Publish and Perish, part 8: Tuesday with Paul

[Context: read the previous part or start from the beginning. TW: bad amateur fiction!]

“It’s interesting that you wanted to hang out here again, of all places,” Gerald said to Paul as they shot hoops at the fitness center — the site of the accident back in September. “If I weren’t such an utterly rational person, I might think that you were trying to finish me off.”

“Well, to be honest, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice the team of ninjas stationed around the perimeter.”

Gerald paused his soon-to-be-errant shot and looked around.

“They’re well-hidden, I’ll give them that,” he said. “I suppose you hired the top-of-the-line guys. Though I hear that the adjunct ninjas also do a nice job for a fraction of the price….”

“It’s reassuring,” Paul said, “that your accident hasn’t moved your sense of humor even the slightest bit toward the mainstream.” He took a layup.

Gerald attempted a British-royalty accent. “Would you prefer,” he sniffed, “that I pander to the commoners?”

Paul shook his head helplessly. “It’s good to have you back, buddy,” he said. He swished a shot from the foul line.

“Seriously, though, I did put several seconds of thought into this venue,” he continued. “You said that you’re supposed to be getting some exercise, and” — he watched Gerald launch another airball — “this probably qualifies as exercise, if not basketball. But also, I thought it might be nice for you to, uh, reclaim this space, as the activists say. To redefine this as something more than the place where you, you know…”

“Yeah, that kind of makes sense,” Gerald said. “But, coming back here now, this court doesn’t conjure up any particular feelings for me. I just look around and think, yup, that was some game all right!”

“So,” said Paul, clanking a shot off the rim, “is that good, maybe? Are you basically at peace with what happened?”

Gerald grabbed the rebound. “Actually, no,” he said. “Even though I’m supposedly out of the woods, medically speaking, I feel pretty damn uncomfortable with the idea of dying. Some days it seems scary to me, and others days it just seems sad.” He passed the ball to Paul.

“I completely agree with that,” said Paul helpfully. “It is both scary and sad.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But if you’re determined to convince yourself otherwise, you could see a therapist. Or, I don’t know, play basketball with some colleagues who are giddier than I am. Maybe from, say, the theater department?”

Paul snapped his fingers as if having a revelation. “Wait, actually, this is perfect!” He was laughing. “The theater department could really be your saving grace! Do you know Morris Schwartz?”

Gerald was confused. “Do you mean…the Tuesdays with Morrie guy? Mitch Albom’s old dead philosophy professor?”

Paul kept laughing. “No, no — not that Morris Schwartz. Our Morris Schwartz. He’s a part-time theater professor… But, I kid you not, he’s also a licensed therapist! I don’t know him that well, but he seems like a smart guy. And — here’s the best part” — Paul was now struggling to get out his words amidst wheezes of amusement — “he wrote a book about applying insights from the theater to counseling! You could read it, and if you like it, you could book an appointment with him!”

Now Gerald was grinning too, in spite of himself. “I’ve got to hand it to you — that is one hell of an idea,” he said. “Just tell me, please, that he doesn’t go by ‘Morrie’.”

“He doesn’t go by ‘Morrie’.”

“Thank God.”

[Update: the story continues with part 9.]