Jonathan Ferrini, author of Saturday evening: “Shaken, not stirred.”, has previously published a collection of his short stories titled “Hearts Without Sleeves. Twenty-Three Stories”. He received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA and currently resides in San Diego.
Mystery Tribune has previously published Sand and Ash as well as My Coffee Date with Death by Mr. Ferrini.
*****
Roger enjoyed a quiet Saturday evening with his wife, Yvette. He built a thriving psychotherapy practice of forty years, enjoyed it’s rewards, and honed his practice down to a handful of carefully, and selfishly selected, long-standing, cash paying, geriatric clients requiring anxiety management relating mostly to their physical afflictions, grown children, and grandchildren.
Roger earned multiple degrees in psychology and psychoanalysis. He settled in Pasadena and praiseworthy word of mouth enabled him to build a successful practice catering to the mental health of the privileged who live behind iron gates with ivy-covered walls. These included patients living inside old-money Pasadena mansions and new-money Hollywood creatives in and around Beverly Hills.
Roger learned first-hand that “money doesn’t buy happiness” and mental health doesn’t know “zip codes”. Over the years, with exceptions, he limited his practice in favor of staid old-money found in Pasadena where legacy wealth from banking, railroad, real estate, and petroleum dividends was less “tedious” than psychological trauma related to Hollywood studio deals, actors, directors, writers, or studio chiefs.
Roger’s custom home was designed in reverence to Frank Lloyd Wright and the living room adhered to the principle of “Organic Architecture” promoting a symbiosis between habitation and natural surroundings which created a Zen-like harmony Roger revered.
The flames inside the quarried marble stone fireplace created shadow dancers pirouetting about the living room. Antique Tiffany lamps provided subtle, warm, amber lighting, inviting one into reflection, a good book, or conversation. Roger and his wife chose to indulge in “The Complete Collection of Oscar Wilde” and “Conde Nast Traveler”, respectively. Yvette was eager to surprise Roger with a wedding anniversary trip of a lifetime; the glossy pages were directing her to French Polynesia.
Roger’s custom home was designed in reverence to Frank Lloyd Wright and the living room adhered to the principle of “Organic Architecture”…
This evening, they selected Chopin’s “Nocturne Op:9 No:2” brimming with delicate beauty by the twenty-year old composer. It was perfect for a relaxing evening as the vinyl record elegantly revolved on the turntable placed atop a Herman Miller mid-century modern walnut desk upon which Roger placed a gold desk nameplate referencing his credo, borrowed from Ian Fleming, regarding the burdens of a psychoanalyst,
“Shaken, not stirred”.
A vintage green sixties rotary dial telephone attached to an obsolete answering machine with Roger since beginning his practice were the perfect pairing to the desk. They were attached to a long-forgotten landline.
Yvette was sipping chamomile tea and Roger enjoyed a premium cognac from a crystal snifter.
The obtrusive ring tone familiar with the old phone broke the stillness of the evening smashing the plate glass separating the past from the present. Roger awaited the tired answering machine to awake and greet the caller, but no message was left which heightened Roger’s curiosity to an uncomfortable level until the phone rang again.
Roger leapt from the chair to take the call. Yvette closed the pages of the Conde Nast magazine in astonishment because her husband was pulled away by an inextricable force she hadn’t witnessed in decades.
“Hello, Brendan. Of course, I remember….
“Priscilla, oh dear!
“Acapulco?…
“We can manage this by telephone consultation….
“This is a most sudden and uncommon request but I understand the implications….
“That’s very generous of you…
“I’ll phone upon arrival. Goodnight.”
Roger was in “crisis mode” elevating his wife’s tension.
“I’ve been summoned, excuse me, we’ve been summoned to Acapulco for a crisis intervention.”
“What on earth are you referring to Roger? You’re flustered in a manner I haven’t witnessed since your days as a young psychotherapist on-call with the hospital.”
“A former patient phoned me and apparently reunited with a very troubled old flame named Priscilla.”
“Get hold of yourself. What’s going on?”
“Brendan has agreed to fly us both down to Acapulco immediately and arrange our stay while I sort out this crisis with him.”
“I seem to recall you mentioning ‘Priscilla’ about twenty years ago, a girlfriend of sorts, or wife to one of your Hollywood clients. If it’s the same woman, I won’t take this trip into savage depravity with you, honey.”
As Roger hurriedly packed a bag for the trip, he felt dizzy, his palms began to perspire, and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He recalled Brendan’s description of his whirlwind nine-month romance, marriage, and annulment with Priscilla as,
“A first-class ticket into the nine circles of Dante’s Inferno.”
Roger realized he was breaking every tenet of commonsense and therapist-patient management protocol but was pulled towards the trip like a magnet. Roger was acting as his own therapist, surmising the magnet was the mental release from a stayed, predictable existence, and his mind was starved for the adventure he enjoyed as a young, “fly by the pants” psychotherapist parachuting into “harm’s way” with every consult. Roger successfully “connected the dots” of his irrational action and breathed deeply enabling him to pack his bag.
“I’ll call you upon my arrival, dear. I apologize for this frenzied end to our beautiful evening together.”
“A black limousine has arrived out front, honey. Evidently, your patient wishes to ensure you a seamless trip into the first circle of purgatory.
“I hope for your sake he provided you with a return ticket!”
Roger settled into the comfort of his plush leather cabin seat and was the only passenger on board the eight-seat private jet. The captain’s announcement sounded,
“Weather in Acapulco is clear, eighties, and humid. The weather forecast indicates a tropical storm approaching from offshore. Flight time to the beautiful Mexican Riviera is four hours and twenty-two minutes. Enjoy the flight.”
Roger sipped a Martini and placed the plush seat into a reclining position. He reminisced about the romantic episodes of Brendan and recalled the trauma inflicted by his newlywed, Priscilla.
Although twenty years had passed since their sessions regarding the nine-month relationship, Roger’s memory became acutely sharp as if a warning signal deep within his mind had sounded.
“I met Priscilla on my fortieth birthday in the lobby of the famous pink hotel on the coast near San Diego after a month of emails and phone calls. It was our first meeting and in walked the most beautiful and elegant woman I could ever imagine; Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” magnified ten-fold!
“After a torrid night of lovemaking, I laid in bed alongside her as she slept. I was determined to marry her. Within a month, I found myself the groom at a no guest marriage ceremony within the Presidential Suite of a five-star hotel and casino in Vegas. The concierge found a Rabbi to perform the nuptials on last-minute notice.
“We engaged in a vicious depraved argument on our wedding night. It should have been a warning to get the hell out but each of her inexplicable emotional outbursts sucked me deeper into a masochistic dynamic I couldn’t free myself from. If only I could repair her mental torment, she might reciprocate the love I was devotedly providing her, Roger.
“With each month, I fell deeper into the pit of hell as if riding an express elevator. It wasn’t until she pulled a butcher’s knife on me in our kitchen, did I seek your counsel. Only a clever psychotic could lead me to believe the knife pull was my fault!
“I’ve produced a dozen horror movies but never thought I’d ‘star’ in one.
“Life dealt me a nine-month trip into Dante’s Inferno, the first circle was heavenly but the remaining circles became increasingly frightening, Roger.”
A chill ran down Roger’s spine at the same moment the jet hit turbulence causing the Martini to spill.
Roger’s intense grip to the leather seat was noticeable to the approaching flight attendant.
“Don’t let the turbulence shake you, doctor. I’ll fetch you a double. This trip may be a bumpy ride!”
*****
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