The Hypnotist

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness ..." Michael Doc Mesmer had heard of Charles Dickens but never read him. The sentiment, nevertheless, fit. At thirty-five he was too young for a midlife crisis. He felt on top of his game, in control. Nevertheless, Doc was at a turning point; his life was about to change. He tossed the final worksheet in the trash, swishing the net. "Yes," Doc blurted. He hated preparing his taxes as much as paying them, but the three-pointer closed the deal. "Finished, done, out of my hair!" Doc shouted. He had wrapped up his federal taxes a month early. No procrastination this year, he mused. His eyes fixed on line 28--taxable income, $75,000 and change, just for making people feel better. Not bad for an amateur. He glanced at the Ph.D. certificate adorning his office wall; it was bogus, on sale for $69.95, purchased over the Internet. The fancy certificate issued from London College even impressed Doc, spelling his name in gold lettering followed by Doctor of Philosophy. It beat suffering through college and grad school, quicker, surely cheaper. His steadfastness in having clients call him Doc had clearly paid off. He encouraged the nickname, a quick smile and "Oh, just call me Doc." The calculated move gave him authority and credibility to his services. His attention shifted to a second certificate, off to the right, hanking askew, directly above his well-stocked bookcase. It was no less important, sanctioning him as a minister, allowing him to perform marriage ceremonies, ordained by the Universal Life Church of Modesto. He bought it on the Internet for the discounted price of $39.95. It was a great investment, helped spread the word, and let people in on his hypnotherapy practice. He glimpsed the antique wall clock. "It's on!" he shouted, springing to his feet. As he hastily filed the tax form, the nineteenth-century clock chimed, filling his small office with the sounds of Westminster. The clock, a gift from his mom, gave him solace. "God bless her soul," he muttered as he gazed at the clock's hands, wishing he could reverse time. I miss her. Reverend Michael Mesmer, better known to his clients and friends as Doc, was a hypnotist, a vastly under-regulated profession. He followed California guidelines, dodging controversial areas, never offering advice concerning emotional or mental disorders. He was skilled at reading people, sweet-talking gullible neurotic types out of their hard-earned cash; he literally mesmerized them with his charm. His ex-wife, when first married, called him charismatic, but later, after a contentious divorce, a charlatan.