Chapter 15

Isaac agreed with Seth. They would have to revise their plan of attack regarding Dr. Rousseau. Avoiding the therapist was no longer the smart move. More aggression was needed. With Rousseau’s connection to the missing screenwriter, it was now imperative for Isaac to visit the good doctor to suss out whatever he may know about Zee and her disappearance. Isaac didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes nor Seth his Watson for them to know that there was a game afoot. All they had to do now was figure out who was playing and what the rules were. But, of course, they already knew what they were playing for: the fate of the free world.

While Isaac was on his way to Dr. Rousseau’s Beverly Hills office, he got stuck in traffic, and the lack of forward motion began to sap him of his strength and resolve. His feet grew colder every time he hit the brakes. Doubts swirled. He had felt a lot more confident when Seth was by his side. But it was too late. Unfortunately, he was trapped, heading into the lion’s den alone.

Isaac had to remain calm, except his anxiety continued to grow. A deep breath couldn’t calm him down. Instead, he felt boxed in, metaphorically and physically, as the cars beside him pressed in toward his own to cut off any chance of escape. Who could have guessed that saving the world would be so emotionally taxing?

With immense warmth and graciousness, Dr. Rousseau received Isaac into this office. The doctor’s demeanor was serene, which only made Isaac more nervous. Dr. Rousseau’s eyes said one thing, but Isaac could taste the hostility in the air. Dr. Rousseau’s body language had the same potential energy as a coiled viper, and the pink Himalayan salt desk lamp threw heavy shadows across half of Dr. Rousseau’s face.

“What’s up, doc?” Isaac joked in an attempt to break the ice.

“Your behavior this week has left much to be desired, Isaac.”

“I see how you could be under that impression.”

“What would you like to take responsibility for first? Is it the unprofessional way you’ve approached your appointment this week? Or the fact you’ve already been fired from the job I got you and that you’re no longer in compliance with the Slytherin Board?”

Isaac whistled. “News sure does travel fast in the industry.”

“Oh, Isaac, these weren’t mere whispers on the wind I heard.”

“Lies travel twice as fast around the world as the truth. So, maybe we should apply that principle to this situation?”

“Mr. Lennox’s office contacted me directly,” Dr. Rousseau sighed. “I told them you’d produce, and you’re crying writer’s block on your first day? That’s very disappointing news, in the extreme. You must finish your script.”

“And what if I don’t write anything else? What if I can’t?”

“Then that would be a grave concern to me. I'm afraid it would be due cause for some sort of corrective measure on my part. For your own good, of course.” Dr. Rousseau handed him an iPad. On the screen was a PDF brochure for a wellness retreat in Malibu, the one where “Irving Hodges” had supposedly gone to dry out.

If only heaven looked so good as this retreat, Isaac thought. He swiped through pictures of rolling lawns, sparkling splash pools, and liquid IV stations attached to beach chaise lounges. Advertised activities included picnics at the M*A*S*H* mountain set, meditation sessions in Jim Morrison’s cave, and a standing invitation to Dick Van Dyke’s annual Halloween party. “This sure is a step up from the Twin Towers,” he said, referring to the correctional medical facility Dr. Rousseau first threatened him with in Chapter 1.

“That’s the privilege you’re granted when you seek help rather than the help seeking you. In this case, I’m referring to the Slytherin Board.”

“Is this the same song and dance you gave Zee when she stopped producing for you?” Isaac fired back, dropping the hammer on the doctor, but he didn’t flinch. “I know she was your patient before she went missing. I know I’m her screenwriter replacement. And I know that this retreat is about as real as the upstate farm where everyone sends their dying dogs. So, is that what you’re going to do to me? Is my secret agent codename Old Yeller?”

“Code name? I see your delusions of grandeur have not yet dissipated. Rest easy, Isaac. I assure you the place featured in that digital brochure is very much real. On occasion, and not without great and deliberate thought, have I admitted some of my clients against their will, but it was always done with the best of intentions.”

“I knew it. You’re in the Illuminati. Admit it! How many kids have you abducted and eaten?”

