Don’t Fear the Freudians

“May I confess something sordid, Dr. Able?” Jillian asked as she walked into my office.
“I have no more absolution gift-cards left in my wallet today,” I said. “Although, there are ready and willing churches down the block aways where you might have a lot better luck.” 
“Don’t be coy, Doc,” she said. “I need a wise friend who’ll guide me past life’s potholes, quicksand, and thin ice.”
“I was trained for all that,” I said. “I can weave tidbits and scraps of Dr. Freud’s life and discuss his theories and lessons and help you tremendously.”
“Hotdog,” she said, slapping her thigh. “We may have ourselves a new show on our hands here.”
It was the first day back without our Dr. Legg. He had been a giant in the business; it’s why both the adolescents and young adults still called him Doctor Snow-God. He was seventy-four with a shock of white hair and full white beard as he stood six foot eight and rumbled all over the Institute’s grounds like some sly, benevolent Sasquatch, quoting everyone from Bugs Bunny to Homer Simpson to Dickens and back again to Isaiah 9:2; “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” 
Dr. Snow God was always whispering that line. Unfortunately, he had suffered an aneurism after a client came hurdling down on a toboggan at Powder Ridge Mountain on the eve of Christmas Eve, conquering said client’s abundant fears of sledding and of being outside while a snow squall occurred. Phin was from Dhaka, Bangladesh by way of Yale University and the recording of his televised jaunt ended up being a huge success, both ratings wise on a major network, and for Phin who’d leapt into the arms of Doctor Legg, both weeping happy tears. “Well done!” the doctor said. “You’ve exceeded all our expectations.”
After the lights and cameras were packed-up and sent back on trucks to the Institute garage in Hartford on Retreat Avenue, Dr. Legg collapsed in a snowbank outside a Dunkin Donuts in Middlefield, Connecticut, just off Route 66. He’d been comatose ever since at Hartford Hospital, ICU. 
On New Year’s Eve I got a text from The Institute’s Board, written all in caps. “DR. ABLE, THE AMERICAN PEOPLE WANT THIS SHOW TO CONTINUE AND SO DO WE. EVEN IF IT INCLUDES LOSING OUR BELOVED DR. LEGG. KEEP THOSE TELEVISED CONFESSIONS COMING, YOU’VE GOT OUR STRONG SUPPORT. AND PLEASE TRY AND USE JILLIAN MORE OFTEN THIS WEEK, OKAY?”
In one corner of my office rests a broken-in lime-green beanbag chair, and the Emmy award itself we had won twice over the years. “Jesus Christ himself made it to thirty-three so our new age limit for young adults is eighteen to thirty-five. We welcome anyone who wishes to find peace and solace deep within their brains so they can come and heal.” 
“A few of you will do it in front of the camera, while most others will help write or produce the show, or design the sets, or even help with makeup or lighting. In the Comfort Zone we’ve got an abundance of art supplies, colored paper, props, Nerf Footballs, Whiffle Ball bats, multi-colored pillows and squooshy stress balls and grip improvers, and a punching bag.” 
This new promotion for me was supposed to be gradual, a gentle transition of power over a nine-month period from Dr. Legg to me, Dr. Percy Able. But now Legg’s coma occurred, I didn’t know what to do. I was seated at Dr. Legg’s old desk that first day back, and I tried to make it a bit homier with some peonies and had a picture of my wife, Aimee, along with our three black Newfoundland’s which were as big as bears, huge slobbering beings that she appeared to love more than me.