Dr. Werjungskinfrood! Session One: The Phobias of Ms. Sinclair

Dr. Werjungskinfrood opened the door to the basement office of his lakeside New England cottage and greeted his new patient, Ms. Marley Rune Sinclair.

Ms. Sinclair was dressed in designer clothes and expensive jewelry, but her eyes suggested a deep-seated insecurity that intrigued the psychiatrist.

"Good morning, Ms. Sinclair. Please have a seat," he said, gesturing to a somewhat worn armchair in front of his infrequently polished oak desk.

Dr. Werjungskinfrood had a head full of wild, curly gray hair and thick, square glasses resting on his plump nose. He wore a long white lab coat over his button-up shirt and red bowtie, giving the disconcerting impression of that he was mad scientist who could be running bizarre psychiatric experiments on unsuspecting patients in his basement.

The scent of old books lingered in his office, and there was an antique Remington typewriter on his desk but no computer.

Ms. Sinclair sat down. She fidgeted with her purse while Dr. Werjungskinfrood studied her movements intensely, exponentially increasing her nervousness until she became so nervous her purse slipped to the floor, causing her to whimper helplessly, and then begin to bawl.

"Please, please," Dr. Werjungskinfrood began, his voice calm and reassuring. “There, there. Would you like a handkerchief, Ms. Sinclair?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Ms. Sinclair.

“Oh yes, of course, it’s only a shame I do not have one,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Perhaps, there is one in your purse?” he asked.

“No,” said Ms. Sinclair. “I find handkerchiefs filthy.”

“I see,” said Dr. Werjunkskinfrood. “Even ones unused?”

“If you aren’t going to use them, what’s the point of having one?” said Ms. Sinclair.

“So you prefer to—” stammered Dr. Werjunksinfrood, “let tears and mucus and whatnot, sort of, just, eh, er, percolate about everywhere, then?”

Ms. Sinclair gave him an icy look. “Nobody is—percolating—anywhere, are they now? Certainly not me.”

“Of course not,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Now, Ms. Sinclair,” he began, “what brings you to see me today?”

“Well, you come highly recommended,” Ms. Sinclair said.

“I see,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Recommended for what, exactly?”

“Psychiatry,” said Ms. Sinclair. “You are a psychiatrist?”

“I see,” said Dr. Werjunskinfrood. “Do you think I am a psychiatrist?”

“Of course, I do,” said Ms. Sinclair. “Why else would I be here? I certainly did not come here to sit and—percolate—as you say—with a civilian.”

“So, then you think you are in need of a psychiatrist, Ms. Sinclair?” asked Dr. Werjungskinfrood.

“Of course, I don’t need a psychiatrist, Dr. Werjungskinfrood,” snapped Ms. Sinclair. “Do I look like a nut? I am certainly not a nut.”

“I see, Ms. Sinclair, yes, no,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood, folding his hands. “Then how is it I might help you? As I said, I have no handkerchief.”

“I do not need a handkerchief, Doctor,” said Ms. Sinclair.

“Then?”

“I am here, Dr. Werjungskinfrood,” said Ms. Sinclair, “because I have a profound and debilitating fear of flight attendants which is interfering with my travel plans, and I am due to go to see the Acropolis in two weeks.”

“I see,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Have you been attacked by flight attendants, then, ever? Have they, er, perhaps captured you, tortured you in the cargo hold of a jumbo jet? Put you in a cage with the other pets?”

“No, of course not,’ said Ms. Sinclair. “I am not a pet.”

“Not even on an international flight?” asked Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Those Icelandic ones?”

“No, not even on an international flight, Dr. Werjungskinfrood,” said Ms. Sinclair, “and I am certain I not familiar with any Icelandics.”

“I see,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Why is it, then, you believe you might be terrorized by flight attendants, Ms. Sinclair?”

“Not terrorized, Dr. Werjungskinfrood,” said Ms. Sinclair. “Afraid.”

“Of course, Ms. Sinclair,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “And why do you think you are afraid of flight attendants?”

“Well,” said Ms. Sinclair. “To begin. My father…”

“Yes?”

“He was a pilot.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood.

“Is that significant?” asked Ms. Sinclair.

“No, no,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Yes, perhaps. Please, continue.”

“Yes, well, my father, as I said, he was a pilot,” said Ms. Sinclair, “and so he would fly us all around the world in a bitsy witsy propeller plane.”

“Oh, how nice,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Wonderful things, propellers.”

“Yes,” said Ms. Sinclair, “and this one particular time, when I was four years old, in one of these bitsy witsy propeller planes, I saw a blonde, large-bosomed flight attendant go into the cockpit and whisper something in my father’s ear.”

“I see,” said Dr. Werjunksinfrood. “What did she whisper?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Ms. Sinclair.

“Perhaps she whispered that the plane was on fire?” asked Dr. Werjungskinfrood.

“No, of course she did not whisper that the plane was on fire, Dr. Werjungskinfrood,” said Ms. Sinclair. “Do you think I would be sitting here right now if the plane had been on fire?”

Dr. Werjungskinfrood shrugged. “Perhaps she whispered that one of the propellers fell off?”

“No propellers fell off of anything, Dr. Werjungskinfrood!” said Ms. Sinclair.

“Why is this ear whispering memory so traumatic to you then, Ms. Sinclair?” ask Dr. Werjungskinfrood.

“It’s not traumatic,” said Ms. Sinclair. “It’s—in my deepest darkest unspoken fears shared never with another soul but for you now, I am afraid my father was having intercourse with them.”

“Having intercourse with who?” asked Dr. Werjungskinfrood.

“With the flight attendants, of course!” said Ms. Sinclair.

“Was your mother a flight attendant?” asked Dr. Werjungskinfrood.

“Of course not,” said Ms. Sinclair. “She was chaste.”

“I see,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “So, your father and the other flight attendants. All of them?” asked Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “That’s impressive,” he mumbled.

“It is not impressive,” said Ms. Sinclair. “Yes, all of them. Every brazen hussy in the friendly skies, I fear.”

Dr. Werjungskinfrood cleared his throat. “I see,” he said. “This is very clear now.”

“Is it?” asked Ms. Sinclair.

“Yes,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “You are afraid that these, er, flight attendants—noy that they will lock you up like a little puppy in the cargo hold—but that they wish to have intercourse with you—that you secretly desire this, in fact—”

“I most certainly do not!” said Ms. Sinclair.

“You fear they will, er, ravage you in the plane, like wild bunny rabbit,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood, “and you will scream with uncontainable ecstasy despite yourself—"

“That’s preposterous!” said Ms. Sinclair.

“It is, yes,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “Eh, er, I am afraid we’re out of time.”

“I will not pay you a cent for this nonsense!” said Ms. Sinclair, picking up her purse.

“Oh yes, you will, you’ll see, Ms. Sinclair. We must get you to the Acropolis,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood. “We will, next week, discuss your—fantasies of being marauded by blonde buxom flight attendants—yes? Journal about it, please. Free write. See you next week, then.”

“I shall—!” stammered Ms. Sinclair.

“You shall thank me when this is all over, Ms. Sinclair, of course,” said Dr. Werjungskinfrood, and he began to type up his notes on the Remington as Ms. Sinclair fumed.

“Oh, there is some tissue paper in the toilet,” he added, “if you wish to tinkle on the way out and, er, clean up—your—percolations.”