Postcards to America by Patrick Ingle Read Free Book Online

Joseph Myers could still be read below the building number. “Punctual” Mary pressed the bell and the tinkle brought a receptionist to the solid oak door.
    ‘You have an appointment with the doctor?’ a stern faced woman in her fifties asked.
    “Punctual” Mary produced her appointment card.
    The receptionist said. ‘Some of the doctor’s former patients….’ She let the words hang in the air.
    “Punctual” Mary agreed to have this session with the shrink out of love for her parents who were increasingly worried at her behaviour. Of course, she was always punctual as a child. Her parents encouraged this trait in their offspring. But as “Punctual” Mary grew older, her problem became more pronounced. Now her whole life seemed governed by the ticking of a clock.
    “Punctual” Mary knew her problem gave cause for concern. But the problem could be managed. The problem did not affect her health. Her problem did not – as far as she could determine – cause pain or suffering to another person.
    “Punctual” Mary sat and glanced at the doctor’s academic qualifications lining the walls. Certificates from institutions in Vienna, London, America and universities “Punctual” Mary never heard of vied for attention.
    The receptionist spotted “Punctual” Mary looking at the certificates.
    ‘He is very good, you know,’ the receptionist confided, nodding toward an inner door. ‘He cured me of smoking. I used to spend a large part of my income on cigarettes.’ The receptionist paused. ‘I will have paid him for the treatment in only four years.’
    A buzzer sounded and the receptionist pointed towards the inner door. ‘The doctor will see you now,’ she said.
    It’s funny, “Punctual” Mary thought, how we all have notions of what a psychiatrist looks like. We usually imagine them to be in their sixties with glasses and a beard. Sometimes reality and fantasy are intertwined.
    Dr. Joseph Myers wore a tartan waistcoat with a fob watch on a long gold chain. His clean head glistened in the light and a thick gold chain with a large medallion hung down inside a shirt opened to the waist. His white speckled short trimmed beard ended in a point and thick unframed spectacles enlarged his piercing eyes.
    ‘I am pleased to “treat” you.’ Dr. Myers extended a hand as he spoke. He said, “Meet” but a broad accent turned “meet” into “treat”.
    “Punctual” Mary shook the extended hand. She had never heard an accent so broad. It seemed as if the doctor spoke out of a mouth filled with marbles.
    “Rake” a “peat”’ Dr. Myers said, pointing to a chair situated in front of a desk.
    “Punctual” Mary guessed the doctor’s general drift and sat, pulling her short dress down a centimetre.
    Dr. Myers sat opposite “Punctual” Mary and referred to a note pad.
    ‘Your parents are so “curried”. They believe that you are obsessed with “crime”.
    ‘Time,’ “Punctual” Mary corrected.
    ‘Crime,’ Dr. Myers said.
    ‘Time,’ “Punctual” Mary corrected again.
    Dr. Myers looked at “Punctual” Mary for a long minute. ‘More serious than I thought,’ he said, scribbling furiously.
    ‘Would you like to “cry” down and relax?’ Dr. Myers waved towards an examination bed.
    “Punctual” Mary positioned herself on the bed, acutely conscious of her short skirt.
    Dr. Myers pulled up a chair and sat beside the lounger, notepad in hand.
    ‘Would you like to remove your “crotch?”
    “Punctual” Mary looked at the doctor. She was tempted to remove herself from the premises.
    ‘My “crotch”
    ‘Your “crotch”. The doctor pointed to her watch.
    ‘Oh! You’re talking about my watch. No thanks.’
    ‘You do not need it here. There is a “cock” on the wall.
    “Punctual” Mary looked at the clock on the wall and checked the time against her own timepiece. The clock showed incorrect time.
    ‘The clock is a minute slow.’
    Dr. Myers checked the clock against his timepiece