Martin Fenton finally decided to seek help for his problem. His problem had cost him his wife and job, and turned him into a buffoon-like figure to others. Now as he sat on the couch in his psychiatrist's office, he wondered if he was going to get the help he sought from his analyst who sat poised in a chair across from him--an insightful beagle.
“Let’s move on to your problem—what brought you here.”
Martin leaned forward. “Okay, let’s do that. But what if you have to go take a whiz on a fire hydrant while I’m talking?”
“Not to worry, Martin. I don’t feel like I have to do that. I’m certain our session can go on without interruption.”
Martin settled back into the soft leather of the couch again. “Say, what kind of a dog are you anyway?”
“I’m a Beagle,” Sydney replied, slightly cocking his head as he spoke.
“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. I was never good on breeds. But my wife, she’s real good.”
“Tell me about your wife.”
“What do you want to know? Never mind-- I’ll just sum it up by saying she’s one hot lady. That’s all there is to say.” Martin offered the package of caramel creams out toward Sydney.
“No thanks. My vet would object. Let’s continue please. Hot in what way Martin?”
“Hot. Hot. You know—in the sack. Well maybe you don’t know. Maybe I should have said—in the grass.” He snickered a bit.
“Oh, hot that way.” Sydney paused. “Do you love her?”
“I guess I did once. She’s gone now anyway. Couldn’t take it anymore. Ran off to be with her ex—that stupid mechanic she used to bring her car to. Jerk. Well, good riddens anyway.”
“Well you seemed to have coped with that aspect of your life well.”
“Yea. Who needs it.”
“How about you doc? You got a little Beagle-ette you run around with somewhere?”
Sydney straightened his back a bit and shifted more weight to his haunches. “Let’s focus on your problem Martin.”
“Oh that’s right—you guys never talk about yourselves. Okay doc.” Martin flipped his package of creams onto a small round table in front of him, kicked his shoes off, stretched himself out on the couch and focused on the ceiling. He let out a big sigh before he continued. “Well doc, ever since I had my problem, things haven’t been going so good for me.
Janice left me. I got fired from the firm. Ten years down the drain just like that. Then my friends started avoiding me. Things just haven’t been the same—you know. At least those bastards haven’t gotten my car yet. Caught ‘em the other day trying to tow it away but I got my Colt out and those weasely bastards starting running for their worthless lives. What a sick way to make a living. At least I do something constructive—when I have a job that is.”
Martin turned suddenly toward Sydney. “Say ain’t you guys supposed to have notebooks so you can write down what I’m saying.”
Mr. Arcilesi is the author of 'Every Day a Bird Learns How to Fly,' a five star romance novel. The novel, set in the 1950's in a small conservative Maryland town, is about a teenager who develops a close tender relationship with his best friend's you attractive stepmother. Both struggle with it and fight hard to end the relationship. Midwest book Review has given it 5 of 5 stars.
He has also written several fictional short stories available on Amazon.com as well as other non-fiction articles on various topics.
Mr. Arcilesi is a native of Baltimore and now resides in Montgomery Village, Maryland, a suburb of Washington DC. He has a degree in Mass Communications, and Mathematics from Towson State University where he spent many hours in the TV studio, writing, directing, producing and working the crews. His second major, mathematics followed by studies in accounting, have helped him greatly in the business world.
He has experience in business, financial and accounting areas and has been a member of the Association of Legal Administrators.
Mr. Arcilesi spends leisure time collecting artifacts of the fifties and has a large collection of vintage radios from the '50's, most of which are still in working order, and other vintage items. He never passes by an antique shop without stopping in to see what treasures may be hidden in a corner, especially at a great price.