It's the Small Things That Can Kill You - Chapter 1 - Resistance

 It’s the Small Things That Can Kill You is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or people living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 IT’S THE SMALL THINGS THAT CAN KILL YOU

                                                      James R. Nevitt

                                                    Chapter 1 - Resistance

“It’s true.” Fenton Cox said. His voice a flat monotone. His face was sallow and clothing looked disheveled. Did he ever go outside? Did Fenton ever wash that beige cardigan? My mind wandered through a maze of distractions this afternoon. I found myself wishing that I had gotten high before coming.

“It’s crap and you know it.” George Steinman replied.

“Doc. Don’t you think we are getting a bit off course this afternoon?” Mikey Bevins whined. Mikey was a chronic whiner. I was sick of his whining already. I checked my watch. We were only sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds into our Wednesday afternoon session.

"I don't have time to ponder whether I've ever wanted to kill someone or not. This is stupid. A waste of my time. A complete waste." Roger Varney exclaimed. "I've got twenty men waiting on legal approval to begin tearing down a parking lot on Mylar Avenue. I could be meeting with corporate lawyers right now. and getting on with the legalities. This isn't therapy, it's a joke." He ran his hand through his thinning red hair.  

“You know how the process works Roger. Whatever is placed on the table by the group is grist for therapy. This afternoon…or any afternoon. The group will eventually learn not to waste time...to become more productive. I know your time is valuable, but others in this room have committed to three sessions a week, just as you have. If I may point out...something can look and sound like a waste of time but there might be something useful to be gained here."  

Walter Knivens picked at a piece of fuss on his sweater. He held it up and examined it as if it was somehow more significant than anything that had been said by our group that hot September afternoon. Walt flicked the fuzz ball into the center of men seated on folding chairs.

It floated on the currents provided by the overhead fan and landed on Dubrovsky. “What the hell!”

“It’s alright Manfred. It’s a piece of fuzz from my sweater. It can’t hurt you.” Walter looked at him with faux sadness in his eyes. “I’ll protect you. Manfred laughed. He had an easy laugh that made me want to join in.

The two-hundred-and-ninety-pound former defensive tackle for 1968-1969 Chicago Bears team bowed his head and lowered his voice a bit. “Aw Doc, you know what I mean.  Nit picking fuzz balls...that kind of shit is distracting.”

“And you know that I know that. You are now wondering why I did it.” Knivens replied with a little smile on his face. "Most of the people in this room are deflecting or dodging why we are here. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with one of his shirttails. Fenton Cox quickly whipped out a handkerchief and offered it to the little man.

“No thank you Fenton. I can manage.” Walter nodded at Cox.

“But that’s…” Fenton began.

“Unsanitary? Walter chuckled as he cleaned his lens with part of a shirt that Fenton saw him wipe his coffee cup with earlier this afternoon. He wasn’t the most fastidious psychiatrist I had encountered.

"Fenton, I know sanitation is important to you, that is why you are here. I know it has been said that it's the little things that will kill you, but I refuse to spend my remaining days as a slave to the idea of death by household germ. I've had my three score and ten years as biblically promised. I'm seventy-five years old and I'm not afraid to die.  Fenton placed his handkerchief back into his pocket as Walter put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Fenton and I were the two youngest members of the group. We sometimes related to Walter as if he were our grandfather. In our own ways, in the short time we had been part of the group, we both cared for him a great deal. 

“Mr. Pillsbury, could you please restate your observation for the group.” Walter put his wire-framed glasses back on.”

Jack Pillsbury blinked. “Well, I mean, I just was sayin’ everybody had met somebody in their lifetime that they wanted to kill.”

“And I said it was crap.” George Steinman asserted again.

“You sayin’ you’ve never met anyone that you wished would drop dead?”

“That’s not quite the same thing, Jack.” Steinman was shouting now. It was loud enough that I woke up from a daydream I was having…a rather gruesome one. Points for Pillsbury I suppose.

“Gentlemen, instead of leaping into a vigorous debate about this rather philosophic issue, ask yourselves why you are so eager to talk, nay, argue about a topic so distant from our primary theme and purpose. To discuss our anxieties. This is a men’s anxiety management group. We should be discussing our personal anxiety issues. Walter waited for a response. He received nothing. Silence.

“What do we call this type of behavior?” Walter said in a sing-song voice as he lit his pipe.

Several people mumbled. Walter shook his head. “No. Say it! All of you.”

“RESISTANCE” the group responded in a slow but loud voice.

 “Correct.” Walter gave us a corny ‘thumbs up’.

“Pillsbury started it.” Steinman pointed across the room.

Dubrovsky cleared his throat. “Hey Doc, isn’t that also resistance? Who cares who started it.”

“Correct, anything that takes us away from the primary topic this afternoon is resistance.” Walter exhaled some tobacco smoke. Pillsbury took a pack of Pall Malls out of his shirt pocket and offered me one. I declined and raised my hand instead.

"Yes Jax." Walter scratched his grey beard and looked at me with piercing blue eyes.

“So…Doc, have you never met anyone that you’ve wanted to kill?”

Everyone in the group, except Fenton leaned forward.