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I guess I should mention that I have a fairly deep-seated fear of psych pros. I tend to refer to them as pshrynks. It has to do with a bad childhood episode when I got caught in my mother's makeup and my dad threatened me with pshrynkage. I was pretty young and since then, any kind of psych related subjects pretty much give me the willies.

From this peep into my past, you can well imagine that I am not a happy camper at the prospect of visiting Marge Bensen, regardless of her skill, talent, or magical ability to fix my life-long issues.

Ms. Spears had underestimated me. I had the department squared away before I ever went to visit her, so I was able to leave immediately.

I had estimated the drive across to the other campus at that time of day to be in the neighborhood of 15-20 minutes. However, I knew of a hole in the wall TexMex place just around the corner that had good food for real TexMex lovers, not the gussied up chain stuff in the big name restaurants. (Read that as FRESH, and hand-prepared, and did I mention FRESH?) They also had tea that would have been the best in town, were it not for Chicken Express. Since I did not have time for retail-therapy, I indulged in TexMex preventative medicine. I knew where the fair trade coffee house the university operated was on the Health campus and got an extra large mocha with extra whip for dessert.

I purposely strolled into Marge Bensen's office 2 minutes late. I nodded at the receptionist and sipped at my half-consumed mocha. The receptionist looked up and almost hyperventilated. In a panicked voice, she just managed not to scream, “You can't have that in here!”

I deadpanned the blankest expression to her I could manage, complete with blond blinks (a good trick for a brunette!), and paused long enough for veins to pulse on her neck and forehead then replied, “Sure I can. Whether I am allowed, though, is an entirely different subject.” I tilted the cup back and slugged down, easily, a third of the wondrous elixir in a long, delighted pull. I slowly straightened, look directly at her, and gasped that really good gasp you make in such circumstances. Somehow, she managed to pale even further.

“Who are you?! Why are you here?!” She was strident and coming ever closer to the shouting she trying so dearly to avoid.

I repeated the previous slugging maneuver held up the cup in a mock salute, and gave it a back-spin flip into the small trash receptacle in the corner so that it rebounded neatly off the wall and into the can.

I think the only reason she did not fall down at the point was the white knuckled grip she had on the edge of her desk.

“I can leave, if you like, wouldn't be a problem at all!” I offered. I produced my overly large shades, settled them on my face and was turning for the door when a much more collected voice destroyed my glee with a “No, I would not like. Come into my office. Now.”

I turned about as slowly as I could manage, removing my sun shades as I did, and viewed the owner of the new voice. She appeared to be a marginally older clone of Ms. Spears. I looked as disdainfully over the top of my glasses at her. “Ma'am, I do not appreciate your tone, nor your demanding attitude. I will be back when you have had time to consider that.” I slipped on my shades and purposely turned my back on her, silently counting as I reached for the door handle.

“Wait, wait, please do not be hasty. You are correct, I do need to respond with more decorum. May I assume that you are Mr. Thompson?” She seemed to be stressed and trying to cover it.

I left my shades on and turned back around, noting she had made it 4, while I had really only expected 2. “Yes, I am.” I shut my mouth and waited.

She managed not to goggle at me, but only barely. The receptionist was simply trying to maintain consciousness. Evidently I had managed a coup. Something was definitely up. Marge took a deep breath and finally coughed out what I had been awaiting. “Mr. Thompson, please allow me to invite you into my office.”

I managed a surreptitious glance at a small clock on the receptionist's desk and realized my theatrics had managed to shave only about 4 minutes off what I assumed would be either 30 minutes or an hour.

Entering her office was like being granted an audience with the queen of estrogen. Flowers and candles were everywhere, as were carefully arranged displays of porcelain dolls, mountainous frills of lace, and artfully included mirrors. The air smelled of perfume and Yanni played softly in the background. It was no surprise that as she re-entered her office her imperiousness returned, and quickly.

“Sit there, so can get to know you”, she demanded.

I raised on eyebrow, as slowly and theatrically as possible, then leaned back against the door frame and crossed my arms. Then I lowered both eyebrows below the frames of my sun shades, which I had never removed. I worked on otherwise blanking my expression into the blandest poker face I had never before been able to manage.

“Young man!” she growled, “I simply cannot make this work unless you cooperate with me!”

I did not even twitch.

“This is simply impossible. I suppose I will have to call your Ms. Spears”, shaking her head like she was actually going to make something happen.

“No, you will not.” I even managed to get a semi-threatening tone with my lips not even really moving. Yea me!

“Of course I will, so what makes you think I will not?” She seemed to be genuinely puzzled.

“Because that would be a violation of patient confidence and I would make sure to have your license over that. I agreed to show up. I never agreed to participate. And, if you so much as breathe a word of complaint to her, I will know that you violated state law and I will have you before the state medical board. On the other hand, if you were to tell her that we are simply incompatible, but did not explain why, I would be amenable to that outcome.” I had raised my shades and stared her down during my speech, the lowered them again.

