Don’t Fear the Freudians
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Before I was hired by Dr. Legg, he asked me if I could I juggle, and if I’d ever written for theatre, so I said hell yes to both and he hired me on the spot, and we never looked back. Truth was, all I’d written was a flimsy musical about acne back in sixth grade called, “Truly Sweaty Daze,” and I didn’t have any clue how to juggle three oranges never mind three growling, flaming chainsaws. 
“Am I on here?” she asked.
“Proceed,” I said.
“I’m unsure about my tears,” she said, grabbing the offered Kleenex and diving into the furry, lime-colored beanbag chair in the corner. Jillian shifted her weight until she was perched atop it with her feet tucked in adeptly. “Could be fifty things causing my damp eyes or something as old as cliffs.” 
“Cliffs?”
“Cliffs of Mohr in Ireland,” she said. “Saw them once, so lovely. Staggering. Hundreds of millions of years old, I believe.”
“And the North Atlantic crashing and blasting into the huge rocks below, so tell me about the tears,” I said.
“I had a toasted apple bagel with light cream cheese off the hard-on of a twenty-two-year-old minor league baseball player named Meredith,” she said.
“First name was Meredith?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “There were crackers with jam, followed by a bagel on his crooked pickle, wanker, willy or whatever you wish to call it.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Ninety-eight minutes ago,” she said, blushing. “This morning, actually.” 
“And?” 
“Let me just say the weed we used was wacky, Doc,” she said. “I felt wild.”
“A bagel, though?” I asked. “Don’t they fall apart as he sticks…”
“Yes, but that’s part of the fun and camaraderie that develops around breaking bread together,” she said. “Plus, there was a doctoral student in Russian Literature named Jen in the middle of everything, having the time of her life.” 
“Wait,” I said. “Where did Jen come from?”
“She was Meredith’s enthusiastic friend,” she said. “Getting a Russian Literature Doctorate from University of Hartford.” 
“Had you ever fooled around with a third person like that before?” I asked.
“No, but bagels bring human beings together, whether it’s black and white and yellow or red and blue or progressives, moderates or even the MAGA’s, or those with crooked peckers. Bagels are what America noshes on.”
“Is that the same as the cream cheese and lox found on Eighth Avenue in Brooklyn?” I asked.
“I know nothing of Brooklyn or Manhattan,” she admitted. “Out of my league, really.”
“Nothing?” 
“Manhattan, Kansas I know of,” she said. “And Topeka, for I was once in a child psych clinic, a famous one and my shrink there looked like Orville Redenbacher.”
“Whom?” 
“He had a shock of white hair, huge glasses, but highly effective at selling popcorn.”
“Menninger Clinic was in Topeka, Kansas, right?”