Low spark of high heeled boys

He sat in the brightly lit chamber decorated with leafy indoor plants, all intended to cheer those who can pay to find peace. The counselor looked at him gently with a smile. She was worried that the fees for this will be coming to her after an arduous claims process. She asked him to think back far, as far as he could. He fidgeted; he thought. Sensing his uneasiness, she asked him to speak out what he thought. He didn’t want to sound crazy. He wanted to come out of this whole exercise as a certified sane person who just needed a pay rise. So he started talking about his job to demonstrate his normality. He was a metal detector holder, behind the gate that said peeeep every time someone miserly enough to carry coins over a thousand mile airplane journey passed through. His job was to run the metal detector over such a character with voodoo motions and then grope the individual at points where his own device said peeeeep. Thus he had become an expert in groping, even though he was a homophobe by heart. This contradiction lay at the problem of his whole brain muddle. Victim of a Pavlovian destiny, he had now started groping any male nearby by instinct, whenever he heard a peeeeeep, be it from a refrigerator door left open for long or the traffic light asking roadrunners to cross fast. And the worst part was that the Pavlovian instinct drove him to grope only males, something he hated to the core but couldn’t fight against. This was especially excruciating when the morning alarms went off when the only person close to him was his wife and his inability to find a male to grope drove him nuts. But he didn’t mention all this to the counselor, for he wanted to come out of the session with an attested certificate of sanity.

So he mentioned his skills at the job and his inquisitive nature that took him beyond the call of duty. For instance he had enough empirical evidence to demonstrate the degree of correlation genital sizes and skin color tone variations, having groped enough groins of all races. He knew the secret world of pockets and had predicted the financial crises long back, for he had observed how wallets had become fatter over time, loaded with thousands of credit cards. Someday, this easy credit will bring us doom, we should ban it in flights along with 50ml and above of liquids, he had long suggested to his fellow female groper. And he remembered the day when his young son had come to visit him outside the purgatory gate, delighted to see his father holding the metal detector, which the kid assumed to be a Han Solo light sabre, turned off. But he knew his game to feign sanity would be caught if he gave an all too rosy view of his life. So he also talked about the finer pains about his job. Like when President Bambama had addressed them and tried to motivate them as the true heroes of society. Fair enough, but which hero in society is measure annually in terms of how many litres of water he had snatched from passengers in a year? He was tired of asking people to take off belts and shoes and desperately wanted a promotion so that he could walk around the airport with a big dog. As a slip of tongue, he also revealed that he wished to learn Kung Fu techniques, so that while groping he could skillfully touch those pressure points and make the bloody immigrant to this country sterile for life. To recover, he said that was a joke and laughed heartedly.

The counselor knew it all. After all, he was her patient number 1788. She prescribed her yoga, vegetarian food and asked him to stay away from metals, and a visit every two weeks for the next twenty years.