by Tom Rinkes

Created on: April 15, 2008

When I first told my family about my plan to be a psychiatrist, they didn't believe me. All six eyes-no, eight. My dad wears glasses-glared at me from three directions. Dad peered over his latest copy of the Weekly World News, Mom dropped her peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich, and my older sister laughed so hysterically she almost peed her pants. After a long period of uncomfortable silence, my old man-the family comedian-stood up, cupped his left ear with a nicotine-stained hand, and said...

"You wanna' be what?" I didn't back down.
"I said I want to be a psychiatrist."
"You have got to be kidding me," he said, angrily. "With this family? How much business do you think you'll get in this town?" He had a point. Everyone for miles around knew the Slavens.

"Well...I can always move to Bridgeport." It's five miles south.
"Not far enough."
"Connecticut?" I asked, sarcastically.
"Not even close."
"California?"

"Now you're talking the right longitude. We'll talk about this later after you get your Uncle Ed off the roof. I believe it's your turn, and tell him the Grays aren't coming for him till next Tuesday."

Uncle Ed was my Dad's younger brother, and a six-time abductee, so he says. We've tried to tell him that he's just been sleep walking backwards, but he doesn't believe us.
"Uncle Ed," I yelled, "how much food you got up there?" He looked in his brown paper bag.
"Two baloney sandwiches and a can of Coke."
"Dad says they aren't coming for you 'till next week. You better come down now, or you'll starve to death before they get here." That one worked every other month. Uncle Ed did a lot of pharmaceuticals in his youth, and his short-term memory was shot.

We had supper that night at four, five, six, seven and eight p.m. We never ate as a family unit. In our world, the family that eats together...kills each other. No, it's not that bad, but when we do, it's like the W.W.F. After Dad was done, he grabbed two beers, and waved one at me. That was my queue to meet him out back, at the picnic table. We both drank our beer, and then he got serious.

"Why on earth, with all the things you could try, do you want to be a shrink?"
"I don't know," I said, without making eye contact. "I just thought I might be able to help people, you know?"
"Help people...help people? Hell's bells, Johnny, the first thing people are going to do is throw that bunch at you."
He pointed his thumb at our house without looking back. He had a point. We'd never make the cover of Parade magazine.

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