by Hugh Behm-Steinberg
Walking home I saw something dressed in green and impossible, fluttering above a bus stop bench with an online therapy ad on it, lacey dragonfly wings humming.
“Hi Jake,” she waved, like she was real, and knew who I was, but in my mind I was going nope, nope, nope. Nobody else was acting like there was a Maxfield Parish perfect looking fairy come to life in this world, just hovering about, one who just happened to also know my name.
This only reinforced my certainty at the time that my brain might have been very broken, and that maybe I needed to see a doctor.
So I made an appointment, demanded all the tests, paid all the copays, but they all came back negative; the primary care physician referred me to a psychiatrist, who in turn suggested some absolutely terrifying treatment protocols that we could begin right now.
“There’s this new drug we could start you with,” she said. “It’s shown good results with quite manageable side effects.”
I noticed the name of the drug on the side of her coffee cup, on the pen she tapped on her clipboard, and zipping across her computer while it was in screen saving mode.
“Your insurance also includes hospitalization. We could get you checked in right away if you’d like.”
When I heard that I did my best impersonation of a normal, sane person, a Jake who does not need involuntary psychiatric hospitalization, and mentioned that maybe what I saw was neither something impossible, nor a hallucination. It could have been I had only seen a bird, and my imagination made it out to be more than what was actually there, gave it meaning where there wasn’t any.
“Perhaps,” the psychiatrist said, a little disappointedly. “We might as well then set up an appointment with a psychologist. Your plan covers eight visits. After that, if you are still worried about seeing things that aren’t there, there are several anti-anxiety medications we can try.” She handed me a brochure for online therapy.
So I signed up, and this might seem ridiculous, but for once therapy actually made me feel better about myself. I hadn’t expected that: I thought I had been ok, but I guess I wasn’t. There were some self-destructive residues in the margins of my psyche, intrusive thoughts of leaping out in traffic, for example, not that I’d ever do that, but those fantasies pointed to real problems, and I needed to face them. After several sessions, going to work seemed less of a trudge, my relationships improved, and it became easier to go to the gym. I even started singing songs in a goofy voice again when I showered.
Then, on my way home from said gym, I heard, “Jake! How’s the therapy working out?” and I nearly walked into a parking meter.
“You’re real,” I said. “I’m not crazy.”
The fairy was perched on top of another bus stop bench, this one advertising injury attorneys. “The therapy helps, right?” she said, like it mattered to her how I felt.
I tried one of the mindfulness activities I’d learned, and instead of panic, I began to think of questions, such as Aren’t fairies supposed to be beings of wonder and mystery, with concerns nobody mortal might fathom? And Why is this one so concerned with my mental health?
Be patient. Be honest.
So I said yes, the therapy helped.
“I get paid a bonus for every new referral,” the fairy iridescently admitted with visible relief. “But don’t tell anybody, ok? I’d like to think something good is coming out of my being here in your horrible world, and I don’t want unemployment finding out I’m working under the table.”
Of course, after she said that, that’s when a second fairy showed up, drawing my attention to the ad for injury attorneys.
“Sir,” he said, rainbows everywhere. “Online therapy is terrific, but think of how much those sessions will cost once your benefits run out. I, on the other hand, will give you one shiny gold piece right now if you run out into traffic when I tell you to. Real gold, I promise.”
As he hovered his foot lightly tapped the 1-800 number on the bench. “And maybe,” he said. “If things go right, you can make a whole lot more.”
Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s prose can be found in X-Ray, The Pinch, Invisible City, Heavy Feather Review and The Offing. His short story "Taylor Swift" won the Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast, and his story "Goodwill" was picked as one of the Wigleaf Top Fifty Very Short Fictions. A collection of prose poems and microfiction, Animal Children, was published by Nomadic/Black Lawrence Press. He lives in Barcelona.
January House Literary Journal 
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