Six Strokes Under Read Online Free

wiped the drool off my chin, what else would I notice about her?"
    "Focus," I said. "She had the entire male population of the driving range sporting woodies and all she saw was her own swing path."
    "Sporting woodies?"
    "Sorry, I didn't mean to shock you," I said, laughing. "Let me put it another way. She seems to have the concentration it takes to make it big time. And her shots were nothing to sneeze about either. The swing path isn't what I'd call classic, but she hits the ball square and it goes a long ways. A lot longer than anything I could hit. To make things worse, she already has a sponsor and they've filled her bag with space-age technology. It's going to be hard to compete with that."
    "Remember what I told you. You're not competing against one person in Q-school. Keep your focus on each shot and—"
    "I know, I know," I said. "Play your own game."
    Joe laughed. "I've gotten predictable."
    "Gotta go, Doc," I said. "I'm off to see the wizard."
    When I hadn't sprung right back from the accident last summer, Joe had diagnosed post-traumatic stress syndrome and suggested I get into psychotherapy. "Sure you could probably handle this alone," he'd said. "But you'll come out of it faster with some help. Take care of it early and the symptoms won't keep popping up at inconvenient times." Now he tried to walk the fine line between curiosity about my progress and respecting my privacy.
    "Everything going okay with Dr. Baxter?" he asked.
    "I'm thinking of stopping," I said. "I think I'm cured. Now I only have post-post-traumatic stress syndrome."
    "Did you discuss this with him?" said Joe, his voice full of that I-know-better-than-you-that-you-are-about-to-screw-up tone.
    "I'll be fine," I said. "Case closed. I'll see you next Tuesday."
    "Good luck," said Joe. "Hit 'em straight."
    I parked on the street outside Dr. Baxter's office and turned up the radio. I preferred to skate into Dr. Baxter's waiting room only a minute or so before my appointment. I knew if I got there late, we'd waste half the hour talking about the deep psychological ramifications of my tardiness, but on the other hand, I hated to get there too early and end up having to cool my heels with the losers waiting for his officemate, Dr. Bencher. Bencher looked normal enough—standard-issue close-cropped goatee, white button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up, sometimes a vest, sometimes a tie. All designed, I imagined, to give that professional yet rumpled and warm effect conducive to the spilling of guts.
    But unlike Baxter and his merry band of high-functioning neurotics, Bencher seemed to specialize in the genuine crazies. God knows, maybe they thought I was wacko, too. But at least I didn't sit in the waiting area clanking through the bag of filthy cans I'd collected from the Dumpster outside the back door. Or wear a baseball cap with an Insane Clown Posse logo and rows of carpet tacks glued around the brim, pointy ends out.
    I released the latch on the bucket seat of my Volvo and leaned back with my eyes closed to meditate to the sweet sounds of Patsy Cline. I had five minutes to fantasize about a steamy reunion with Jack Wolfe.
    A siren interrupted Patsy's lament. Then I heard shouts in the parking lot outside Dr. Baxter's building. I got out of the car to investigate. Two men and a woman in business suits marched in front of the door waving placards and yelling. It wasn't the first time I'd had to wend my way through a receiving line of protesters—my shrink's suitemate seemed to gravitate to controversy.
    "It's bad enough coming at all," I'd told Dr. Baxter last time this happened. "But running a gauntlet of crackpots to get here ..." I could only shake my head.
    The businesspeople carried signs that read, "Manufactured Memories: Shattered Lives," "Charlatan Shrinks Stroll Down Pseudo-Memory Lane," and "Stick to Analysis, Skip the Fiction." A fourth protester wore faded jeans, three or four days' worth of whiskery stubble, and a black-and-red-checked