IQ(34)

“I appreciate your having me, Dan,” Dr. Freeman said.

Cal couldn’t believe it. Somebody named Dr. Freeman was the Voice.

“That was a very powerful passage you read, Dr. Freeman,” the radio host said, “but let me play devil’s advocate here. Isn’t burnout just another one of those Oprah diseases like shoe addiction and mother-in-law phobia?”

“Burnout is very real. I see it in my practice on a daily basis. Men and women from every age and walk of life are so overwhelmed they can hardly function.”

“Maybe they’re just working too hard.”

“A common misconception. A person can suffer from burnout even if they’re a couch potato. You can burn out from being idle just like you can burn out from success. The common denominator is prolonged frustration.”

“Spinning your wheels.”

“Exactly. The feeling that no matter what you do you’re in the same place as you were yesterday. That there’s simply no reason to continue because you’d still be sunk in the same mire, running on the same treadmill, dancing the same tired dance. The housewife, the cop, the slacker, or the business tycoon can all suffer from burnout.”

Cal nodded. If there was ever anybody who was spinning their wheels it was him. The monotony of fame, the rapper’s cookie-cutter life.

“So if burnout is the disease, what’s the cure?” the radio host said.

“The most effective treatment is group therapy,” Dr. Freeman said. “A burnout can be with other people who have the same problems and talk about their shared experiences under the guidance of a therapist.”

Cal tried to imagine himself sitting in a circle with a bunch of white people. What shared experiences could he talk about? How his diamond-and-emerald-encrusted grill gave him cold sores and how he couldn’t stay awake because DStar had run out of Adderall and how sex wasn’t worth the trouble? A hit off his last album was titled “Bonin’ ’Til the Break of Dawn.” The last time he was in bed with a girl he nutted in three minutes and rolled over to sleep. The girl thought about it a moment, shook him and said: “It ain’t dawn yet.”

“But a lot of people don’t have the time or the resources for group therapy and that’s why I wrote the book,” Dr. Freeman said. “I’ve developed a series of lifestyle changes and exercises that are designed to, and I’m going to get technical here, get you unstuck. Give you a fresh perspective, reenergize you, alleviate your symptoms, and put you back in control.”

Anthony was knocking on the men’s room door. “Cal, are you okay?” he said. “We’ve got to get back to work. Everybody’s waiting.”

“And burnout doesn’t go away,” Dr. Freeman said. “If left untreated, the symptoms can be severe. Body aches, stomach distress, addiction, obesity, panic attacks, and increasing isolation. The effects can be devastating and sometimes irreparable. Some of my patients come to me too late, after they’ve lost friends, family, home, career, bank accounts. Everything.”

“Everything?” Cal said. He knew he was f*cking up but he didn’t know it was about everything. Shit. The crib, the cars, the clothes, the bitches, the primo weed. No way he was going to lose all that.

“Well, this has really been informative, Dr. Freeman,” the radio host said. “And I think this was a wake-up call for a lot of our listeners. Thanks for coming in.”

“Thank you for having me.”

Cal breathed in hope like a hit off a bong. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a chance to get his swagger back and be his old self again, and he wasn’t f*cked up in some general way, he had a specific condition—burnout—and burnout had a treatment and maybe he couldn’t go to group therapy but he could sure in the hell buy that book.

Anthony was still knocking on the door. “Cal, we’ve got to get going. Cal? Everybody’s waiting.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


Kill on Sight


July 2013

When Isaiah was in his teens, he worked for Harry Haldeman and wondered even then how the man could stay in a state of perpetual indignation; his fierce dark eyes glaring through the Coke-bottle bifocals resting on his great beak of a nose, his snow-white hair sticking up like a toilet brush. Isaiah thought he looked like an orchestra conductor. Harry’s wife, Louise, said he looked like an eagle wearing glasses.

“Pit bulls,” Harry said, “my favorite subject. Here you’ve got a high-energy, high-maintenance dog and pound for pound one of the most powerful creatures on the face of the earth and some goddamn teenager buys one because he thinks it makes his dick bigger. Some cities have banned pits altogether but what they ought to do is ban the goddamn teenagers. Did you know pit bulls are abandoned by their owners more than any other dog? We’ve got five or six right now and we’ll get another one before the day is over.”

Harry, Isaiah, and Dodson were walking through the canine cell block at the Hurston Animal Shelter, past one howling, mewling, sulking, dejected, pissed-off dog after another, the cacophony of barking louder than Dodson could turn up his car speakers. Dodson was walking against the wall as far away from the dogs as he could get without becoming part of the paint.

“It’s a goddamn shame,” Harry said. “People get a dog, can’t take care of it or they’re too stupid to shut the damn gate and the dog has to be put down. People are idiots. I’d rather be with dogs any day of the week. Ask Louise.” Harry had an encyclopedic knowledge of dogs. He’d written a book about dog body language and bred grand champion bloodhounds. He judged at dog shows all over the state and had been supervisor at the shelter for sixteen years. He’d seen thousands of dogs of every size, type, breed, and crossbreed.