Hoo-mon Therapy

Posted on Wed 6th Oct, 2021 @ 12:16am by Commander Paul Graves PsyD & Criswell Sandbags

2,129 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: A Good Day to Hunt
Timeline: MD-6, 1300 hours

Criswell had been on Starbase 109 for a week and still hadn't managed to get rid of the many cases of Romulan Ale in his possession. His business with Poark had fallen through, so the exchange with his buyer for the replicator equipment was never going to happen, leaving Criswell with nothing to sell but several cases of contraband Romulan Ale, disguised as the diluted stuff the Federation fools were "allowed" to drink. He'd nearly managed to barter them off to a Fesarian trader leaving for the Iconnu Expanse, but that didn't work out. It looked like he might be stuck there for a while.

This meant Criswell needed to make the best of the situation. But first he needed a contact. Someone who knew a lot about the starbase who would be able to give him good advice. Criswell had never seen a counselor, but he knew that a counselor's purpose was to give advice. So Criswell had checked the directory and found one, a Commander named Paul Graves. He contacted the office and made an appointment.

But truthfully, he didn't know what to expect as he hit the chime on the office door...

Paul Graves' office in Brown Sector was oddly shaped, as if someone had taken a perfectly square room and tacked an additional space shaped like five sides of an octagon onto one corner of it. That was the way of rooms in Brown Sector; often, they were niches carved out of wherever space was available. He liked that. It was more interesting than the regular, boring Starfleet office layouts. In Brown Sector it allowed him to have desk space as well as comfortable sitting space. That way, a patient could choose the parlor-like sofa area or the more businesslike desk area.

The walls were painted a rich, graysh blue. He only had one waterfall painting here; the other pieces of art comprised a triptych showing a forest of evergreen trees against a wintry sky. A flock of black birds occupied two panels, flying toward the right. The three panels hung on the wall opposite the sofa and the door; the waterfall painting could be seen from the desk by all parties seated at it. On the coffee table in front of the sofa sat a box of facial tissues and a large metal bowl filled with miscellaneous polished stones and other trinkets that guests could take or contribute to.

As usual, Paul did not wear his uniform at the Brown Sector office; he wore a plain, Betazoid-styled outfit in dark brown. It was the last day of the work week, which was the only time Paul could spare for Brown Sector's residents.

He reviewed the brief notes he had for his next patient, Criswell Sandbags. Odd name. Criswell wanted ... advice. That was all the note said. Paul heard the chime indicating that someone had arrived and went out to the lobby to greet him. He could feel the person's nervousness even through the door. Paul opened the lobby door and glanced at the man waiting for him. He looked about middle-aged for a human, with thinning black hair and expressive, green eyes. "Mr. ... Sandbags? I'm Counselor Graves. Welcome to our clinic. Come on back with me."

Criswell stepped into the office and looked around, his wide eyes scanning the room. Finally his gaze turned to Graves.

"I need some... counseling, I think." His eyes, still wide, shifted from one side of the room to another. His inflection had an edgy tinge of anxiety to it. His hands had come up to just below his chest and he subconsciously began to fiddle.

"Then you've come to the right place," Paul said. "Sit wherever you'd like." He gestured vaguely to the seating in the room. "Can I get you something to drink--tea, soft drinks, coffee?"

Criswell's eyebrows arced at the question and his gaze went back to Graves. "Forgive me, but what is a soft drink?" He looked very intrigued.

"They're made of carbonated water mixed with some kind of sweet fruit or herb-based syrup and usually served over ice," Paul said. "If you like something with a kick, ginger soda is good for that. If you want something milder, a cream soda or coconut soda is good."

Criswell considered it for a moment. "I think I'll try the coconut, if you don't mind."

"Sounds good; I'll be right back." Paul went to the clinic break room to use the replicator and returned a couple of minutes later carrying two tumblers, one of which he gave to Criswell, keeping the glass of uttaberry soda for himself.

Criswell waited for the drink and after it was handed to him, he sat down on the sofa, keeping the chilled glass in his hand. "Thank you," he said, sitting down. "How exactly does a counseling session usually work? I'm in need of some advice. You see, I'm a hoo-mon, er, 'human,' but I grew up on Ferenginar and was raised by two Ferengi. So I'm not very used to interacting with other hoo-... humans." He took a sip of the drink and remarked, "My, that is delicious!"

"Glad you enjoy it," Paul said. "I don't mind if you pronounce the word as 'hoo-mon.' I'm half-Betazoid, myself." He took one of the chairs positioned perpendicular to the sofa and sipped at his own drink before setting it on the coffee table.

"Since you were raised on Ferenginar, I'm not surprised that you aren't familiar with counseling. Ferengi don't seem to go for it much. In fact, I've only ever met one Ferengi counselor, and she was raised by humans. I think Ferengi use the profit motive to override painful emotions so they can get on with living. It's not what I would advise, but if it works for them, so be it."

He glanced at Criswell, noting the man's posture, his clothing, his demeanor, and went on. "Counseling usually takes place over several sessions, the number of sessions depending on how serious the person's problem is. I see it as a partnership between me and the person being counseled, so that we work together to solve the problem, using techniques that I have been trainined in to help people.

