if it sounds weird or embarrassing. I listen carefully to everything you say and try to understand you as best I can. That way, I can use my understanding to help you deal with whatever problems brought you here.”

“Yo, this sounds like some gay-ass shit, man. Maybe you could find some little joto to play along with you, but this ain’t me. I’ll stick to lifting weights.”

“I like weights too. I hit 500 on my deadlift last week. But—about the other thing you said—what about this is gay?”

“Huh?” Javier almost got up and turned to look at Doc, but stopped and repositioned again, placing a pillow under his knees for support.

“You said this was ‘gay-ass shit’, something for un joto. Did you mean therapy is only for homosexual men? Or did you mean something else by it?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s just weird, you know?”

“Some patients find it weird. This isn’t the way people usually talk to each other. But we’re not in a usual situation, either. I’m not your friend, or family. I don’t work with you. I’m not the cops or a judge. I’m a medical doctor who specializes in psychiatry, and I’m trained to help people deal with certain kinds of problems in their lives.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Problems getting along with other people, feeling down all the time, too much worrying, anger management, making the same dumbass decisions over and over again. And then there’s the more serious stuff like bipolar and schizophrenia, but you can’t treat those with just therapy. You need medicine for that.”

“I’m not a schizo, bro.”

“I didn’t say you were, Javier, and nothing I’ve seen so far makes me think you have schizophrenia.”

“OK, so then what am I? You’re the doctor. Do whatever doctor stuff you do so you can tell me what I need to do.”

Doc held in a sigh. “I can’t read your mind, Javier. Some friends of yours wanted you to see me for a reason. Can you tell me why they wanted you to talk to me?”

Javier lay motionless, chewing on his lip. The minutes passed silently. A few times he looked ready to say something, but kept going back to chewing his lip after letting out a slight snort and rolling his eyes. Doc resisted the urge to look at his watch, but didn’t want the session to end without getting at least a little traction.

“OK, let’s try this,” Doc said, breaking the silence, “Have you ever been to confession?”

“A few times, when I was a kid.”

“And in confession you can tell the priest anything, right?”

“Uh, I guess? I don’t really know.”

“I’m pretty sure you can. Now, we’re clearly in a different situation, but that part is the same. You can say whatever you want in here, and I am sworn to keep everything you say a secret between you and me.”

“Wait, you’re saying this ain’t some gay shit, and then you tell me to be like a little boy going to a priest?”

Doc smiled, restraining a chuckle. He didn’t think Javier was clever enough for that kind of humor. He was also impressed by Javier’s ability to think analogically while remaining annoyingly concrete about everything. As he considered his next move, the clang of another door rang out from down the hall, followed by the echoes of a few voices. Doc tapped his pencil against the notepad a few times.

“That’s funny, Javier. Good one. Look, maybe I can help you along here since this is your first time in therapy. I heard about what happened to you a few weeks ago. In the showers. Does that have anything to do with why you’re here?”

Javier squeezed the pillow between his knees. The fidgeting stopped. Between the clanging of doors Doc thought he heard Javier’s teeth grinding.

“Unless you’re about to hold a motherfucker down for me while I slice his neck up, I don’t need you.”

“I hear what you’re saying. Look, we’re almost out of time. But, before we stop, I want to give you something to think about until next week. This little back and forth between you and me just now was a good example of what we psychiatrists call ‘resistance’. For now, think of ‘resistance’ as whatever is going on inside of you that prevents you from talking to me with total openness and honesty, like when you talk to yourself when you’re alone, or to your best friend, or to God, or whatever. We all have resistances. They come in many forms. It could be some deep issue you have connecting with other people, or fear, or shame, or it could be as simple as embarrassment. Like feeling awkward telling your doctor your dick doesn’t work anymore, even though you know he’s the guy who gives you the pills to fix it. Sometimes it doesn’t make any sense.”

Doc silently cursed himself for his blunder, hoping Javier didn’t run with the dick reference. Meanwhile, the voices in the hall grew louder as more doors opened and shut. “One more thing,” he added, “who referred you to me?”

“Huh?” Javier slowly sat up on the bed, swinging his feet around to hang off the side. Clangs echoed louder in the hall.

“Who told you to come see me? What’s his name?” Doc leaned forward, fidgeting with his pencil as the cacophony approached.

“Oh, you mean Manny?” Javier stood up, simultaneously stretching his back and rubbing his stomach in hunger.

“Manny…Is that Manny Vasquez?” Doc stood up as well and walked to the side of the room, placing the notepad and pencil on a small wall-mounted shelf containing a few worn psychotherapy books and a novel or two. Javier nodded.

“Tell him I appreciate the referral,” said Doc, right hand outstretched for a handshake, cradling a small, folded piece of paper in his palm. Javier hurriedly reached into his pocket, removed a neatly folded piece of paper, and returned the hand shake, each exchanging papers and returning them to their respective pockets.

As they pocketed the papers, a voice blared from an overhead loudspeaker, “Unit C, prepare for lunch movement.” More clangs, doors opening and closing. Shouts of authority could be heard over the background din of voices.

The voice came again, “Unit C, in line.” Doc and Javier each took a step toward the front of the room, standing a few feet behind the door, hands by their sides. The door slid open, revealing a tall, uniformed man standing on the opposite side, arms crossed. Doc gestured “after you” to Javier.

“Morales, step forward,” ordered the man, “you were supposed to be done five minutes before lunch. Don’t go overtime again or I’ll revoke your privileges, comprende?”

“Y-Yes, sir, officer,” stammered Javier, stepping forward as two guards cuffed his wrists and ankles and led him out of the cell to the line of other inmates standing against the wall of the hallway.

“And Doc,” the guard added, half turned away, “Please keep track of the time. We gave you a good watch for a reason. This only works if it stays orderly.”

“Understood, sir,” replied Doc.

“Alright, you can step forward now. Officer Watts?” the guard called out, summoning another guard behind him. Watts stepped forward, cuffs in hand. Doc took another step forward, slowly raising his arms. Watts secured the cuffs on Doc’s wrists, then his ankles, gesturing for him to move into line.

“One last thing,” said the guard, waving for Watts to go prepare the other inmates for movement to the dining hall. He lowered his voice and leaned in towards Doc, “I can’t make our appointment tomorrow. The kids are sick and my wife can’t take any more time off work, so I have to stay home.” The guard paused, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “Is that, uh, ok?”

“No worries, Officer Eriksson,” said Doc, barely audible. “I think I’ve got some time next Thursday morning, if that works for you. I can check my calendar and confirm later today.”

“I’ll find you during rec time this afternoon, behind the squat rack in the yard. You can let me know then,” Eriksson said. “Oh, and, uh, thanks,” he added before turning around again and marching to the head of the line, baton now in hand, gesturing for the other guards to hustle. He pointed the baton at one inmate still shuffling out of his cell, “Hey, Slowpoke Gonzales, andale! Get a move on!”

Doc stepped into line, briefly glancing back at his cell to make sure his notepad was still on the shelf where he had left it. His cell door slammed shut in unison with the others on the block.

“Unit C, proceed to dining hall.”

The inmates started the slow march to lunch, walking single file, chains rattling, echoing throughout the prison halls. Doc half heard someone say what’s for lunch, but his mind was still preoccupied with other things. Hand in his pocket, he flipped the small piece of paper between his fingers as he turned the name over in his mind again and again. Manny Vasquez. Manny Vasquez. Manny Vasquez…

To be continued…