Crazy Talk

This is a piece from our creative writing group exercise re-done and edited. I still don't LOVE it. But I can live with it. (Update: Edited, but I'm still not happy)

Sometimes he felt like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel in a crazed state of mind. Getting nowhere in life seemed to come naturally to him, stuck in a dead-end unenviable job as a mid-priced car salesman and still living in his parents house was not part of his ten-year plan. Neither was it how he had thought he would have ended up after he had graduated from one of the top law schools in the country.

The girlfriend front was not looking fantastic either. The woman his mother had set him up with had refused to return his calls. He could barely believe the circumstances. His mother had to set him up, and why not too. All that was left of him was his dwindling bank account, the little fringe around his ears, and that hated job which gave him the appearance of a slimeball. Attractive, intelligent and sexy, the kind of woman he used to date during his glory days, could be forgotten. That woman loved men with large titles, larger stock portfolios, and even larger...

"Neil, focus," his psychiatrist's voice cut through his pondering.

"Doc, what can I say? I imagine I'm floating in a sea of sharks." His shrink sighed and scribbled on his paper once again. Neil glanced at all his impressive degrees on the wall behind him. "Maybe he knew a guy who made these for fun," he thought to himself. He could get a couple for himself, and also one that said, "Neil Symonds, New Man". That would do wonders for his self-esteem.

"Neil Neil Neil, what have I said about metaphors? Let's just stick to specifics, shall we?" said the psychiatrist, removing his thick dark-framed glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. Neil was a difficult patient. Their sessions were filled with arguments and intense dramatic dialogues. The wise doctor played along, he knew it gave Neil the impression of the courtroom.

"Okay..." Neil slapped his thighs and sat upright. He tried to focus on the doctor's thick moustache, but its stiff brush-like appearance made him laugh, and he let out a snort.

"Neil!"

"Yes Doc. My life is going nowhere. I still live at home. I am younger than you but you have more hair on your upper lip than I have on my entire head. The last date I had refuses to return my calls and she ranked a 2/10. How the hell do you think I feel?"

"I think we spoke about the 'Fuck-O-Meter', Neil," he reprimanded sternly. Then his face softened. "Neil, talk to me."

"Jeez doc, you're starting to sound like my mother," he remarked with a smirk. Neil swung his legs over the sofa's edge and sat up. He looked at his psychiatrist straight.

"You have been happily married to an ex-news anchor for twenty-seven years, doc. Your kid is in Yale Law and you make a $150 an hour. You don't fucking care, mate."

The doctor was not willing to concede defeat. "Neil, you love soccer, don't you? Look at life as a game. You're the player and the ball is yours. You have the choice to take it right, left, forwards, backwards, or even pass it on to another player. Now until you are in possession of that ball, which I assume you still are at this point in your life, imagine that you need to obey the rules to reach the goalpost. That goalpost signifies every goal you want to set for yourself in the short and long term. The rules of the game signify the discipline you will need to enforce upon yourself in your life and the commitment to follow through. Now Neil, if you break any of these rules, you will get a yellow card or even a red card, which means you will have to start all over again. You follow?"

Neil looked vacantly out the window, mute. He knew what starting all over meant. Like the time Fiona had left him and taken half his life. Or the time he had lost his job together with his law license at Miller-Helms-Dunn.

If some bastard told him to start over again, he would jump off the goddamned building.

He looked at the doctor and smiled, "Sure."