“Eaten?” Dr. Rousseau put down some marks on an adjacent notepad. “I think you have the wrong idea, Isaac, or you haven’t been taking your medication recently. You’re way off base here.” A long sigh prefaced what came next, “You’re not instilling me with a lot of confidence about the state of your condition right now. If it weren’t for Seth’s cohabitation, then I’d have to think long and hard about your ability to live an independent lifestyle. ”

“Explain to me how it’s possible two Super Jesus writers have come from your office.”

“You understand that I can neither confirm nor deny that I have a professional relationship with Zee Shirley. As these talks progress, I can’t help but diagnose you with paranoid anxiety. Listen to me, Isaac. There is no grand conspiracy with you at the center. It is by mere happenstance that you and she both worked for Mr. Lennox. Every person with Final Draft installed on their computer was a writer for him at one time or another. Half of the WGA owes their membership to Mr. Lennox for letting them do a pass on a script or two. The man has honest-to-goodness monkeys working for him.”

Isaac bit his lip with regret. “So you’re not in the Illuminati?”

“Do you think the Illuminati is after you, Isaac?” He put pen to paper. “That’s an interesting development indeed. Exactly how long have you been experiencing and expressing anti-Semitic thoughts?”

“If they’re after Zee, that means they’re after me. Don’t you see it? It’s so obvious.” Isaac pondered his next chess move. “When did you last see Zee? Tell me…. or else.”

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“Isaac, I cannot and will not answer you. There will be no questions about potential patients of mine. You understand? Tell me, have you ever heard of external and internal locus of control? Too often, you blame others for your problems. I’d worry more about yourself than Zee.”

“Tell me about her, dammit! I’ve had enough of everyone and their professional obligations. There’s a missing cat and a missing screenwriter, and the Illuminati are hunting them down as we speak. The fate of the world is at stake, goddamnit!”

“The. Fate. Of. The. World.” Dr. Rousseau repeated Isaac’s words as he transcribed them into his notepad. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“My psychic told me.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me more about the cat. I take it the cat you’re speaking of is the same as the one from the script?” Dr. Rousseau leaned forward in his seat.

“His name is Captain Flapjacks.”

“Sure it is. Now, what does the Illuminati want with a cat?”

Isaac shifted his eyes around the room and spoke with a hushed tone, “What do you know about cat power?”

“Say that again.”

Isaac, louder now, “Cat power!”

“I thought so.” Dr. Rousseau was scribbling furiously. “I don’t know much about cat power, I must admit. But, please, edify me on the subject.”

“I don’t know much of anything, really,” Isaac demurred. “Only that cats have some sort of mysterious and mystical metaphysical properties that, if tapped into, could alter the balance of our time-space reality,” Isaac explained. He then paused to wait for Dr. Rousseau’s pen to stop moving. It didn’t. Isaac started to become uncomfortable with how much ink was spilling from it. The whole conspiracy sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud. “But that’s only a working theory. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Well, what a theory it is! I must say I’m intrigued. Is that all you know?”

“For now…..”

“If one were interested to learn more about Cat Power, whom would they ask?”

Isaac rubbed the back of his head. “The Nazis.”

“Naturally. Do you know many Nazis, Isaac? How often would you say you fraternize with them?”

“No, no, never, not to my knowledge anyway. But Los Angeles is a known hotspot for Nazis.”

Dr. Rousseau coughed up his surprise. “You are full of titillating tidbits today, aren’t you?”

“The American Naizis built a ranch in Brentwood in the 30s.”

“What?”

“Good question. They were preparing a home for Hitler, a place he could rule America from whenever the war ended.” Isaac rubbed the back of his head again. “I mean, I guess, as someone who lives here, I should be flattered that Hitler would want to move to LA. But it’s not bullshit. There’s a real Nazi ranch. It’s like a trendy hiking place now. I’ve seen it on social media. You can make a day of it if you go to Jon and Vinny’s for lunch after.”

“A wholesome afternoon if I ever heard of one.”

“Do you think Captain Flapjacks went there, to the secret Nazi base?”

Dr. Rousseau leaned forward, out of range of the salt lamp, so he was now fully covered in shadow. “Only one way to find out.”

“You think? I feel so lost. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re in luck because there’s someone who does.”

“You?”

