“Joe Claimer. Tell us your story.” Claimer shifts in his folding chair, the squeak echoing through the recreation center’s gym. McKinley’s probably reading his body language, because that’s what shrinks do, you know. Hell, that’s what everybody does: cops, clergy, pimps, and poodles. Claimer pretends to get less fetal, uncrosses his arms. I’m ready! Ready, but not willing. Claimer indicates the rest of the support group, some members of which — in prior sessions — have offered bits about wrongdoings here, and pieces about transgressions there, but nothing you could describe as a complete story. “Again, Doc?” “Please,” says McKinley. That’s Christa McKinley, MD, PhD, standing in the middle of the circle. Over 40, Claimer figures, but she could pass for 30. Disciplined. Ex-military with boyishly cut blond hair. Married to a somewhat famous neuro-physicist, and they have two beautiful little children — boys. They give to charities, they help others. Like right now. She can’t be getting much for conducting these sessions. Possibly even donating her time. A real pillar. She’s dressed, as usual, in a business suit: Black jacket and pants, and a light gray blouse that doesn’t quite camouflage some nicely turned curves. Wedding band and watch, but no earrings. Also, what Claimer guesses Mom would describe as sensible shoes. “Well, Doc,” Claimer says patiently, “it’s like you’ve been teaching. You need to recognize the problem in order to deal. Period.” Nice try. “But tell us your story again, Joe,” McKinley insists. “Not just the lesson.” So, Claimer tells it, or the version that McKinley wants to hear, the version that gives him some shot of getting his life back. It started when he broke up with Janet. No, wait, that’s not it. She broke it off. That’s the official ruling. OK. And Claimer didn’t like that, no sir, didn’t like that one bit. Then they meet at a frat party a few weeks later and he thinks that they still have feelings and they hook up, and…. “I was stalking,” Claimer confesses, hands raised in surrender. “Simple as that. Creepy as that. I refused to admit it at first and I am certainly sorry. I’ve learned.” “You’ve evolved, Joe.” “Yes, Doctor, I have evolved.” Just give me my life back. Please. Janet filed a complaint, the dean’s people investigated and next thing you know Claimer’s expelled. No hearing, no finding out his side. Claimer didn’t get a chance to see any evidence, or listen to testimony. Did someone other than Janet claim this happened? Who knows? Did she confide in a friend? Maybe, maybe not. Note, though, that she accuses him of stalking, not of rape or assault. Why? Because, Claimer figures, Janet’s case for anything more serious than stalking falls apart if it goes to court. But that’s not likely to ever happen because Claimer can’t afford an attorney and any ambulance chaser that might take it pro bono would make things worse. Claimer just wants it all to go away. The university administrators know that. So, when he did threaten to sue, they told him that they might — might, that is — consider readmitting him under certain conditions, the kind found in a restraining order. At the very least, he takes a certain anti-harassment course (this one, on the other end of the city from the university, meets the requirements) and the expulsion disappears from his record so that it seems as if Claimer just needed a break from school. Meanwhile, what about Claimer’s baseball scholarship? A lot depends on how this here with McKinley turns out. It started bumpy because Claimer did in fact give his version — aka reality — some weeks ago during the first session. He just had to defend himself. “Janet came on to me!” Claimer said, palms outstretched, pleading his case. “I kissed her back! I responded! Hey, I’m a guy! Not an android! I thought it was makeup sex! Or at least one for the road! It was consensual! I did not stalk her!” Exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point…. McKinley had said, “We’ll return to this,” and flashed a smile in which her eyes did not participate. American sniper. “For now, Joe Claimer, calm. Deep breaths.” That’s when Claimer realized that he’ll have to admit to this lie, because he’s screwed if McKinley doesn’t affirm that he’s been rehabilitated. In subsequent meetings he retreated, letting her lead him to “the truth.” This sucks. Claimer takes up drinking as a hobby in the weeks after he’d first moved back onto Mom’s couch, and usually she’d be zonked in bed by the time he crawled home. She’d been on a long decline since Ghost Dad deserted them on Claimer’s fourth birthday. But one night she waited for him. “I need sleep,” Claimer says. “Go to your room.” “Well, I was wrong,” she says, not quite able to keep from listing. “You’re slurring.” “I was wrong! Wrooon-ga!” “Now you’re shouting. And wrong about what?” “College taught you, Claimer.” Mom calls him Claimer because “Joe” had been Ghost Dad’s name. “Taught me what?” “Life ain’t fair, sonny boy. Life ain’t fair to people like us.” A week later, he moves to a cousin’s couch. Claimer wonders what he’ll remember about Janet — other than this expulsion bullshit — when he looks back in coming years. Memory boils things down: They met in line at Hoagie Haven, attraction extending the encounter into an afternoon of walking along the river. A tap-you-on-the-shoulder wind sounded the Autumn leaves as if they were tiny cymbals. Janet’s blue-black hair framed a face slightly off-kilter because of a broken nose that had never healed properly. (She played soccer, but that’s not how the nose got broke. Claimer never did find out how.) And then, of course (probably foremost; who is Claimer kidding?), her body. The unapologetically animal robustness of it. Boing! ......(Download the PDF to read the full text)