Black

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Black sat on the mocha leather sofa, fidgeting as Dr. Kelso scribbled something on his ever-present notepad. Finished, Kelso scratched his salt and pepper beard - a nervous mannerism that Black particularly disliked - and studied him like a lab specimen.

"And why do you think that you got so impatient with them? Did they do something specific?" he asked.

"No, it's more like a general irritation. It's the cumulative effect of a host of little things."

"Give me an example."

"My name. They insist on using my first name."

"Well, it is your name."

"They know I hate it. They know I use my middle name. Which I had to make up, since they neglected to give me even that."

"Maybe they forget. Or maybe they think it's a phase you're going through," Dr. Kelso suggested.

"Yeah. A phase. I mean, I'm only forty-two. I might grow out of hating my shitty first name. You know, around the time I die."

"Do you think about death a lot?" Kelso asked, instantly more interested.

"No. I mean, no more than anyone else does, I suppose."

"And how much does everyone else think about it?"

"Look, I think we're getting off topic here."

"Yes, I suppose you would."

They sat in silence for a few moments, and Black wondered for the umpteenth time why he squandered his hard-earned money on this quack. A hundred bucks twice a month, and he had seen no discernible progress in his anger issues even after two years.

"I'm still angry a lot of the time."

"But not all the time."

"No. But I was never angry all of the time."

"Would you say you're angry more often lately?"

"Not really. Just not less."

"Besides your parents, what else makes you angry?"

"We've been over this. Don't you remember any of our discussions?"

"Of course I do. Just tell me again."

"I'm broke. I got screwed over by my wife. The songs I wrote made tens of millions of dollars, and I never saw a cent of it. Just a lousy hundred grand to sign a deal I should have never agreed to."

"Ah, yessss. Now we're getting somewhere. The record deal. Let's explore that, shall we?"

"We've talked about it a dozen times."

"I sense you're making progress each time."

"How do I know you aren't just running out the clock and choosing topics you know will torment me?"

"Do you often feel persecuted by those you've selected to help you?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Tell me again about the record deal. It still makes you furious, doesn't it? That the renowned Nina Angel became rich and famous from your songs. But it was your idea to sign them over to her in the first place, wasn't it?"

"Of course it infuriates me. I sign over all the songwriting credits and copyrights in my new wife's name, and then the album goes quadruple platinum and I get the shaft. How would you feel?"

"But why did you sign them over? Wasn't it to cheat on taxes?"

"Not to cheat on them," Black corrected, growing annoyed. "She was a Nevada resident. Her address was still her mom's trailer in Henderson. It made no sense to pay California tax on any income from the songs if we could have them in her name. We were married, for God's sake. How was I supposed to know that the second the album started selling, she'd start screwing the attorney we'd hired and then divorce me? Who wouldn't be angry? And by the way, her real name isn't Angel. It's Gomez. She changed it."