“Well, yes, but let’s consult a trusted, neutral third party since you’ve announced your suspicions about my intent.” Dr. Rousseau spun around in his chair to peruse his adjacent bookshelf. His fingers skipped over an assortment of large, leather-bound books until they snagged a slim paperback titled, Save the Cat! “Let’s, as they say, play this by the book. As you’ve realized, Snyder not only tells you how to start your journey but what happens after.” He flipped open a page with a creased corner and reviewed it. It was the beat sheet. “According to this, you have firmly eclipsed the first act of your story.”

“That’s right,” Isaac said with pride.

“You have your mission, and there’s no going back now. That means you’ll need to fulfill the promise of your premise next. Tell me, Isaac. What does fulfilling the promise of your premise mean to you?”

“Promise of my premise? Can you use it in a sentence?” Isaac was disappointed. He thought he had graduated to his B-plot love story by now, remembering his date with Liz at the diner.

“It’s another way to say ‘self-actualization.’ Are you familiar with Maslow’s pyramid of needs? Self-actualization is the capstone.”

“Oh no, not another pyramid scheme.” Isaac felt nauseous. This had the Illuminati’s fingerprints all over it.

“In other words, explain to me what you would consider the best version of yourself. Because that’s your premise. What does that look like?”

The image of a snake flashed across Isaac’s mind. The golden eyes. The scaly scales. A forked tongue slithering through a pair of fangs. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? That’s what you envision for the Platonic ideal of yourself? Like maybe you want to be an astronaut when you grow up?”

“Let me try again,” Isaac squeezed his eyes shut to boost his concentration, but it had no effect. The reptile remained in his brain. “I’m on a beach.”

“A beach, you say?”

“With a Corona. Find my beach.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want as the destination for your hero’s journey? Something as inconsequential as a beach?”

“No.” Dr. Rousseau was right. Isaac had only been relaying the aspirations of the people who populated the most recent TV commercial he saw. His new goal was to save the world using his newfound wizard powers.

“Let me return to a more pressing matter. Have you been taking your medications?”

Isaac leaned back in his seat, taking a moment to think. He couldn’t remember when he took them last, but he didn’t remember not taking them either. These were confusing times. It was like tying his shoes. Isaac never remembered tying his shoes, yet his laces were knotted whenever he looked down at his feet.

“Are you ready?”

“Huh?” Isaac’s mind was blank.

“Are you ready?” Dr. Rousseau tried again, but this time with a frown.

“Ready for what?”

“Are you ready!” Dr. Rousseau shouted.

“I’m ready,” Isaac responded, this time in practiced rhythm.

“Are you steady?” But Dr. Rousseau couldn’t finish the rest of his prompts because, without warning, the office door exploded.

Bang! A door knob rocketed across the room, but Isaac dodged the projectile with unexpected cat-like agility.

“What’s up, doc?” Seth said in his best Bugs Bunny impersonation. He stood in the damaged doorframe, chomping on the end of an unlit blunt in lieu of a carrot. In Seth’s other hand, he held a gun. It was Isaac’s gun, and it was aimed at Dr. Rousseau.

“You had me at hello…” was all Isaac could murmur, dazed by Seth’s appearance.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Seth?” Dr. Rousseau said with a crisp coolness, entirely comfortable to compete in a staring contest against the black eye of a gun barrel. “I can’t imagine what business you have with me at this time.”

“I’m here for Isaac.”

“We’re all here for Isaac,” Dr. Rousseau cooed.

“Yes. And keep the change, you filthy animal!” Isaac said with an absent mind. He didn’t know what was happening, but his haziness was deepening, only able to tune into the part of his brain connected to 90’s cultural ephemera. He turned to Seth to say, “Whaazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzup!”

“Time to wake up, Isaac! That’s what’s up. This guy is trying to mind fuck you.” But for Isaac to wake up, Seth, apparently, had to put Isaac to sleep because he came up behind his charge and knocked Isaac out with the butt of his own gun.

As the blissful black of unconsciousness began to blot out the corners of Isaac’s mind, he could still see Dr. Rousseau and Seth continue their heated exchange. Isaac smiled. None of that mattered. His mind was quiet now, at peace. “I am the master of my domain,” he told himself.