DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Simpsons characters.

Please read and review! Both constructive criticism and praise are very greatly appreciated. Thank you!

Waylon Smithers: A Life

For one of the few times in my life, I truly felt resentful of my boss and best friend, Mr. Burns. Resentment was not commonly a tenant in my heart, at least regarding this particular man. Because resentment and unconditional love were at two opposite ends of the spectrum of emotions, and I felt resentment's polar opposite towards Mr. Burns at almost all times. Usually I listen to Mr. Burns with deep interest, talk to him with unflinching affection, and accolade his ideas with infinite plaudits, but this particular idea I was not ready to support. This idea I would detest and protest and resent. But of course, this idea was one that I would go along with anyway, because Mr. Burns insisted and I wasn't feeling strong enough to defy him.

Personally, I thought the entire notion was absurd. I was one of the most stable people living in Springfield, and certainly more stable than Mr. Burns himself. I didn't need therapy. I wasn't insane. Just in love. Although now thinking about it, perhaps Mr. Burns was right. Perhaps insanity and love were synonymous. Even so, I didn't need some preachy waif in a white coat to try and cure me. There was no cure for love, and I knew that.

Mr. Burns thought I was depressed. And he thought that this depression had been the cause of a severe decline in the competency of my work, and I suppose he was right. I just hadn't felt the need to be perfect anymore, because my past perfection only reaped the rewards of Mr. Burns' friendship. And lately, I wasn't content with our friendship anymore. Lately, I desperately, furiously needed love. Romantic love. Good, old-fashioned, wine-and-roses, hot tubs-and-teddy bears love. And lately, that dream seemed more distant than ever with the object of my long-harbored affections.

Maybe I was depressed, but I could have dealt with it on my own. No one had helped me when I was a clinically depressed youth, and no one could help me now. It had always been me, myself, and I. Well, except for Mr. Burns. Mr. Burns, who changed my life, who brought me happiness, and who now brought me here, to a therapist.

I sighed and took another puff from my cigarette. Why didn't he believe me when I told him I was fine? How did he know I was lying? Did he see it in my eyes? Did he hear it in my voice? Did he detect it in my touch? Or was it merely my performance at work that hinted at my depression? Was it care for me or care for himself that sent me here? God, how I wished I knew the answers to these and innumerable other questions that plagued my mind without mercy.

"Excuse me, sir. There is no smoking inside the waiting room," said the receptionist.

I looked up at her with tired eyes. "Fine. I'll go put it out." I was relieved to be able to leave that god-abdicated waiting room. I finished my cigarette quickly, put it out, and contemplated walking back in or not. I could effortlessly leave and lie to Mr. Burns, telling him that my sessions were going well, pretending to be happy…it would all be simple. I was a master at that kind of stuff. But then I knew why I couldn't do that. Because despite my resentment, I loved Mr. Burns. That would never change. It was the one constant in my warped, disheveled life. And it was the one thing that made me walk into the room, head held high, heart on the ground, waiting for my first appointment with the internal war within myself.

----------

"Waylon Smithers?" called the receptionist. "Dr. Smith will see you now."

I looked up from my magazine and tossed it aside. "Thank you," I said quietly as I walked into Dr. Smith's office, knowing a dozen pairs of eyes were watching me intently from the waiting room. I entered the office and immediately took in my surroundings. This office is simply beautiful, I thought upon first glance. I instantaneously noticed the fabulous artwork that was hung on the walls, the old-fashioned grandfather clock in the corner, the small plant growing under the sunlight by the window, and the walls of my favorite color: clean, crisp, cold white.

"Is that a Magritte piece?" I inquired about one of the paintings before even introducing myself. It was a faultless painting of an evening sky occupied by a single figure: a bird whose body was filled with the cloud-laden sky of daytime. It made me feel instantly peaceful and hopeful.

"Yes, it is Magritte. 'La Promesse'."

"It's beautiful."

"Thank you. Would you like take a seat, Mr. Smithers?"

I turned my eyes away from the painting and to the doctor for the first time. She was about my age, with glamorous black hair and the kind of water-hued eyes that melted hearts in the glory days of Hollywood. I laid down on the couch beside her and felt very out of place.

"I'm Dr. Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you."
I shook her hand. "Pleasure's mine. You know, our last names are the same, except for the 'ers' part. Heh."

She smiled. "That's very interesting." I wondered if she really thought so or if she was just being professional. That's one thing I hated about these kinds of situations. The pretense of it all. "So, have you ever been to therapy before?"

I felt a chill scramble up my spine at the question. "Yes, I have. Why does it matter?"

"It really doesn't. Just a standard question." I already saw her pen scribbling away at that little pad of paper. "How do you feel about therapy?"

I hesitated. "I guess when it's needed, then I feel fine about it."

"But you don't think you need it currently, do you?"

"No, I don't. I'm not troubled. Not anymore." Just saying the word 'troubled' made me nauseated. It was the word my parents and neighbors and authorities always used to use when referring to me, trying to utilize what they deemed the most politically correct term.

Dr. Smith nodded and continued writing. "Then, why are you here?"

"My best friend insisted I come. He's also my boss, so I kind of had to do what he told me, you know?"

"I do," she assured. "And that might be the reason you agreed to come, but that's not the reason you actually came, is it?"

I shifted uneasily on the couch. "I guess not. What are you getting at?"

Dr. Smith looked as if she was about to speak but decided against it. "We'll get to that later. Why don't you tell me about your childhood?"

"No thanks," I snapped.

"Mr. Smithers, if we're going to make any progress at all…"
"Fine. My childhood was odd. My parents died before I was born. I was a lonely kid. Happy?"

Dr. Smith was writing something on her pad before she looked up at me with a slight smile. "You never met your parents and had few friends, yet you call your childhood 'odd'."

"Well, it's not the Norman Rockwell depiction of a normal nonage, would you say?" I said caustically.

"I meant, that you chose the word 'odd' over 'bad,'" Dr. Smith clarified. "A lot of people say they have bad childhoods."

I shrugged. "Well, it wasn't all bad. Sometimes it was actually rather wonderful."

"Tell me about one of those times."

"Don't therapists usually want their patients to recite every painful detail of their worst memories?" I asked.

She smiled and took off her red-rimmed, cat-eye glasses. "We'll get there. But one's psyche is not only formed by the bad times. Let's start off with the good. Just tell me everything you can remember about one good time in your childhood. One random, wonderful time."

I thought back. It seemed like such a long time ago. But I suddenly knew of which time I would talk about. That summer day when I was eight-years-old. That random, wonderful summer day…I took a deep breath and pulled back the details from the alcoves of my mind. This was it. This was therapy. This was what Mr. Burns wanted. And so, I would do it...