Ask Not For Whom The Therapist Knocks. (He knocks for thee.)

It was late on an August afternoon in Sioux City, Iowa -- a city that's not as bad as it smells. The late summer temps had been flirting with the century mark that week and the humidity made it feel like a YMCA steam room. Of course, the cicadas enjoyed the weather. They'd crawled out of the ground sometime during the last week. Most of us hoped the smell from the few remaining packing plants and rendering operations would choke the little bastards before school started next week. No such luck, though. The meaty, winged insects were cheerfully whirring away in a rising and falling buzz. A local TV news reporter said last night that it's the males of the species that make the most noise. She said they make their wings vibrate loudly in order to attract females.

They want cicada sex, I guess.

Nonetheless, they should be out of here in a couple of weeks. The reporter said it's a whole lot worse out east.

As for me, I'm a retired licensed mental health counselor, often referred to as a psychotherapist or a professional helper. I was in the helping profession for somewhere between 25 and 30 years (I'm not exactly sure of the exact number anymore.) I still like to do some counseling, only I don't call myself that. Instead, I call myself a professional helper. But I also do some other things as well. I'm a photographer and writer, too. I was a weekly newspaper editor at a number of little towns off and on when I got tired and burned out from being a therapist. Neither job paid very much, but they both allowed me to snoop around in people's lives and to make some folks pissed off.

This afternoon I had been taking photographs of the setting sunlight on the red bricks of Our Lady of Groveling Agony Catholic Church. It's a building with a long history here in Sioux City going back to 1916. This is the second building to go up on this spot, the first being nothing more than a small wood-frame building that one time was a saloon. Parishioners named it the Church of Wretched Excess. This name stuck for about 10 years until it burned during a melee that started over a shortage of steak.

The sun had slipped behind the Nebraska Hills off in the west, so I walked back to my car to put my camera gear and tripod away. As I opened the trunk I looked over at the brick building I had parked next to. It was a fairly large apartment building across the street from the church. There was a hand-lettered sign in a lower, garden-level apartment window. It said, "If your locked out please DO NOT KNOCK on Windows" (sic).

Of course, me being a trained and skilled psychotherapist I knew that was a contrarian invitation to go over and knock on the window. Loudly. Which is what I did.

I waited.

There was no response for about 10 seconds or so.

Then I knocked again. Even louder. And I yelled, "Hey! I need to talk to you."

I squatted down and peeked through a space in the lower part of the window where one of the blinds had been pulled away. I could see a man of about 50-some years old wearing a wife-beater undershirt walking up to the window. He had a can of beer in his hand. "Go away, idiot!" he shouted. "Can't you read? It says don't knock if you're locked out!"

Not one to be easily discouraged, I responded, "But I'm not locked out, sir, that's the problem."

"What? Whadya mean you're not locked out? It says don't knock on the window, you stupid asshole!"

"Well, calling me names is certainly not the way to solve your problem," said I, quite indignantly. "After all, I'm a retired mental health counselor."

The apartment resident was a tad bit flummoxed if you ask me. "A counselor?" he queried. "I don't need a counselor. I don't go to school and my kids have moved out. Maybe my grandkids . . ."

"No, no, you've got this all wrong my confused friend. Remember, I'm here to help you get everything straightened out in a couple of areas," I added encouragingly. "So, let's start with your full name, last name first. I need it for your records. I'll also need your phone number, social security number, physician's name, phone number, and medical insurance company's name if you have one. And if you do, I'll need to make a copy of your card and get the billing address and phone number, too."

The resident was now peeking through a small space in the blinds. "What the hell's the matter with you? I'm not giving you anything. Read the sign. I'm not confused. And I'm not your friend!"

"If you say so, Mr. . . . uhh . . . oh, here it is, right on this envelope! Neville Synom."

"What the . . . ? How the hell did you get my name, you creep?"

"Now remember what I said about name-calling Mr. Synom. It only impedes the therapeutic process. You must trust the process, Neville."

"I told you before to leave. Whoever you are. Now go before I . . ."

"I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Gary Dickson, Professional Helper. Do you mind if I call you Jake? It's so much less formal than Neville."

"No, I don't want you to call me Jake or Neville. And how did you get that envelope?"