"To use Ferengis as an example--If one of them had had a death in his family and, because of that death, was unable to interest himself in profit, then I would work with him. This office would be a place where he could openly grieve--which Ferengi culture might not allow him to do otherwise. Having such a place might allow him to release his feelings enough to regain his interest in profit. Or he might discover that profit genuinely no longer interests him because other things interest him more, at least for a time. Everyone is different."

"My goodness!" Criswell exclaimed. "That's terrible! Losing an interest in profit because of some... feelings over a death?!! Counselor Graves, you must understand. When a loved one dies in my culture, it's a great opportunity to profit! We honor our dead by selling their remains! I assure you, it is a very positive way to grieve. I don't see what feelings have to do with it."

Sometimes, the way to handle being completely stunned during a counseling session was to ride with the wave, so that was what Paul did. He used Criswell's emotions as a guide to what was culturally normal for Ferengi. He could count on one finger the number of Ferengi patients who'd ever visited him--not counting Starfleet personnel seeing him for their routine annual meetings.

"Exactly!" Paul said. "It would be extremely abnormal, so I'm glad Ferengi have a much healthier way of mourning. What do Ferengi do with the remains they buy? And--what do they do if no one wants tu buy the person's remains?"

"Sir, I am no stranger to sarcasm," Criswell said. "Unsold Ferengi are buried. Is this all counselors talk about? Death and 'mourning?' It seems like a rather morbid occupation."

"I wasn't being sarcastic," Paul assaured him. "And no, this isn't a morbid occupation at all. I get to make profit while helping troubled people become less troubled. There's nothing better than that."

Criswell paused for a second and shook his head. "Forgive me, counselor, that was very rude," he said, the volume of his voice slightly diminished. "Being raised by Ferengi, I'm unfamiliar with many hoo-mon customs. Many of them are very strange to me. This coconut drink, for example... Or the way hoo-mons react to death. Until now I didn't consider hoo-mon death rituals would be different. Do hoo-mons not profit off the death of their loved ones?"

"A human's wealth usually passes to his children at death. The heirs usually invest it and make profit that way. If the wealth includes property they might either make the property more profitable, or they might sell the property." Paul leaned his head to one side and glanced at Criswell for a moment. "I don't think you came here to talk about inheritance customs, though, did you? You felt more to me as if you were trying to make a decision."

Criswell nodded and set his drink down on the table. "In a way, I did come here to discuss customs. You see, I've never been on a Federation Starbase before, let alone stuck on one. Being raised on Ferenginar, I'm unfamiliar with hoo-mons. Now I'm in a place with an abundance of hoo-mons and no way to interact or relate."

"I'm understanding you to say that you would like to learn more about how humans behave and what their behavior means. Is that correct?"

"Yes!" Criswell exclaimed. "Can you help me do that?"

"Yes, I can. Humans have a description for that feeling--like being a fish out of water," Paul said. "Much of how you'll form friendships will depend on you, but you seem a friendly, outgoing enough person to be able to make friends among humans. I would first need to know more of what friendship among Ferengi is like, though. Let me ask you--As a Ferengi of human extraction, what sort of business do you do? What kind of business would you like to do on this station?"

Criswell shrugged. "My father always said the best business is the one that makes the most profit," he said. "Recently I acquired a great deal of money in a chance game of Bagomie. Perhaps I could work at a casino?"

"That's a possibility, if you're willing to be an honest dealer," Paul said. "Federation casinos, like Hunt's Fortune on Deck 1554, have strict laws that they must follow. A dishonest dealer would get fired from there. If you prefer to walk more on the wild side, you could look at Siskar's Casino in The Zodiac. It's two decks down from here. It could be dangerous, so approach with caution and at your own risk."

Criswell was lost in thought. "Hmmm..." he said, ruminating as he gripped his earlobe. "There's another skill I have. Maybe it would be better? I've always wanted to work as a chef in a restaurant. My father owned a restaurant back home with his brother. He brought me in as a busboy, but I was always more fascinated in the preparation of food. Is there a restaurant that is hiring?"

"Most of the restaurants on the starbase are looking for staff," Paul said. "You could certainly find a job at one and then work your way up. Chefs usually go to culinary school first, though, so be prepared for people to tell you that. If you'd like to learn how to make gourmet Ferengi food, the Slug and Grub restaurants on the Ferengi barges in Tivoli Gardens might be a good place for you. Chef Morva is exacting, but you'll learn many useful techniques from her. Or if you want to go farther afield, there are human restaurants and a Klingon restaurant, as well as several Bajoran places, like Mapa per Moba, right here in Brown Sector. Orchids and Jazz in the Promenade also has a top-notch chef, Ms. Marin Holmes, whom you could work with."

"This Ms. Holmes... is she hoo-mon too?" Criswell asked. "I'm very interested in trying hoo-mon food."

"Yes, Marin Holmes is human," Paul said, "and she cooks delicious food, no matter what it is. She makes hors d'oeuvres for diplomatic functions, so she knows how to appeal to a multitude of preferences."

"Well, you've given me several suggestions I'll have to check out," Criswell said. "Slug and Grub sounds interesting. I have an amazing recipe for Rottera slugs. Very slimy and spicy! But I think I'll start with Orchids and Jazz... um, what exactly is an orchid and a jazz?"

 

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