Klick, the Dick
Keith Smith
Copyright © 2012 M Keith Smith
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2012-11-16
Dedication
Mom and Dad - I hardly knew you!
Acknowledgments
Research shows that ‘dick’ became slang for ‘detective’ around 1908, Dick originated as nickname for Richard maybe 400 years earlier, but Richard itself may represent ‘hard ruler.’ The use of the word as representative of the appendage that best represents the male ego may have begun in British military ranks around 1890, preceding slang for ‘detective.’ The word has other connotations, such as ‘jerk.’ It’s not a stretch to imagine the use of the word as representing someone hard-headed and interfering, such as a detective, rather than a shortening of the word. Even though a criminal might not like such attributes, law-abiding citizens might enjoy having a dick around every now and then….
Prologue
AS A KID I heard it said we all see a light at the end of a tunnel, and our past when we die. Dying for me, the light was flickering, not in any tunnel. The only past I saw was from movies, the ones I’d seen growing up, the ones with my idols. Sitting alone like always in the middle aisle, the silver light of make-believe washing over me.
The Time Machine the first I can remember understanding a theme. I was instantly hooked on the fighting for ideals, saving the world, trying to make others save themselves, as much as I was the violence. But man, Rod Taylor smashing those monsters, the gook coming out their eyes.
Tarzan movies, too, the Jock Mahoney one, articulate and intelligent, nothing like Weissmuller on television. Made me go out and read the books, finding the real Tarzan at too early an age. I was climbing trees for a year in nothing but cut-off jeans, butt and balls hanging in the wind.
Then mom died. Not long after that I saw Hombre. Cool loner shunning society (humanity it seemed to me). But in the end he blew the bad guys away even though it killed him. That year I went around with a death wish, smirking at everyone, fighting bad guys, taking up for everyone.
Blend those ideals together, no wonder I was so screwed up.
I lived those memories again, the soft touch of silver light a comfort. But I wouldn’t die.
When I woke up in the hospital the television was on. Over the nurse’s head I saw Tim Hutton crying to his shrink in ‘Ordinary People’, me crying with him, the nurse pumping more dope in me ‘cause she thought I was in pain.
But before I sank back into that blackness I remembered, remembered it all, the movies, and that last one ‘Ordinary People,’ and knew what I had to do.
1
Clyde Klick breathed in, then out gingerly, trying to decide which hurt worse. He winced. Exhaling was definitely more painfu. Maybe he should’ve listened to the surgeon and stayed in the hospital a couple weeks more.
No, he was a tough guy. If I’m so tough, what am I doing sitting in a shrink’s office? Not something done for people from his neighborhood.
But he had to talk to someone. He knew if he didn’t he’d end up sucking a bullet from his pistol.
Clyde watched the secretary. She had a mean look on her face, although he wasn’t sure why. Was it because he hadn’t said please or thank you?
Hey, listen to me. Do I need help or what?
***
Dr. Robert Rivkin hoped his next and last patient wouldn’t be the kind to make jokes about his size. He’d heard them all, the worse being ‘how’s the weather up there?’ But he liked what he was doing, being a shrink, listening to the stories people would tell. There were some seriously sick people out there, man. Most of them he could patch up and send back into the world without worrying about them going amok and shooting up some burger joint.
Some of his patients, though, made him wish he’d gone to play basketball in Utah with the Jazz, where he’d been drafted in the second round. He could’ve been the first seven-and-a-half footer in the NBA. Given Shaq a run for the money.
He looked at himself in the special full-length mirror built on the inside of the door in his walnut file cabinet and adjusted his red tie just so. He flashed his big smile that melted women at the West Side Stories, waiting for the question that always came – ‘So, are you size proportionate?’ Yes indeedy I am…
Just one more patient and he’d be on his way.
Dr. Rivkin flipped through his appointment book and looked at the name of his last patient for the day. Clyde Klick, possible depression, refused to give occupation, his secretary had written. Usually there were pages of notes with each patient, but that was all she had been able to get out of him. Clyde Klick. Strange name. Polish or German?
He touched the red button on his intercom and said, “Ms. Hayden, send in Mr. Klick please.”
“Gladly,” Ms. Haden’s voice returned. There was true relief in her voice, highly unprofessional of her.
Dr. Rivkin looked up as his heavy walnut door swung open, and then he jumped back. The man in the doorway had the meanest look on his face that Rivkin had ever seen. And that included the patient that claimed to be a mass murderer.
There was menace in his physical presence, too. Look at the shoulders on him. So much bigger than the rest of his body he almost looked deformed, like some weightlifter that had worked on that muscle group alone. Long dark hair framed a sour, tanned face. And was that a frown or a sneer on his lips? Wearing faded jeans, yellow t-shirt and yellow deck shoes. Not exactly dressed to impress.
Dr. Rivkin stood. Even though he was more than a foot-and-a-half taller than — what was it, Clyde Klick, yes, he shivered, his nape-hairs stood on end.
“Mr. Klick?”
“You okay, Doc? Look like you seen a ghost.”
“What? Oh, yes, it’s been a long day. Have a seat.” Rivkin waved a hand towards the black leather seat facing his desk. He could’ve sat in a chair facing Mr. Klick, but he felt safer behind his desk.
Dr. Rivkin noticed that Mr. Klick sat straight and stiff, leaning a bit forward, towards the doctor, almost like a panther ready to pound on his prey. He also noticed that Mr. Klick’s brown irises smoldered, floating in red, sleepless eyeballs.
“How can I help you today, Mr. Klick?”
“Fact is, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I just know I’m tired of the way things always end up, and now I may have something good, I don’t want to lose it again. I thought I had it good anyway, before all this happened. You understand what I’m trying to say?”
“Perfectly. Just try to remember you’re paying me eighty dollars an hour.” Rivkin allowed himself a smile.
“Oh yeah! Thanks for reminding me Doc. But since I’m the one doing the paying, maybe I could get a little sympathy here, huh?”
“It was a joke. Did I sound unsympathetic, Mr. Klick?”
“You sound as if you’d just soon I not be here, tell you the truth.”