"Oh, that was easy. I just waited on the front porch of the apartment building until the letter carrier came. Then I talked to him about football and Covid and stuff. Then I told him I'd take the mail for your apartment. Apartment C, right? Lucky there was only a couple of letters. One from a church in Tulsa and the other a past-due notice from the City of Sioux City for water and garbage. You know, Jake, you need to pay that bill by Wednesday or they're going to shut you off."

"Stop calling me Jake!" he bellowed.

"So you'd prefer the more formal Neville then? Well, that's fine. Then let's get back to discussing your issues, shall we, Neville?"

"Don't call me Neville either, asshole!"

"But I thought your last name was Synom. Boy, you sure know how to confuse a guy. Well, let's call you Jake, then. So, Jake, how many people are going to be attending this wedding reception? I need a headcount so I know how much chicken and roast beef and side dishes to send you. And are there any special dietary requests? We'll also need to know the types of drinks your guests are going to want -- that is if you want our catering service to provide them.

"Of course, we also need to know about dessert items. I can provide Jello, chocolate, vanilla, or Neopolitan ice cream, flan, or ice cream novelties like fudge bars."

Jake had begun yelling at someone else in the apartment, probably his wife. "No Bridg'ette, it's not the nuns from across the street. No, I don't know who it is. He says he's a counselor who wants to cater a wedding reception we're having."

Bridg'ette pushed her nose through the blinds to see who Jake was talking to. She was a redhead, skinny, wore shorts and a red Nebraska Huskers t-shirt. She was maybe in her late 40s if I were to guess. "Who is it then, dear? Oh, my. Are you sure he isn't one of those out-of-state youngsters selling subscriptions to the Denver Post? They seem to come around here a lot."

"Good evening, ma'am," I said in my most polite insurance salesman manner. "I'm a local retired mental health counselor and I've noticed your husband has been having problems and I'd like to help. You see, I'm a professional helper. Or, as they call us in Texas, a PRO-fessional Hepper. What do you think about that, Bridget?" Then I winked at her with one of my eyes.

"It's Bridg'ette!" she said huffily. "I have a French pedigree."

"Of course you do, Madam. So, as I was helping Jacques here, he was going to order our Happy Family Special for your wedding reception. It comes with fowl and boeuf plus side dishes for 200 and ice cream, sparkling water, and champagne to feed the whole hoard."

"Who's Jacques?" Bridg'ette queried her man. "Is that your cousin from Omaha, honey?"

"Never you mind my little sugar plum. You go back to watching Perry Mason and I'll be with you in a bit." Jake gently put his hand on his wife's shoulder and turned her towards the living room. "As for you, Frenchy, I haven't ordered the Denver Post or Sioux City Journal. Nor am I having a wedding reception. All I wanted you to know with my sign is that if you are locked out of your apartment or the building to not knock on these windows. Get it?"

"But that's the problem, like I said earlier, Neville. I'm not locked out. I just want to know if I live in this apartment building. And if I don't, would you be so kind to direct me to where I do live? Oh, and one more thing. It is my observation that you could use some help with spelling and punctuation, Jake."

"Let me get this straight. You're not locked out of your apartment?"

"Correct."

"You just need to know if you live in this building and if not, you want me to direct you to where you live? Even though I've never seen you before?"

"Yeah! I think you've got most of it. Except for needing help with spelling and punctuation because you misspelled "you're" as "your". And there's no period at the end of the sentence. Oh, and there's the matter of the wedding reception, too."

"I'm going to call the police, you freak! You don’t live in this apartment building, either. Not only are you annoying me, but you've broken into our building and stolen my mail! And the missus and I had our wedding reception 15 years ago. So there!"

"Well, I haven't technically stolen your mail. It was handed to me quite willingly by the letter carrier."

Jake or Jacques (He still hadn't made up his mind, yet) began fumbling with his cellphone. "See! I'm calling the police now."

"Well, fine. Call the police Jacques. But I don't think they can help you much with spelling and punctuation," I stated confidently. "Anyhow, I'll bill your insurance directly for my services. You'll just have to be responsible for the copay. I'll send you a statement next month. We’ll talk more about your confusion during our session next week."

"What?"

"Good night, Mr. Synom. Pleasant dreams. And perhaps you should get Ms. Synom a subscription to the Denver Post for a Christmas gift. I think she'd love it!"