Patient Nine: Marcos Villares

I read somewhere that, in a mysterious situation, if you manage to stick around long enough and (generally) not lose your life or your sanity in the process, you will be rewarded with the vision of those things that are beyond the veil. Therefore, and as expected, it was only a question of time before I managed to figure out what was going on. I wasn’t complaining, of course. The sheer amount of patient applications I was receiving was colossal. The annoying bit was that I wasn’t being able to find out how they knew about me. And then, he came.

Given the amount of work I was having I had reserved for myself one day of rest. Like the Christian Lord. After lunch, I began to hear a bit of a racket outside my door. Then I heard a diligent knock, which I promptly ignored. The knocker insisted once more, and I dissuaded myself once again from answering. Then the phone rang. The racket outside suddenly died. I helloed, and was answered with a gruff “I’m at the door”. Click, and the racket picked up again.

Out of realistic options, I proceeded to open the door. “Yes?” I asked. I had wanted my delivery to be deadpan, to showcase my frustration, but upon finding myself in front of Marcos Villares, one of the most legendary rock and rollers this country had ever produced, himself surrounded by an entourage of cameramen and journalists, I can certainly confirm that no sound coming from my mouth was heard.

Villares pushed me inside, thanking me gruffly for ridding him for the next forty-five minutes of the ever-present posse of media outlets. I managed to regain my composure and demanded an explanation. The rocker looked at me and in a reminding tone declared that he had an appointment with me today. I apologised and informed him that said meeting could not have been possibly arranged. “You don’t remember then?”, he sighed. After receiving a no for an answer, he let out a puzzling guffaw.

Apparently, the day I received my diploma from the University of Buenos Aires, I went to the pub-crawl to end all pub-crawls. That much I do remember. Mind you, the following morning, or should I say afternoon, I will never forget either. Some time during the night, I blacked out. God knows where and with whom. Villares completed a few of those scenes alleging that I ran into him, and berated him for his latest record. After the proper introductions, he solicited a session with me, believing “only a nutcase with the gall to tell me what you did about my latest record can handle me”. Pictures were taken and appeared on the social pages. Truth is, I do not consume mass media. I live in my own little bubble, which my patients enter and leave. As I later found out, they were, logically, quite unflattering.

Of course, I could not back down. I asked what was his reason for coming to me in a professional capacity, to which he abjectly confessed that he felt he’d lost his “mojo”. His confrontation with me had been a collision with the Truth. He was weary of sycophants who snoozed him with compliments. That night, this completely plastered newbie of a shrink (his words, not mine) had had the audacity to confront him about it. He respected that and required in turn that I should help him blues up again. I decided to help him out. As for the record in question? I don’t remember having heard it back then.