  “What do you see?” the older balding guy asked. “Nothing, paper, black ink,” I responded. “No, what do you see on the paper?” he insisted. “I see nothing. I see ink.” “Ok, your not getting the jest of what I am saying here. I am want you to tell me what you think you see in the ink or what it reminds you of,” he said getting agitated with my non responses.
It was the first time I had ever been in a psychiatrist office and I was not there of my own free will. To make matters worse, I had been in a strip joint the night before and was still feeling the after effects of my night out. Perhaps I should have told him the image reminded me of the lessons I had learned on the previous evening.
The first lesson had been that Penthouse used an airbrush and possibly edited their photographs with some digital magic or both. The second lesson involved the bouncer in the club I was visiting. I learned that just because you can kick the bouncer’s ass, it doesn’t mean that you will be able to handle his associates. Apparently nightclubs have more than one bouncer, or as in this case, more than five. So with the after effects of a long night still lingering, I entered the shrink’s office.
My new employer required all applicants to undergo this evaluation along with the physical agility test, eye test, academic aptitude test, and polygraph examination. In my eyes, this was a subjective test, unlike the others and the pass/fail lay solely in the hands of the older and obviously gay man that was interviewing me. “What are you thinking about?” he said and glanced at his watch. No, not glanced, he studied it.
I watched him, realized he really was not listening to me and began to notice the other cues. The folder he held was at least an inch thick. I had never been in this man’s office and this was the good ole days. A time when the pages and pages of privacy paperwork now required before a doctor can look at the build up of wax in ones ear or some other mundane task did not exist.
The chart was not mine. This man is not listening to me. “I was thinking about food. I am hungry.” “And?” “And I usually eat when I think about food.” “What?” he snapped up from the daze and back out of the folder that appeared to belong to someone with much deeper troubles than my hang over and bruised ribs. “What are you talking about?” “I was saying I wanted lunch.” “O.k. can we finish here,” he picked up another inkblot and held it up. “How bout this one, Mr…. I thought, “he paused, he doesn’t know my name. This asshole is not paying attention here….’DuBose’.” I finished it for him.
“Yes, what do you see?” he again looked back at the thick file that he was now flipping through. “I see me standing over your bleeding head while I pump round after round into your face.” I said. I managed a laugh but was cut off. I don’t think the patient that corresponded to the thick file the good doctor had read during my entire interview got their treatment on time that day. My session was extended while he verified that I was not insane. He didn’t look at his watch again and the thick file was placed on his desk for the remainder of the meeting. 
