Free The Crazy Horse Electric Game by Chris Crutcher Page A

small towns, offering mental-health services to people referred by certain county, state or city agencies.
    Willie notices the small rectangular sign tacked to the outside of the open door: WOULD YOU MIND IF I ASKED YOU TO TAKE YOUR SILLY-ASS PROBLEM DOWN THE HALL? Not a bit , Willie thinks. A guy gets a little twisted out of shape and everybody decides he’s crazy . He looks at his watch; he’ll give this Mr. Wheat, M.A., five more minutes. And he’ll tell him right off; it wasn’t his idea to see a shrink. Everything’s under control now.
    â€œMr. Weaver, I presume.” Willie’s thoughts are broken by the appearance in the office doorway of a smallish blond man with horn-rimmed glasses. He wears a light-colored T-shirt with something printed across the chest that Willie can’t read because it’s partially covered by his beige sport jacket, open down the front with the sleeves rolled up. His pants are old Levi cords and he wears running shoes with no socks. “I’m Cyril Wheat,” the man says, and puts out his hand, then, noticing Willie is staring at his get-up, “‘Miami Vice.’”
    Willie smiles. “Willie…Weaver,” he says, shaking the therapist’s hand.
    Cyril whips out of his sport jacket, laying it across the desk, and Willie reads his shirt: GAY VEGETARIAN NAZIS FOR JESUS . Cyril smiles and shrugs. “I’m a joiner,” he says.
    Willie’s a little amused but still not at ease, so he sits quietly on the edge of his chair and waits while Cyril flips through the pile of manila folders on the desk. “Let’s see,” Cyril says, mostly to himself. “Ripper, Jack; no, that ain’t you. Manson, Charlie; no, that ain’t you either. Gotta be in here somewhere. Hitler, Adolf…Speck, Richard…Rogers, Roy…Boop, Betty…Ah, here it is; Weaver, William Jr.” He opens the file andreads a minute. “Says here you think you’re Napoleon Bonaparte…No, wait; it says Napoleon Pullapart.”
    Willie laughs a little and starts to speak, but Cyril is scribbling something on his notepad, speaking as he writes. “Client believes himself to be a cinnamon roll.” He looks up again to Willie and shakes his head. “You’re the first one of these I’ve had.”
    Willie shakes his head and smiles, looking at his. knees. Cyril puts a hand on his shoulder and says gently, “But seriously now, folks…” and Willie eases back a little. Cyril flips again quickly through the information in the folder, closes it and plops it back onto the desk top. He’s read it before. He says, “Rough time, eh?”
    Willie shrugs. “…Sort of. I’m…better.”
    Cyril nods. “Well, let’s start at the middle, then we can work both ways. Tell me about freaking out.”
    â€œYou mean…at…the party?”
    â€œAt the party and afterward. Tell me everything you know about freaking out.”
    Willie describes, in his halting way, the feeling of pure lunacy that swept over him when the acid hit and how helpless he felt to stop it; how the horror took on a life of its own and smothered him; how he was transported out of Johnny’s house to Hell and how it seemed like it would last forever. The telling is difficult,but never once does the therapist try to push or speak for him.
    When he finally finishes, Cyril says, “Hoo-eee, that’s some heavy shit.”
    â€œAnd…then…these dreams.”
    Cyril’s hand shoots up, palm out. “Stop. I don’t do dreams.”
    â€œI…thought…I was…supposed…to…talk about…everything.”
    Cyril stops a second and closes his eyes, thinking. “Oh, that’s right,” he says, “it’s windows I don’t do. Go ahead.”
    So Willie describes the tracks at Promontory Point that only partially meet and the murderous hardball ripping