Way Down I'll Go

Pouring Forth Thy Soul Abroad

"In the case of 3-year-old Dante, Pete...you are NOT the father!"

Screams spewed from the ancient TV in the corner of the stuffy waiting room. Jo watched in horror as Pete, who was not the father, danced across the stage cheering while the mother ran off crying. 3-year-old Dante's picture was still visible and Jo's heart broke for that unwanted child, wondering how people could find this at all entertaining.

"Jo?"

He startled at the sound of his name, tearing his eyes from the screen to find a man waiting nearby with a gentle smile.

"I'm Tim," he said, reaching out a hand.

Jo shook it and followed Tim into his office. The room was cozier than the waiting room. A worn, striped couch was pushed against the far wall, while a charcoal armchair sat against the right adjoining wall. The desk across from it was covered in stacks of paper that had likely been neat at one time. The pictures on the walls were meant to be calming: a forest with the sun shining through, a dark sea full of waves, a field of lavender.

"Sit wherever you like."

Jo kicked himself for flinching at the sound of Tim's voice. He was on edge and for once, he knew exactly why. He waited for the voice in his head to taunt him but all he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears. As he lowered himself into the charcoal chair, he wondered if his seat choice was some sort of test. He wondered if he'd passed.

Tim sat in the desk chair opposite him and rummaged through a stack of files, giving Jo a brief chance to observe him. He was nothing like Jo had expected. Having been recommended by Frank, he'd imagined someone younger, with more tattoos and less paunch. The man stooping to pick up a runaway paper was mid-fifties, with reddish-brown hair and a greying beard. He wore a plaid button-up, corduroys, and a pair of loafers that Rachel would have called "old man shoes."

Jo found his rumpled appearance oddly comforting.

"Sorry about that," Tim smiled at him. "I keep saying I'll get a filing cabinet one of these days."

Jo's eyes found his lap and he intended to keep them there. The man's gaze was altogether too kind, and Jo found it disconcerting.

"Well, I have an intake form that we'll buzz through, but we won't follow it religiously. It's more of a guide to get us started in the right direction. Sound good?"

"Yes sir."

Tim chuckled. 

"Just 'Tim' is fine."

Jo nodded.

"Alright. Let's start with where you're from."

"Chicago."

"Any specific neighborhood?"

"Riverdale."

"Gotcha. Still live there?"

"No sir, uh, Tim. Burnside."

"Where do you work?"

"FFQ construction."

"As a laborer?"

"Yes, sir." 

He cringed. 

"Sorry, sir, uh, Tim. I..." 

He sputtered to a stop.

"That's okay, Jo," Tim said with a genuine smile. "If it's easier for you to call me sir, I can suffer through it."

Jo hung his head.

"Jo?"

He peeked up at the therapist's kind face.