Balls Read Online Free Page A

ridged tip. His large brown eyes were full of knowledge. At the sight of him, Henry’s guard lowered and he told Whitney about his dizziness.
    Brother, he said, to Henry, it sounds to me like you need help.
    You’re probably right. It’s hard for me to admit, but I think I do .
    You ever tried a shrink?
    I haven’t.
    I tell you, they’ve pulled me out of a few slumps.
    Henry called Martz to ask for a referral. He suggested a psychiatrist, Penelope Andrews, on the West Side. Martz didn’t know her personally, but had heard good things. Henry contacted her at once. Just minutes into their conversation, in a soft, unhurried tone, she’d told him he sounded troubled. Henry had felt grossly misjudged. How could she know so much about him? Was she a psychiatrist or a psychic? He considered canceling his appointment. But desperate to feel better, he showed up at the scheduled time. Indeed, many of the doubts he’d had about coming were soon quashed by the doctor’s long, smooth, un-stockinged legs which crossed before him during their first session. She wore a short dress of a kind of powder blue color. Hers was a full bosom and she had the sort of fleshy stomach which made Henry want to grab on. Brown wavy hair hung past her shoulders. Greeting him at the door to her office on West 81st Street, her mouth, full and red, had smiled at Henry.
    He’d said, Nice to meet you, doctor.
    And she’d told him, Please, call me Penelope.
    Before sitting Henry had looked around the room. Would he be open with his thoughts here? The brown wall to wall carpeting was oppressive. The drawn curtains sealed them into a semi-darkness, which affected him like a soporific. The dark wood shelves and thick medical volumes were stifling. He found a number of things to complain about. But sitting across from Dr. Andrews, his energy, his spirit, returned. Oh, she was something to look at. She was beautiful.
    During the first half-hour Henry spoke about his condition, when it began, why he believed it had. He told her of his struggles with music. But he wanted her to talk. He knew his own thoughts, and was tired of them. However, not until the end of the session did she say much of anything. With Henry’s throat dry from speech, in the sleep-inducing light, Dr. Andrews, who had exceptional calves, gazed sideways at her patient and said to him:
    Henry, you remind me of a man who came to see me about a month after 9/11. He was maybe ten years older than you. He’d worked in the north tower. Or was it the south? She touched her forefinger to her lips and said, I don’t remember. But the first things he complained of were symptoms just like those you’re describing: Dizziness. Filter. Exhaustion. Trouble working. Depression. I diagnosed him with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He’d been through something which had shocked his whole system: Getting out of that building alive, losing friends, watching it all happen again and again on the television—he fell apart. But I’m left to wonder, Henry…were you here on 9/11?
    Henry’s neck lengthened, his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure how any of this was relevant. But he was not the expert. Shifting forward in his chair, he said:
    I was on my roof. I’d been living downtown.
    Did you see the towers fall?
    I did.
    And how did you feel afterwards?
    How did I feel? Like anyone else, said Henry, I suppose I was shocked, afraid.
    She said, Right , then wrote something on her yellow pad. Tell me, did you experience any loss of appetite?
    No.
    Libido?
    I can’t say.
    Were you alone when it happened?
    I was, doctor.
    All alone?
    There were others on my roof.
    Friends?
    Henry gave her a cross look. As much as any neighbor in New York is a friend. I guess we did talk to each other.
    But otherwise you were alone?
    I was.
    A mournful expression on her face, she leaned forward in her chair and said, I’m sorry, Henry Schiller. I am so, so