Believing in Excess

I'm in the air again.

Some would say that I've always been in the air ... tossed about ... thrown aside ... kicking my heels ... not staying grounded ... floating away ... soaring ... crashing... diving … rising again …

In the Minneapolis/St. Paul Crowne Plaza lobby sitting on a couch with my friend Steve, a psychiatrist from New Mexico, he looks at me as with a concerned face … full of compassion that only a psychiatrist has perfected to display in his 50 minute hours …

“How are you?” he asked.

“Good,” I answer as I slap his knee.

Psychiatrist are not used to being touched so he stiffens but keeps his deeply perfected compassionate stare on me … eyes locked … full of empathy …

He makes me laugh so I do.

“Can I tell you something?” he says leaning forward.

“Sure.”

“We’ve been worried about you.”

“It’s good to have people who worry about you,” I say. “I’ve learned that.”

He sits back and rubs his chin, never taking his eyes off of mine, and looks even more compassionate than he did a few seconds ago. Steve is damn good.

He leans forward, remaining silent, intense compassionate gaze coming my way. I stop and stare back. Then I lean forward so that our foreheads are almost touching.

“Hey Steve,” I say in my deep voice, “I’m good. It’s been a crazy rough time. But I’m having fun. Work is good. Love is great.”

Sitting back, he contemplates what I’ve told him.

I wish I could do this. I can’t. My mind works quickly and for a Southern boy my words come fast. My dear friend Terry Ball has this gift and I’ve always admired the hell out of it. Someone asks him a question and he leans back considering it … tasting it … mulling it over … so that you want to reach your arm down his throat and rip the answer out. By the time he speaks you feel that you’ve just had an orgasm.

As a social worker I know what to do. Steve leaned back so I lean back. I mirror his actions. We stare at one another.

He starts laughing.

I start laughing.

We both stop in the same instant and lean forward again, foreheads almost touching, staring intensely at each other.

“Good,” he finally says.

I touch his knee again. He stays focused. I lean back and put my feet on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” I say. It’s been a while since good.”

He waits for what seems like three hours before responding.

“You seemed to really be enjoying yourself last night ... to the point of excess … we were worried.”

“Oh!” I say out … laughing, “Well I believe in excess. I don’t believe in restraint. It is good to be here. I have enjoyed it. You will not make me feel guilty.”

Steve sits back again and contemplates this. So I sit back again contemplating Steve contemplating me.

He leans forward and laughs.

“Good,” he says.

And it is.