The queen of estrogen was visibly shaken in her own throne room. “I've never been talked to like that before in my entire professional career! What makes you think you can get away with this?” Beads of perspiration were beginning to show on her brow.

“The fact that you view me as 'getting away' with anything, when I am supposed to be here for my betterment, is very disturbing. Are you certain that you are suited for this job?” The effort to not grin voraciously was tremendous. To this day, I am not sure how I managed it.

She stuttered for a moment and slowly fainted into a puddle at the base of the chair she had been intending to use as her throne while she interrogated me.

I shrugged and went back out to the receptionist's office. “She needs you.”

I grinned as I drove away from her building, sipping a fresh mocha.

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Well, thanks for the comments, I was not sleepy yet, so I wrote some more. Maybe this will help?

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“Ms. Spears, ma'am, there seems to be a problem with your directed choice of counselors. Ms. Bensen is not suitable. Also, I feel no real need to explore whatever shortcomings you feel I have. I really am not sure what you hoped to accomplish.” I was using all the body language I could to show that I was open and trying to communicate with her fully. I was on the edge of my chair, leaning towards her, with my hands on my knees to support me. I had practiced painting an earnest expression on my face all the way back between campuses.

Ms. Spears seemed to be taken aback. “What is wrong with Marge? She has always been wonderful in the past. Also, I really did not mean for you to think you have shortcomings. What I had hoped to accomplish was to draw you from your shell and let you feel safe enough to interact with the people here on campus like you did in your old job.”

I carefully considered how much rope I should use to hang myself, “In our first consultation, she snapped at me, then fainted and fell out of her chair. I left her in the care of her receptionist. Personally, I do not wish to be under the care of any psych pros, much less one that badgers me and snaps at me. I am not impressed, at all, with her talent, skill, or professionalism.”

Ms. Spears pondered my word for a moment then picked up the phone. “Hi Trina, I heard that Marge fainted and I wanted to check on her.” She wrote furiously for a moment, muttering “ummhmm”, “oh no”, and “oh dear” each several times.

After a bit she hung up. “Marge seems to feel that you and she have a basic conflict in personalities and urges me to refer you to someone on the list of providers her receptionist is faxing me now. Do you have any idea why that might be something she would recommend?”

I kept my face as blank as possible as I responded with, “I have no idea what was driving her today. As I said before, I am completely uncomfortable with the idea of being in counseling and I see no need for me to be referred to anyone.”

Ms. Spears sighed. “Ok, let me be frank with you. While I was doing my background check on you, it came to my attention that you are possibly either a transvestite, transsexual, or transgendered in some other way. The university has strict rules of not interfering in such lifestyles, nor discriminating for them or against them. I felt that a lot of your withdrawl was that you felt you could not be who you feel you should be and I was hoping that Marge could slowly urge you out of your shell.”

I think I kept my expression blank but the complete lack of blood in my face pretty much gave me away. “Oh. That.”

Evidently she does not deal well with people who are whiter than her laser touched teeth. “Mr. Thompson, you look terrible, are you ok?”

She hustled around her desk and felt my face, then my neck. “You feel so cold and clammy and your pulse is pounding. Should I call for a nurse?”

I smiled weakly, “No thanks, just a glass of water and maybe a few minutes to collect myself would be nice, though.”

My world was crashing around my ears inside of my head. I had been exposed as a freak. I could see everything I had worked for crumbling into ashes and dust. I had no idea what to do. I guess I zoned out for a moment because suddenly I felt something cool and moist pressed to my forehead. I realized it was a cold compress and I murmured my thanks and gently touched the hand holding it to my head.

I blinked a few times then looked up as best I could around the hand. It belonged to Ms. Spears. She looked very concerned and there were two other women behind her with that same look on their faces. One of them realized I was back from the zone and pressed a cup of water into my hand. I sipped it slowly.

When the water was gone, I smile and asked if I could get up and get some more water. Ms. Spears and one of the other women practically sat on me as the third woman ran for more water.

“Whoa, I am not a china doll, getting up will not kill me.” I refrained from giggling but did allow myself a small smirk.

The women gingerly stepped back and allowed me to stand. It was pretty anticlimactic. I stood easily and smoothly and nodded my thanks to each woman in turn, accepting another cup of water from the third woman as she returned from the water fountain. I realized the cold compress was still on my forehead and peeled it away. It was only a few paper towels folded and moistened in the water fountain.

As I leaned over Ms. Spears desk and dropped the compress into the trash can, she spoke up, “So, you are ok? Ladies, thanks so much for your help but Mr. Thompson and I have some things to discuss.”

She paused as they hugged her and left quietly.

“Mr. Thompson, you scared the, umm... the sense out of me! What was that all about?” She slide back onto the edge of her desk and crossed her legs as she sat and almost glared at me.

