The client spoke: “If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t be an intellectual. I’d go for the mundane, drink beer, sit on the couch and cheer at football games on TV. My girlfriend would think the same way. We’d both love nachos.”
Dawson stared at his client’s unkempt hair—an adult child’s appearance. The man was simply an asshole. Such diagnosis was vulgar, unprofessional and unhelpful, but fitting, after all, he was a therapist with a realistic record on saving marriages. Most clients ended up in divorce court while he collected fees for listening to mistakes made years ago.
The client waited for a response.
“Do you think your wife is, as you say, an intellectual?”
The client gave a rambling answer that ended with Dawson checking his watch. The session was over.
Half-an-hour later the therapist stood outside his front door where he listened to the blare of the TV. He opened the door slowly and a few seconds later reached out for a bottle of beer offered by his wife.
“Hurry, there’s two minutes left before the half,” she said.
He enjoyed her curves as she walked down the hallway.
“Who was the client of the day?” she asked from the sofa.
He sat down next to her. “The Professor gave me his weekly self-analysis. He regrets he is so smart.”
“What an asshole!”
“As always you’ve read my mind.”
“Want some nachos?”
Dawson nodded with a big smile before putting the bottle to his lips.