When Louis, the public relations agent for Psychoknot Press, called me and offered me the chance to write something for the infamous Psychobabble book, I was so pumped full of heroine that the only response I could manage was a near-unintelligible recitation of my name, age, and social security number.  Needless to say, Louis was quite impressed with my substantial wit, as was quite evident in his prompt, "Sorry, I guess I'll contact someone else."
    A few days later I paid a visit to the Psychoknot Press Memorial Building to confirm my assignment.  Louis seemed reluctant at first, but I suspect he worried the job would be a nuisance to me, what with the many job offers I get every day.  His description of the piece proved to be rather vague.  My gut feeling was that they had no specific idea of what they wanted.  But their indecisiveness did not bother me, for I was no stranger to ineptness.  You might say were best friends at one time.  With my trademark gleam in my eye, I informed Louis that he had nothing to fear.  And Louis knows me well enough to know that when I say something, I did in fact say it, even if I go back on my word at some later point.  So with that introduction out of the way, let me begin.
    The story of Psychobabble is indeed a fascinating tale, so Louis tells me.  I myself do not actually know the story, so for me to tell the tale would be quite inappropriate.  Yet my ignorance does not inhibit me from being intrigued by my lack of knowledge regarding Psychobabble.  Which cause me to wonder why, exactly, Louis thought me a reasonable candidate for a piece in the Psychobabble book.  Allow me to abandon that query, as it probably would only waste space.  And besides, who am I to question Louis?
    In the morning, or thereabouts, there came a frantic pounding at my front door.  Dressed in only my bathrobe and anxiously gnawing on my pipe, I opened the door and was greeted by a quite drunken Louis.  He was shabbily dressed, and a stream of blood ran conspicuously from his nose.  When he finally spoke, alcohol-scented spittle danced across my bewildered face.  "The Indians!  The Indians beat me up again!  Christ, what kind of a shithole do you live in?  Every time I visit you, the damn Indians rough me up!" he shouted, throwing a hissy-fit quite unbecoming for a man who claimed to be of professional quality.
    "Roughed up, you say?  Roughed up indeed!  Come inside, Louis.  I have coffee and the finest street drugs minimum wage can buy.  Come inside and tell me what brings you here," I offered.  I motioned him inside and gently shut the door behind him.  He staggered over to the couch and collapsed in an ungentlemanly manner, belching loudly, then pardoning himself.
    After pouring him some coffee, fresh from Columbia, he opted not to reveal his reason for coming, and the complaining continued.  "Christ Almighty, I'm lucky to be alive.  How do you manage with all these damn Indians?"
    "Louis, my friend, you must remember that Indians are rather materialistic by nature.  I always give them a bit of tobacco.  They usually forget their hostility and go and offer it to their silly gods.  Then I safely make my way up the stairs.  You have to be clever, you see.  The Indians, they only think in three or four dimensions.  We must learn to think in six or seven if we hope to defeat them."
    He grunted while sipping his coffee, and I took it as an affirmation that my words were getting through.  The stream of blood was slowing, and Louis seemed deep in thought.  Then, without warning, he coughed violently.  My train of thought was shattered, and I nearly broke my teeth on my pipe.
    Then he spoke.  "Well, I came here on urgent business.  It's my daughter.  She's terribly ill.  We took her to the hospital yesterday, and the doctors say she has a brain tumor.  Anyway, I don't have the money for the operation, and I thought maybe...I mean I was hoping..."
    "Louis, Louis, Louis.  Don't be ridiculous.  You don't have a daughter."
    "What do you mean?  Of course I have a daughter!  And she needs your help!  This is not the time for jokes!"
    I smiled and gave him a reassuring wink.  "No, Louis, you don't have a daughter.  The hospital called half an hour ago.  She's dead.  No more daughter.  Comprende?"
    Louis became hysterical, shrieking and sobbing, making so much of a spectacle that I had to surpress my laughter.  "Look, Louis, there's no need to panic.  You can still claim her as a dependent on you income tax.  The IRS won't catch on for 2 or 3 years."
    Then he snapped.  I feared my tone had been too flippant, and I contemplated what I could do to rectify my error.  I was far too slow though, for Louis sprang up and hurled himself out the window, a full nine stories above the ground.  I sprinted to the window, just in time to see the Indians slipping his wallet out from beneath his shattered pelvis.
    "Tobacco, Louis!  Don't forget about the tobacco!" I shouted, but to no avail.  So I closed the window and thumbed through a few old issues of Playboy before drifting off to sleep.
    I seem to have forgotten the purpose for relating that story, except that I believe after reading it, one understands my dilemma when confronted with someone as incorrigible as Louis.  Deep inside, I know it's better to simply ignore him, yet I find myself continually attempting to help him.  I realize how much trouble my sympathetic liberal side can get me into, yet what is our purpose on this earth if not to assist the needy?
    Inadvertently, I seem to have hit upon the whole underlying theme of Psychobabble.  To witness this life-enriching message, one must delve deep into the text; one must read in-between the lines.  And, no doubt, that is where one will derive the most enjoyment from this book:  In-between the lines.