DEUS EX MACHINA
DEUS EX MACHINA
BY JOHN TUFT
“Preacher Boy, you gotta minute?” I shoved the rest of a handful of M&Ms into my mouth and motioned her inside the office. Daisy is pure Southern charm and the prestidigitation of manners. Daisy is what used to be referred to as drop dead gorgeous. The timeless dance between the sexes is now often reduced to adolescent posturing and pleading and barely disguised hostility and fear of rejection in a social media sexualized meat market type of world. No matter the age of the participants. In a life measured in online trends and humiliation challenges, Daisy is doubting herself, not unlike thousands upon thousands of Daisys. Other people seem so much better; better looking, happier life, better lifestyle, more friends — and the right ones — are some of the distractions that pass for social interaction these days. “I feel so anxious all the time, Preacher. What if I’m not good enough?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Good enough for what, Daisy?” She hesitated. Finally, “Good enough for anybody.” I do the slow silent counselor count-to-ten which serves to let someone know there is space for them to say more. First rule in counseling: don’t be thinking about what to say next. “He left me. He said that I wasn’t enough anymore. Preacher Boy, he is the love of my life. And I’m not enough for the love of my life.” Daisy started to weep. “Maybe he wasn’t enough for you,” I said, gently. “Maybe you deserve better.” Those words hang there, and I am unsure if they’ve been heard. Finally, “I don’t know what I deserve, Preacher. I don’t think I deserve much.” “Daisy, did I ever tell you about my amputated earlobe?” Even as I write this I can feel my counseling psychology professors cringing. But alas, don’t be thinking of what to say next…
She gives me a quizzical, are you okay look. “I still see two earlobes, Preacher Boy.” I smiled. “Back in another lifetime, when I was a walking opioid pain medicine chest, I used to have trouble with my balance.” I show her my left wrist which has a nasty scar that looks like a suicide attempt. “One evening, my wife and I returned home, and I was on the front porch waiting to get inside. The porch had a small roof supported by posts covered in aluminum siding. The siding wrapped around the squared post, leaving an exposed edge. Something caught my attention, and I turned to look, and lost my balance. The next thing I know, I’m lying on the concrete porch in a puddle of my own blood. My wrist caught that edge and was sliced open. I turned from the blood and spotted a strange, small flesh colored lump on the sidewalk. My wife informed me in a matter-of-fact fashion that it was my left earlobe.”
Daisy looked both amused and horrified. “That’s terrible. What happened?” I shrugged. “The EMTs came to take me away and my wife put the earlobe in a baggie on ice and followed behind. The plastic surgeon used a microscope and fine needle and thread and sewed it back on. To this day, I get an itch on the spot where the last stitch reattached my earlobe. And when I feel that itch I recall the unexpected deus ex machina in my own story. Sometime after that incident, the insurance company stopped paying for the opioids that kept me so locked inside my own world of pain and lost hope. The hero in my story is the stepping in of the insurance, saying no more. January 5, 2018, is my first clean day. Without the drugs, I got a second chance to decide what I was worth and what was I going to fight for in my life. I look at the scar on my wrist and think nothing. My earlobe itches, and I am reminded of the deus ex machina in my story. Totally unexpected.”
Daisy absorbed my bizarre story. “So, I have to find my itchy earlobe?” We both laughed. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Except in your story, it looks like you have to become the unexpected hero. Letting other people tell you who you are and what you are worth hasn’t worked out too well.” And so, Daisy and I began to work together over the coming weeks and months. Many times, Daisy tried to make me her deus ex machina, but I insisted that it was her. After about six months, she came in for an appointment, sat down, and promptly took off her right shoe. She started to rub the space between her big toe and the little piggy who stayed home. She gave me a mischievous grin. “I found my itchy earlobe.” I smiled and kept my mouth shut.
“I was in the grocery store feeling sorry for myself. Then I remembered what we talked about. If we’re feeling sorry for ourselves we’re shouting down angels. I started laughing so hard about that I dropped the big can of peaches I was carrying, right onto my big toe. Hurt like the dickens. This kind gentleman came up to me and asked if I was okay. Tears were rolling down my cheeks as I told him I was fine. He asked me out to dinner saying, anyone who laughs like that is someone I want to know.” She stopped. “Preacher, he said he wanted to know me because I laughed at dropping peaches on my toe. Nobody but you have ever said they want to know me. I think he’s the deus ex machina of my story.” I shook my head. “No, Daisy. You are. You’re the one who laughed…”
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
