The Encounter Group

      

   

So Agnes (32) reluctantly joined an encounter group called Massaging the Human Heart over in South Ploughsborough. It was a small group, thank god, because Agnes suffered from several active issues that sprang from her basic loathing of people.  There were ten members of the group plus Brad. Brad was the “leader.” Mr. Sensitivity. Mr. Open-Your-Heart. Mr. I’m-Feeling-a-Lot-of-Love-in-This-Room. Mr. Calm. Mr. Articulate. Mr. Asshole.

     Agnes hated Brad and everything he stood for but she had to admit he was a handsome man. Easy on the eyes as they say. He looked like a model in a stereo ad or something with his feathered hair and groomed mustache. He had a cleft in his chin you could store files in.

     Agnes didn’t know about the others but her attendance was mandatory if she wanted to keep her job (which, frankly, she didn’t). Agnes worked as a receptionist at an insurance company and when she quit taking her medication people started to complain about her lousy work ethic. She was too curt with the customers. She wouldn’t smile. She sighed a lot. She jumped when the phone rang and IT RANG ALL THE TIME. An important component of the job was forced friendliness and she just couldn’t fake it anymore. Her boss—an obnoxious little weasel and creep—told her he was reaching the end of his rope with her bad attitude so he ordered her to attend a “sensitivity seminar” or she’d be dismissed. Summarily.

     So here she was, sitting in a circle with nine other losers. Brad walked into the room smelling of pipe tobacco and spearmint and took the seat opposite Agnes. Oh great, Mr. Eye-Contact was going to harass her tonight. Mr. Emotions. Mr. Personal Growth.

     “Hello there Agnes,” he purred in a sugary voice. “And how are we feeling today?” He spoke like a kindergarten teacher, like she was a child or something. Mr. Condescending.  Mr. Smarmy. Mr. Fuckface.

     “Well,” Agnes began. “Today I feel open to new concepts and challenges. I feel like solving my problems and I want to participate in the group and really explore my emotions,” she said with as much false sincerity as she could shovel. She knew she was overdoing the sarcasm but she didn’t care. Mr. Mind Games didn’t know who he was dealing with.

     She wanted to break him.  Disrupt the meeting. Wipe that smug expression off his patronizing face.

     “Well, Agnes. We get the feeling you’re just telling us what we want to hear.” He leaned forward, staring at her with his ice-blue eyes. “Now why don’t you knock off the bull-stuff and tell us how you really feel. Or we’re afraid we’ll have to turn you around again.”

     Mr. Taskmaster punished insubordination by making members face away from the rest of the group. It was like being shunned. It was stupid. Agnes had been turned around twice so far (for refusing to participate). Three strikes and you were out and she’d get a bad evaluation. She had to present her weasel boss with a positive report to keep her crappy job. God she hated the men in her life. She hated life in general.

     Perhaps stopping Zoloft had been a misguided idea.

     “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by things right now, to be honest.”

     He plastered a look of pity on his face and said, “M-hm. Good. Honesty is what we strive for here. Tell us what you feel overwhelmed by.”

     She was going to mention her current fears and frustrations regarding her impossible job and rocky relationship (Tom had served her with divorce papers and she’d have to move out of their house) but couldn’t summon the will to spill her guts so instead she said, “This stupid waste of time and you, you asshole.” She felt a tingling frequency of pleasure rise inside her. God that felt good. What was wrong with her?

     Some of the other members gasped and averted their eyes but Brad’s smooth expression didn’t change. He waited several dramatic beats and then gave her a wisp of a grin and said, “We sense a lot of rage in you. And that’s okay. Your feelings are valid and you express them in a clear and frank and blunt manner. We think you’re learning it’s unhealthy to keep your emotions bottled-up. Even the negative ones. This is progress. Let’s congratulate Agnes on a major breakthrough, everyone.” The other members clapped half-heartedly. It was the textbook definition of “a smattering of applause.” It was sad.

     Agnes sighed. “Aren’t you going to turn me around?” She hadn’t planned it but she suddenly wanted to embarrass the whole rotten group.

     “Do you want us to turn you around, Agnes?”

     “I don’t really give a shit what we do.”

     Brad looked at the young woman to Agnes’s right. “Marsha, do you think we should turn Agnes around?”

     Marsha looked struck. “Uh, well, I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t know...”

     “Come on Marsha, don’t equivocate. Give us a clear, decisive answer.”

     “Then I say, uh, yes? I mean, I guess so...”

    “Thank you Marsha. Why don’t we take a vote? Raise your hand if you think Agnes should be turned around. But keep in mind that this would be her third strike and she’d be expelled from the group permanently. Let’s see a show of hands.”

     It took a few awkward seconds for every member to raise their hand. It was unanimous.

     Agnes laughed. “I’m feeling a lot of hate in this room. And you can all go fuck yourselves.”

     “That’s enough Agnes,” Brad said in a calm, even voice. “Please turn your chair around and face the wall.”

     “Are you kidding? You think I’m going to stay here just so you can kick me out? Get a clue, Brad.” She stood up. “I’m out of here. Meeting adjourned.”

     “I’m sorry you’re leaving in such an angry, agitated state. We think the group could have helped you with your copious crises,” he told her. Mr. Guilt. Mr. Petty. Agnes wanted to smack him. Instead, she walked out of the room, fighting the urge to slam the door.

     Bastards.

     As she made her way across the parking lot she was struck by the fierce fact that not only would she have to move, she’d also have to find another job. It was too much.

     When she was on Zoloft she couldn’t cry. Her emotions had been blocked. Locked up. But now, sitting in her Honda Civic, the tears flowed salty and hot and she actually considered returning to the meeting and apologizing to the group. She felt helpless and lost. Her defiant attitude had evaporated. But who was she fooling? She couldn’t face Brad and the others again.

