Baseball 7

Doctor smiles gently, "you're a person prides himself on keeping his word. Here's what I want, an oath, you will not commit suicide during one complete Earthling year. After that, if you still can't manage, well go ahead."
"Why a year ma'am?"
"It'll be a struggle, ups and downs. You may seem sensible by the light of day. Three am, the strange mood comes, anything can happen. Will you give this oath? If you don't, nothing I can do to help, on your own."
So I do.
By now, it's easier to understand her. All the time the Lt and I spoke of sports, the previous occupant remained hidden away. Now, when I hear the female input from the Doctor, I understand it better.
The Afghan is flexing her muscles. I can sense what she wants, total takeover from me.
After considerable questioning, the Doctor asserts I came out perfectly normal, for this type of event.
I have absolute control over physical movement. Whether a dish gets washed or not, someone gets bopped on the beak or not, my call.
She has power of nag, akin to a marriage. If she's mildly unhappy, it's a mild jab. If she's wildly ticked it assumes a white noise intensity, overpowering. Any movement then seems like a deepsea diver working 400 feet down, pushing against the wall of water.
So, whatever I do, I need her approval or at very least, only mild disapproval.
She has absolute power of speech. No matter how bizarre it might be, I have no power to stop it. But, if she's mouthing off in a way that would get her (us, me) assaulted, I have the ability to bring on near-migraine pain level. Slow her down.
Philosophy, straight out arm wrestle, no advantage either way.
And so it is, we (I) being perfectly healthy and normal, the Aliens release us (me), but on a time shift. Back to where she was, so there is no missing time to account for. Not exactly, five minutes later, for technical reasons.
She lives in a beautiful two bedroom, two bathroom condo. Worst tip I've ever seen, total disorder, never cleaned.
I'm used to a tiny bachelor apartment, akin to a submarine, no room for error, mess chokes you and fast. Besides I've read on Feng Shui, had a platonic Chinese friend in high school who got me interested.
The Afghan woman Zohra is simply attracting the wrong energy into her life. It flows in, gets stuck in the clutter, should flow on through. To a westerner, think of the difference in water quality between a fast brook and a (stagnant) swamp.
I make a decision the condo is Job One. I will simply go along with whatever her workplace and social choices are, for now anyway. If the condo could be orderly and clean, it would slow down that manic overdrive personality. But again, best not to be a bull in a China shop.
I start with the obvious, stuff she cannot contest. The many newspaper sections scattered over floor and furniture go down to the recycling bin. There are so many, it takes most of a day.
I let her decide about supper. She thanks me that the place looks better.
Next day I assault the kitchen. Lotta dishes to wash, everything she owns. Also throw out the empty containers swamping fridge, stove top, table and counter. Again she thanks me.
The place reeks to high heaven of smoke. She's pack a day and myself non. Remember I have absolute power to say no physically, but then, when she turns on the white noise nag, I can't hold out long. We agree on six cigs a day and at what times.
The worst holder of this smoke (and mildew) is her massive collection of paperback books, mostly murder mysteries, many very old and ratty.
I could chuck the lot, but guess what happens next. So I ask, could we work together? If we can throw even a few, her place will look and smell nicer.
She is quick to agree, but slow to actually produce. I pick up every single book, ask her. Only the worst tenth gets thrown. Still it's an improvement and it does shift her thinking a bit.
That consumes the rest of her vacation. Then back to the witches' cauldron, to experience things beyond my wildest imaginings.
Conversations between Zohra and myself are mental, not aloud. When she speaks to another, it's her voice, her wording choice.
In all this, she cannot see directly into my mind nor me into hers. Think of a computer spyware analogy. Imagine it can see the screen(s) you called up, but not access memory. Just so, Zohra and myself. Difference is, the spyware would pick up all screens, important or not. She and I only pick up on the other's thoughts involving angst. Not on routine stuff like checking the stove. Just as well or we'd be drowned in the other's mind chatter.
Even before the shooting, I knew Zohra was Revenue Canada. How? I didn't own a computer, went to the public library once a week on average. (Anything baseball was done on the shared terminal in the clubhouse.) Often I'd stop at the attached coffee house, just loved their French Roast.
I even knew Zohra was Business Audit Division. How? At that same coffee house, often saw Zohra and Indira and others gathered, it being right next door to the Fed Building.
Yet it floors me to discover, she sits two desks away from Indira. What are the odds of that? Business Audit is some 500 people.