"Dr. Disney"

I work closely with a man I will call Dr. Disney (that's not his real name).

He's a man of about 60 years of age who acts about 30 years of age. He's about 5'7" with a head of closely-cut white hair, a reddish-round face, and small, circular-rimmed glasses that are loose at the hinges. He pulls those glasses on and off his face several times a minute, and he never misses an opportunity to smile. He used to be in the Air Force, and his degree in college was in Theatre. He's got pictures of his wife around his office, and, in word and deed, he is very much in love with her. They took a trip to the tropics recently, and showed me a slide show of his vacation on his laptop. He often stops by my office to talk with me about something or nothing. His shoulders are slightly hunched over his neck, giving his back a small, rounded appearance. He and I have shared laughs together at work, something that isn't easy to do at my job. He knows my name and respects the work I do, and the feeling is reciprocated. When I have to talk with a doctor, I choose to talk with Dr. Disney first. He makes work easy and is great fun.

Normally when I go to see him in his office, he's waiting for me by reading something on line. He could be reading about Elizabeth Taylor's death, or about the atmosphere of Jupiter. You never know with Dr. Disney, but it's usually interesting and he'll tell you about whatever he's doing with a lilt in his voice, as if he's happy to have found this tidbit on life and it will sustain him for at least the next 30 minutes to an hour, or longer if he doesn't find another joyous tidbit of life... which he always does.

Today I went to see him and he was red-faced. More red than usual. As I smiled and sat down with him, he wiped his face downward several times with his broad, wrinkled palm, as if he was trying to erase something that was written across his face. I noticed his eyes were a little teary. I asked him how he was doing. He sighed a deep, heavy breath.
"Well," his voice was softer than normal, "I found out that I have to say something that isn't the truth or else pay over one hundred thousand dollars."

I had a moment that I've never experienced before. I was neither excited nor nervous. I wasn't depressed or anxious. I simply didn't know what to say, but at the same time, I wasn't trying to think of anything to say. I was hovering without emotion or judgement. I had just stopped. It was almost as if my mind was catching up with the number-- one hundred thousand dollars-- and I had to stop to wait for my brain to get there. I was okay with the number "one". I can do that. Then the "hundred", I'm still okay with that. I've had some good birthday gifts of cash in my day. I can understand the "hundred". Then the "thousand". I think I know what that is, I mean it's one hundred plus one zero, right? But before my head put a picture to the number, Dr. Disney had added the word "dollars". And that's where I just stopped.

Um... what?

I sat and looked at him for what was only a fraction of a second, but in my head this moment stretched out in front of me without end, like a highway in the middle of a road trip. It's too far to fathom how much further it stretches in front of you. It's too far to turn around and go back home. You've got to keep going.

"That really sucks," I said, with as much heart-felt empathy as I could muster.
"Yeah," he sputtered a little. "And it's one of those times when you realize that there is no fair, there is no justice, and sometimes the good doesn't win and sometimes the right doesn't win. And it hurts when you have to deal with those moments." And he made this gesture with his hand, as if he was catching his heart as it popped out of his chest, and I believed that his heart might have leaped out of his body from the pressure of the sadness he was trying to repress.
"I hate seeing you like this, Dr. Disney," I said, feeling like a child who wants to comfort his parent about something he doesn't understand or couldn't comprehend were he to be told.
"It's okay," he said. "I'll get over it. It's just..." He had something else to say. He wanted to talk more. And maybe it was our cursory friendship that stopped him, or that we were supposed to be working rather than dealing with his personal life. But I could tell he wanted to go on.
"Is it something you can tell me about?"
"Well, it's just that... I hate when... There are... It just hurts. I'll get over it."
We finished up our work. He shook my hand. He smiled. And then I left his office.

I wanted to tell him about my issues with court. How my wife and I are going through similar issues. I wanted him to know that he wasn't the only person going through Justice and Right V. Wrong issues. He wasn't the only person who was dealing with paying tons of cash to get the truth to light. Maybe I should've. Maybe it would help him to know that he's not alone. I know it would help me. It would help my wife. I don't know why it helps to know that other people are struggling with this same, odd, almost undefinable issue of trying to allow the truth to see the light.

Why have we created a world where you have to pay money to hear the truth? If you're not rich, it seems the lies win. All the virtues I was taught in kindergarten don't seem relevant. In fact, if you hold on to those virtues, it feels like you're at a distinct disadvantage in life.

Dr. Disney is a good man. I wish I could fix him. I wish that he could fix me and my wife. I wish it would all go away and I wouldn't have to sit here weighted with this shit. But here I sit. And there he sits. And there's nothing either of us can do except keep driving on this road trip road and hope that the hotel at the end has a really good pool and a cool air conditioner and something good to watch on HBO.