“Ms. Spears, I had never been accused, point blank, like that before, even though I have been to my old place of employment in a dress and heels and makeup. I also never thought that it would haunt me at a really good job like this one.” I ran my hand through my tortuously short hair, missing when it was long enough for me to easily hide behind it.

She relaxed and sat up straighter and looked at me in a curious way. “I need you to understand, I am not here to find fault with you, or to call you names, or to threaten you or to tell you what to do. Really, it amazes me that you are performing so well when your life is obviously a pressure cooker. Is there anything that you would feel comfortable telling me? I mean that. I do not want you to leave your comfort zone.”

I took a cleansing breath to fortify myself and said, “Ms. Spears....”

She interrupted me with, “No, never again, please call me Elise. Is there a name, masculine or feminine, you would prefer to Mr. Thompson?”

This struck me as odd since the plaques on both her desk and door simply said 'Ms. Spears, Human Resource Accounting'. I had also sneaked a peek at her business cards, but they said the same thing. I had the distinct feeling that I had been given a rare gift. “Ok, Elise, but only in private. I would like to maintain a nice degree of professionalism outside these walls.”

She shot me a look of respect. “Yes, I suppose that is for the best. However, you still did not tell me if there is a name that you prefered or not.”

At this point, had I been less fully clothed, I would have demonstrated the concept of the full body blush, because I am quite sure mine went to my toes. “Well, if you don't mind, I really like the name Artemis. I sometimes use Misty as a nickname.” I was not sure why revealing my feminine name was so embarrassing to me, but I felt very exposed at that moment.

I did not realize I was hugging myself until Elise gently took one of my hands and guided me into a gentle hug with her, instead.

Then she stepped back and held me lightly by each shoulder and said, “Misty, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. And, to be honest, I hope I get to meet the real you sometime. From what I understand, you are quite a cute lady.” She smiled and winked and waved me into a chair as she returned to her own.

“Misty, Artemis, you must realize, you are a fantastic asset to the university, even though you have basically lopped off a major part of yourself. I have no idea what a treasure you must be when you are not hiding yourself and in pain from how you have constricted your ego and basically denied your super-ego. And, only the most powerful personality could devastate Marge Bensen the way you did. She admires you, by the way. She cannot help but respect the only person to beat her at her own game.” This time, the smirk was on Elise's face.

I stood, and motioned for her to do the same, as I reached for my cell phone. With some quick gestures on the touch screen, I sent status checks to all my department. Almost instantaneous responses showed that all was well, probably thanks to my exhaustive efforts earlier in the day to prepare for Ms. Sp... errr.. Elise's visit. I smiled and winked at Elise and opened the door for her.

As we went downstairs, I used more gestures to prepare our way. When we arrived at the front door, a small university electric golf cart was waiting on us, empty.

We soon arrived at my car, where I abandoned the golf cart, knowing its recovery was already arranged. We got in and I drove us to the interstate and up a few miles to the next city where I knew was a nice coffee house that was far enough from campus that would should be reasonably safe from prying eyes.

At this point, she surprised me by asking my preference and ordering for us both. We sat in the darkest corner booth farthest from the door and each took measure of the other.

We were interrupted from our reverie by our orders arriving and both giggled simultaneously. This causes us both to break into open laughter. Fortunately for us, the place as pretty empty and no one really noticed.

I noticed her lips kept moving in tiny, tiny quirks and I realized she was forming words over and over but rejecting them in her mind. I hid my grin behind my cup and sipped my mocha as she worked it within herself.

Twice, I thought she was going to speak, and after the second time, I decided to mitigate her misery. “I think, at this point, unless you are incredibly crude, which I doubt, that you are going to hurt my feelings. I know you want to ask me something, so why don't you give it a shot and see how well I respond?”

She obviously thought that she was a better with a poker face than she really was. She slumped a bit in defeat then straightened and looked me in the eye. “I want to see pictures. I am sorry, but my curiousity is far, far getting the better of me.”

I giggled and held up a finger, “Hold that thought!” I dashed out to my car and got my laptop from my trunk. I trotted back into the coffee house and slid the backpack holding it and my assorted accessories into the seat beside me. As I zipped it out, I realized that I could make this easier.

She was sitting with her back to the wall and I indulged my paranoia and slid in beside her as I opened up the lid and powered it on. Ubuntu was soon percolating on my screen and I popped up several local and web folders. “Some of these are ooooooold. Some are merely not current.”

I watched her face as she marveled at the differences between the screen me and the current me. “You look great! What happened? Why are there no newer pictures of you?”

I stared at the screen for a while, finally breaking the stillness by sipping my mocha, then finally turned to her. “Because one day I realized I would die ugly.”

I am pretty sure my expression broke when I saw a giant tear suddenly slide down her cheek.

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To Be Continued...