As requested by SwirlyGirl, here’s the story “Bare Feet.”

My practice isn’t too exciting. I’m a psychologist, and I became one because I love to people watch. When I was watching people, I always made up stories about them. I figured, I might as well really know their true stories, so I went to school for it. In other words, I turned my hobby into a profession. Not many people can claim that, and for that I am grateful.

Most of my patients are your run-of-the-mill complainers. Some want to blame their mothers; others their dads. A small fraction blame their kids for their problems. Hardly anyone blames themselves. At least not at the beginning. Over time, they start to realize that the problem starts with them. Once they reach that point, I’m done with them. The sessions are over, and I feel not victorious or helpful, but more relieved. It amazes me how long it takes for some people to figure things out.

I have one patient though that I can’t figure out. He’s 43, twice divorced and has three kids. He runs a deli down on 4th and Spark. I really shouldn’t tell you more; I have some code I’m supposed to live by, but really, who cares? Today, nothing’s sacred; everyone can find out anything they want about everyone else. The world is transparent, and anyone that wants to remain mysterious is considered a freak, a sociopath. It used to be the other way around.

But this guy…I’ll call him Stan, just to placate my doctor-patient thingamajig. Stan and I meet every Tuesday at 3:30 p.m. He always arrives wearing a long, brown overcoat, even in the summer. He wears square, black glasses because his hero, Buddy Holly, wore them. He doesn’t know how to play guitar, though; he just listens to Holly’s old 45s on a Gramophone his grandmother gave him.

Every Tuesday when he arrives, he takes off his overcoat, his hat, and his jacket. In winter, instead of a jacket, he wears a cardigan sweater, which he takes off. Sometimes he whistles while undressing. He does all of this before even saying hello to me. This takes all of five minutes. Once he sits in the chair opposite of me, he finally looks me in the eye, greets me, and shakes my hand. It’s very formal, like we’re about to discuss his stock portfolio. I’m young, younger than him; I don’t understand what all this formality is about.

The first few sessions were stilted. I learned that he lost a beloved dog when he was nine, because his dad thought it was peeing on everything and decided to have it taken to a shelter to be killed. Stan never admitted to him that he was actually peeing on everything because he wanted attention. This Jesus dog would haunt Stan for the rest of his life. He never forgave himself and became overtly giving even to those that didn’t deserve it, such as his first wife, who cuckolded him.

After those first few sessions, Stan became more comfortable with me, and I became less comfortable with him. It’s because of the bare feet. In addition to taking off his coat, his hat, and his jacket (or his sweater), he started to take off his shoes and socks, too. He never told me why. Yes, I asked, but he avoided the question by bringing up his beloved dog or his second wife, the one who got him into the deli business.

Before Stan served meat, he was a security guard for an apartment building on Jones and Kapers. He worked the overnight shift, and he loved it, because it afforded him time read and think and dream. He told me he’d put his feet up on the desk and put his hands behind his head, close his eyes and imagine he was playing the Hadrian’s Ball, guitar in hand, a backing band, and screaming girls aching to touch him. The phone would ring him out of his dream, but he didn’t mind. It was one small price to pay to be paid to dream.

Sometimes, when Stan was talking about that beloved dog, I’d daydream, too. Trust me, all psychologists do it; most of you aren’t that interesting. Stan would be talking about how the dog used to love to play catch with a Frisbee, and I would imagine a story about why he went barefoot in my office.

In my fictional account of his past life, Stan grew up with a very domineering father who loved white carpet. He didn’t let anyone wear shoes in the house, and if he was in a foul mood, not even socks. Stan, one day, on a rebellious bent, wore his dirtiest shoes on the white carpet when his dad wasn’t home. He left one long black streak by the sofa, which he quickly covered up by changing the layout of the living room, angling the sofa over the stain and moving the plants away from the window. His dad, owner of a classic case of OCD, immediately noticed the change of scenery and ordered Stan to rearrange the furniture. His dad, however, didn’t notice the stain for almost a week for some reason. Or maybe he did, but let his anger slowly build.

On a Friday after school, Stan arrived home, and his dad greeted him at the door with his leather belt in hand. He made Stan take off his shoes and socks outside, and then made him run around in the grass and dirt. After that, he told him to come up the steps to the house and rest his feet just inside the door. Stan felt the sting of the belt 20 times and the directive to never bring his dirty feet into the house or he’ll be cast out for good. Stan crawled into his room and soaked his dirty, swelling feet in a tub of salt water.

Of course, this doesn’t explain why he goes barefoot in front of me. Maybe I’m a father figure to him, even though I’m half his age, and I’m not so demanding.

I do know that his father was strict. He suffered from OCD. But I don’t know if he beat Stan. I’ve asked, but every leading question ends in a forest of answers that look nothing like what I hoped for.

Some days, Stan doesn’t take off his shoes and socks, and this worries me. Everyone is predictable, and when you stop being predictable, you start making the world nervous. The world likes its routines; throw it off one millisecond, and you have a quake, a storm, a riot on your hands.

During one session, Stan brought up his first wife, but just in passing. He was telling me a story about the first time he tasted a hamburger, a real hamburger and not the fast-food kind. He told me his first wife cooked one for him, and he thought that because she cooked for him, she loved him. He then paused, unsnapped his watchstrap, and snapped it back again. I waited for him to speak. When he finally did, he mentioned that he was thinking of closing the deli. I asked him why, but he never answered. He said the appointment was over and that he had to get back home because one of his children would be visiting him.

I went home that night and tried to read some science fiction, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Stan closing his deli. I decided to take a walk and visit it. This is usually a no-no for me; I don’t want to know more than my patients allow me to know during their visits. But with Stan, I felt some kind of obligation to give him more than I should.

That late at night, the deli was already closed. Very few people were out and about. The moon darkened half its face. I felt like a criminal peering into the windows, cupping my hands around my eyes to see deep into the shop. Nothing stood out, though. A few tables and chairs, an old wooden counter top, and a case full of meat and bread. I laughed to myself at the stereotypical-ness of it.

On the way home, I thought of getting out of the psychology business. All these people and their problems and me not really able to do anything about it but listen and gently nudge them onto a positive and constructive path was starting to get to me. I was thinking that I wanted to do something with my hands, like build fishing rods or work under sinks or even slice meat. Other peoples’ minds were crowding out my own thoughts. What I loved was becoming a chore, a task, or as my dad would say, a stubborn horse.

I used to keep a journal, but that too became taxing. I found I was writing more about my patients than myself. Or I was putting myself in their place, living their lives how I think they should instead of letting them be. I notice that a lot; no one let’s anyone just be. As soon as you’re born, the scissors and strings come out and you’re put in a neat package and delivered to people who say they love you for being you. But it’s not true, and no matter how many different ways you try to be yourself without concern for others’ thoughts, you can’t escape it. Someone is always judging you, stripping stories from you or worse, making them up. And the best you can do is to beat them to the punch, bare yourself before them before they can do their worse. Your openness—your honesty—will shock and scare them, and then you can move past them.

Last week, Stan didn’t show up for his appointment. I thought about calling him to find out why, but I decided against it. I made up a story for my own amusement that he didn’t come because he and his youngest child were visiting the park and he was running with her, both barefoot in the grass, pulling a kite into the air.

It was so much better than the truth.

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