     Mr. Full-of-Himself. Mr. False Sympathy. Mr. Dickhead.

       No, she had burned that bridge.

     They were probably having a grand time talking shit about her.    

     When she was under better control she started the car and drove slowly toward home.

     She turned on the radio and found some hard, violent music.

     Her brief crying jag had been cathartic and as she pulled onto highway 93 she noticed she was almost smiling.

     Welcome back.

 

 

    

 

  

1978

 This is an excerpt from a novella I wrote recently.  

 

Tommy and Kent finally reached the sandlot. Jimmy and Raymond were throwing rocks into the brackish swamp that bordered the east side of the sandlot. Throwing rocks was still important. Being able to run fast was important. Being able to wrestle was important. They would enter high school in the fall and that’s when these skills got REALLY important. Or didn’t. It was assumed Tommy would run track because he liked to run and was the fastest kid at Busey Middle School. But Tommy had other ideas. When asked about his plans vis-à-vis athletics he was evasive, even misleading. He let people believe he was destined to be a jock without actually acknowledging anything. He could think of nothing that was less important to him than athletics. He dominated in gym class but hated to compete. He knew he would face pressures in the fall. He’d have to be ready for that. He hated to let people down but he also had to stick to his own plans. And they just didn’t involve sports.

     The four boys greeted each other with slapped hands and then Raymond and Jimmy led Tommy and Kent to a small clearing behind a boulder and Raymond, a tall goober of a kid with thick glasses, reached into his pocket and came out with a tightly-rolled joint. It was like a magic trick. “Jesus there it is,” said Kent. “Hey Lemme smell it!”

     Raymond held it under Kent’s nose and he sniffed. “Mmmm,” he said. “Nice.” The other boys laughed.

     “Your brother’s gonna kill you,” Tommy said.

     “Nah he won’t," Raymond said. "He'll just think he lost it or smoked it. He doesn’t know what’s going on in his life he’s so wasted all the time. This joint is just a drop in the bucket to him.”

     Jimmy, a short, big-headed kid nicknamed “Germ” because of his small size said, “Well let’s go. Spark it up.” Germ was the only one of the crew who had gotten high before. He’d smoked with his cousin a bunch of times. At least that was what he claimed. Nobody had ever met this mysterious “cousin.”

      “Take it easy, Germ,” said Raymond. “You gotta do this with a certain degree of finesse.”

     Tommy burst out laughing. “Man, you are so full of shit, I love it.”

     Raymond gave Tommy a friendly but not-too-light punch on the arm. “Takes one shithead to know another one.”

     “Hey, are we gonna smoke this thing or what?” said Kent.

     “Yeah, yeah hold your water.” Raymond dug a pack of matches out of his back pocket. The other boys leaned in close. Raymond plugged the joint into his mouth, struck a match and held it to the twisted end of the joint. He inhaled deeply and as soon as the smoke invaded his lungs he coughed it out, gasping. A string of drool fell from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus,” he gasped. “That’s harsh...”

     “That’s because you just inhaled paper,” said Kent. “Pass it over here.” He took the joint from Raymond. “Didn’t you guys ever see Easy Rider? You inhale it and hold it in both lungs for as long as you can. Observe.” And he sucked a deep hit from the joint, held it for about a millisecond and coughed it out.

     “Easy Rider, huh? Yeah, okay,” said Tommy, laughing.

     “Let’s see how you do, Bob Marley,” Kent said, still gasping. He passed the joint to Tommy.

     Tommy looked at it. “Hey, Raymond.”

     “Yes dear?”

     “What flavor is this?”

     “Flavor? It’s grass. Grass flavored.”

   “Yeah, I know but what kind of grass? Acapulco Gold? Panama Red? California Sinsemilla?”

     Raymond gave Tommy a sideways smile and said, “Okay, connoisseur just take a hit. Let’s see what you got.”      

     Tommy took a small hit, managed to hang onto it for a second, then it whooshed out of him, followed by brisk staccato coughing. “Uhg, man.”

     “Gimme gimme,” said Germ. Tommy gave him the joint. “It’s all yours, Germ. Ack, that shit’s awful.”

     Raymond said, “That means it’s strong. The worse it tastes the more fucked-up you get. You guys feel anything yet?”

     Germ took a long hit and held it. And held it. And held it. Everyone fell silent, astounded.

     “Whoa! Go Germ!” said Tommy.

     Finally, Germ let out the smoke. “Well,” he said, without coughing. “I have determined what strain of marijuana we’re dealing with here.”

     “Oh yeah? What?” Raymond wanted to know.

     “It’s dirt weed. Homegrown donkey dirt.”

   Raymond stiffened. “No way, man. My brother wouldn’t smoke dirt weed.”

     “Your brother didn’t. We did.” He looked at the half a joint in his hand. “We can’t get high from this.”

     “Hey fuck you, Germ!” said Raymond. “Give me that.” The joint was passed a final time. Raymond scrambled to the top of the boulder, crouched like a gargoyle and smoked the rest of the joint, gasping and rasping his way through it.

    The others returned to the sandlot. 

    Jimmy the Germ said, “You guys psyched-up for the party tomorrow?”

  Tommy said, “What party?” suddenly worried he was missing out on something cool again.

     “Susie Parker’s birthday tomorrow.”

     Tommy deflated. “Oh, that. Yeah, I guess I have to. My folks want me to go. Mrs. Parker sent the invitation to my mom.”

     Kent said, “I’ll check it out but if it’s the slightest bit lame, I’m outta there.”

     Germ said, “Free food, cake and ice cream. I’m gonna make a pig out of myself.”

     Tommy chuckled. “Sounds like you did get high off that dirt weed, Germ.”