Foote’s Hole (a serial IV)
The second hand on the numberless clock between the two windows behind Lowry Heath’s desk took an extra second to move. He continued, buoyed by Anson’s unquestioning trust. “So! Mister Foote. The way this works is the first session we’ll just sit here and talk together for the first 20 minutes or so and we’ll talk and I’ll observe you. And then we’ll get you up on the table and I’ll just touch you very gently around your head, your chest, your shoulders and your sides and subtly gauge your body’s reactions.”
“Neat!”
“And with that information I can usually get a very good idea of what the problem areas are and structure your therapy accordingly. How does that sound?”
“Fantastic!”
“Thanks. Now. Mister Foote.”
“Oh, you can call me Anson.”
Dr. Heath waved his expansive palm between himself and Anson. “No. I can’t. I’ve found that formality always yields much better focus. Always and without exception. I will call you Mr. Foote. And you may refer to me as Dr. Heath. Cool?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Anson felt that all of this was going remarkably well. He has anticipated a violent and painful experience and here he was only being asked to talk and not even that so much as listen, which he just loved to do, especially to someone as gentle and reassuring as Dr. Heath; and even though Anson was eager to speak his lovely first name, he trusted the doctor on this point and didn’t want to sabotage what could prove to be a very fruitful therapeutic relationship by engaging him with undue familiarity, contenting himself to simply mouth ‘Lowry’ every now and then in his mind. Anson was sure he was sitting in the most comfortable chair in the world. Lowry Heath had a disarmingly gentle voice and his large porcine hands seemed at once to be very powerful and have no joints at all. The chiropractor was certainly proud of the many credentials and diplomas he displayed on the walls framing his desk left and right and referred to them often. The way he would respond to anything Anson would say with “that’s really interesting because you know I…” or “that reminds me of something I…” or “really? You know in college I used to…” gave Anson the impression that they were getting along very well. He made Anson feel like a nephew for whom he felt a special affinity. His office made Anson think of Harvard or Stanford or Oxford; places, which in his mind, he enjoyed a great deal. The large low room was a tasteful mixture oak and walnut wood and, where oak or walnut wood would have proven impractical or unwieldy, faux oak, or faux walnut. The light was a brown mustard you could feel on your skin.
Anson could sense the vortex in the middle of his back loosen slightly as he passively stared at the chiropractor’s eyes. It was as if there were strong but insubstantial tethers connecting Dr. Heath’s eyes to his, which prevented him from looking away or even wanting to. These and the doctor’s almost harmonic voice, guided Anson to the meditative table. It was a refreshingly flat plane with infinite coordinates and vectors implying probabilities, change, motion, and focus. Anson’s breathing (while still labored and short, to be sure) developed a metric rhythm that did not interfere too much with his concentration and perspective which, he could tell, were particularly important to Dr. Heath and contributant to a good and healthy spine.
It occurred to Anson that it would be very difficult for him to sweat on this table; he noted that he had not the slightest inclination to turn onto his side, which he always felt whenever he found himself supine. It was only now that Anson heard the faint Spanish guitar music (that had, in fact, been playing since his arrival) through some entertainment generator and speakers he craned around to locate but could not.
“Please lay back down Mr. Foote.”
“Certainly, Dr. Heath. My apologies.”
As Anson lay there, he found himself puzzling over an exceptional statistic he encountered at work the day before. It would seem that, statistically speaking, a disproportionately large percentage of persons in the Cincinnati area who have been classified as Exempt from Suspicion or Reproach – or, EXSoRs – worked as, or had close relationships which persons who worked as, real estate agents. Indeed, fully 9% of all EXSoRs in Cincinnati, which is like a giant statistical red scar under the left eye of an otherwise blemishless mid-western face. Anson loved to puzzle over these anomalies; behind them lay real stories about real genuine people, living real lives in places like Cincinnati, Ohio or Grant’s Pass, Oregon—which always made Anson think Grass Pants, Oregon for some reason, which never failed to make him chuckle and wonder about the people who might live real genuine lives in a place called Grass Pants, or, for that matter, Cincinnati, OH. It was hard for Anson to imagine anyone actually saying, “I live in Cincinnati, Ohio” with a straight face, although, he was sure, that Cincinnati was probably a beautiful place with excellent housing as evidenced by the relative absence of discontentment or subversion among its very real real estate agents.
“Ok all done, Mr. Foote. Let me help you up.”
