Job Therapy

*Dr. Frinkle, your three'o'clock is here.*

"Thank you Ethel, send him in."

A moment later the door opens and a figure enters.

"Hello, hello. Come in. May I take your jacket?"

"It's a cloak."

"Yes, of course. Sorry, I'm not current with all the latest fashions I'm afraid. May I take your cloak for you?"

"No. I never take it off."

"Alright, well come and sit down. Cold as death outside today isn't it?"

The figure sits down stiffly on the comfortable chair opposite the good doctor.

"Doctor, you have no idea."

"He he, yes I suppose I have been up here in my office for most of the day but I can hear the wind whipping past the building. Sounds horribly cold."

An awkward silence follows before the doctor again speaks.

"Well, let us get down to it, shall we? Over the phone you mentioned that you don't particularly like your job."

"I hate my job."

"Right, you hate your job. Well, how long have you been at it?"

"Forever."

"He he. Yes at times it can seem as though the things that we do not enjoy can take up an unseemly amount of time in our lives."

"No, I mean that I've been doing it forever."

"Yes, of course."

The good doctor scribbles down some notes on his note-pad before continuing.

"Well, how long has it been since you enjoyed your job?"

"It was back in '02. I just suddenly got fed up with it all. Couldn't handle the stress and the demands of it all."

"Which areas of your job are causing you the most stress?"

"I guess it's my interactions with others. I wouldn't mind the rest if people didn't hate me every time I did a job."

"So you're easily affected by the opinions of others?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"And sometimes the requirements of your job cause you to have to be the bad guy, correct?"

"Yes, quite frequently."

"Often times when you bare unpleasant messages and information to other employees from management they sometimes take out their anger at the information on the person who brought it to them. It's what I like to call Shooting the Messenger Syndrome, or SMS. It's not your fault, but you have to deliver the bad news and so they become angry at you when their anger is really directed at the information or at the management."

"Hmmm, I think you have a point there. SMS you say. Interesting. So what can I do about it?"

"Well, there are two possibilities that we will have to take a look at over the next few sessions. Either you need to seek out a new occupation if you do not like the damage that your current job does to your interpersonal relationships, or you need to overcome your dependency on the opinions of others."

"That sounds wonderful. Thank you Dr. Frinkle. You've been a life-saver."

"No problem at all. It's what I do. Oh, uh just for the sake of my records, what exactly is it that you do for a living?"

"Death."

"Really? I've never worked with someone who was employed in a morgue before. How interesting."

"I'm not a mortition, I'm death."

"Ha ha ha."

The shadowy figure does not laugh, or even smile. In fact, it is impossible to see his face at all in the darkness of the cloak's hood. More awkward silence. Then the figure speaks.

"No really, doctor. I am death."

"Oh my."

"Perfect, now you hate me too. My own psychologist. This day couldn't get any worse."

"No, no, no. I don't hate you. You just caught me off guard. That's all. I never thought I'd ever meet death... well other than when my time comes I suppose, ha ha ha."

"Doctor do you laugh at all your clients' problems?"

"Sorry. Not very professional of me I suppose. Just a little unnerved. I tend to become facetious when I get nervous."

"You don't know what it's like being death. Everyone hates you and is terrified of you. The only people who are comfortable around me aren't the sort of people I'd want to spend time with. All deranged or evil. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a date? Any decent girl is too frightened to flirt with death. My life's no bowl of petunias, let me tell you that!"

"And how does that make you feel?"

"It makes me feel bad! How do you think it makes me feel? Aren't you supposed to have a doctorate or something? Honestly!"

"Now you just calm down. I will not stand for verbal abuse in my office. If you can't behave respectfully then I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Ask me to leave? I'm Death! You want to play rough with me? How'd you like a stroke, huh?"

"Mr. Death, this is exactly your problem. You desire relationship with others but when they try to get close you push them away. You put on this elaborate speech but you're little more than a glorified school-yard bully!"

There is a long moment of silence. Then a faint *sniff* eminates from within the darkness of the hood. Death begins to cry.

"I'm sorry doctor. You're right. It's my own fault I can't make friends or keep a steady girlfriend. I act all tough but inside I'm just a frightened little spirit. I don't want it to be like this any more. I want to change. Will you help me?"

"Of course. But it won't be easy... or cheap. How about I pencil you in for another session next week?"

"Sure doctor, that sounds great. Thanks again. How much do I owe you?"

The good doctor writes out a bill and hands it to death.

"You can pay Ethel on your way out."

"Thanks doc, you've saved my life."

Death rose and left the office. Dr. Frinkle shivered and then smiled. He had made the bill out for twice the usual rate. And that, dear reader, is how Dr. Frinkle cheated death.