Michael D. Gallen, known by the moniker "Dr. Cliche" by his friends and clients alike, works tirelessly to study all forms of medicine and the off-grid homeopathy healing arts to discover the perfect recipe to ease or cure the most common chronic disorders. Michael harbors a secret modus operandi, a novel approach to heal all ailments. And though his clients don't understand his methodology, they are happy to enjoy its results. Many of his patients don't know the primary causes of their unhealthy conditions and do not take responsibility for traditional treatments.
Patients do not care what the components of his recipe are, so long as the results are meaningful and worthwhile. As a man committed to holistic health, he navigates the scientific world and discovers new clients with complex health issues. Rivals, clients, and friends alike ponder Michael's incredible success. It is all attributed to mining his thoughts and experiences for a pinch of salt.
Michael D. Gallen, known by the moniker "Dr. Cliche" by his friends and clients alike, works tirelessly to study all forms of medicine and the off-grid homeopathy healing arts to discover the perfect recipe to ease or cure the most common chronic disorders. Michael harbors a secret modus operandi, a novel approach to heal all ailments. And though his clients don't understand his methodology, they are happy to enjoy its results. Many of his patients don't know the primary causes of their unhealthy conditions and do not take responsibility for traditional treatments.
Patients do not care what the components of his recipe are, so long as the results are meaningful and worthwhile. As a man committed to holistic health, he navigates the scientific world and discovers new clients with complex health issues. Rivals, clients, and friends alike ponder Michael's incredible success. It is all attributed to mining his thoughts and experiences for a pinch of salt.
"So, Doctor Galen," Chelsea sneered, face slack-jawed and unimpressed. "What's it gonna be?"
Michael sat back in his chair and stared at her, studying, analyzing. Chelsea glared right back as if waiting for a challenge. The silence in the room was cut off by the shrill buzz of a phone ringing.
"I'll have to get back to you on that, Ms. Bennett," Michael replied with a gentle smile.
Michael stood and walked over to his desk. "Hold on. One minute, please. I'm currently with a client. May I give you a call back in about ten minutes? Thank you," Michael said in a low voice, hanging up the phone right after.
He turned back to face his client, who was staring glumly at the window. "Today was a good start, Chelsea. I want you to book your follow-up session for next week with my receptionist in the lobby, okay?"
Chelsea quickly nodded and stood from her seat. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she made her way to the door. She grasped Michael's hand weakly for his goodbye handshake.
Michael slowly shut the door behind Chelsea and took to his desk. He started scribbling his notes on his new patient—a very peculiar narcissism case.
Self-inflicted, he thought, stemming from a case of chronic fatigue syndrome. Chelsea had been exhibiting a consequential by-product of a long undiagnosed and neglected narcissistic personality disorder since she walked in the door.
She walked into the office with a rigid posture, like she's not quite sure what she's doing in a psychiatrist's office. She gingerly took a seat at the end of the couch and then curled herself in a fetal position on it, staring out the glass windows. Michael was surprised at that but sat in silence, waiting for Chelsea to make the first move. And then, like a dam that burst, all the words came spewing out.
All he could do was listen to the accounts of her painful childhood. Chelsea was relatively young, but everything that had happened to her was enough to hurl her best intentions into the mud. She didn't even want to see Michael initially, but she knew this is what's best for her.
Michael heaved a deep sigh and stared at the phone, remembering he has to call back David.
"Hi, David. It's Michael. Sorry about that. I was with a client." David is an old colleague, a scientist he met years ago at an interdisciplinary conference.
"Oh hey, Michael. No, don't worry about it. I..." David stopped, and there was movement on the other end like someone was telling him something urgent.
"Hey, Michael. I'm really sorry about this," David continued. "I have to take another call. I guess this time I'll be the one to call you back," he chuckled.
"Yes, sure. Don't worry about it."
Michael's chair creaked slightly as he spun around, probably for the fifth time in twenty minutes. He stared at the clock, frowned, then turned right back facing his desk.
Late again. Well, what else is new?
The slight commotion behind the door alerted him that the person he's waiting for has arrived. Sure enough, a woman in her early forties swung the door open and strode right into the room, confidence in every step. The woman is attractive and dressed smartly, wearing a silky white blouse and a tailored jet-black pencil skirt that accentuates her figure. Pamela Johnson.
"Ah, Ms. Johnson. Good to see you again," Michael said, standing up and offering his hand.
"Michael," the woman purred. "Always a pleasure." She took his hand a gave a firm squeeze.
Michael gestured for her to take her place on the sofa so they could begin the session.
"Yes, of course," she said, promptly plopping herself gracefully on the seat. "But oh Michael, honey? Will you be a dear and rub my shoulders first?" she batted her eyelashes while she said it, the same way she always did during their previous sessions.
"Yes, sure."
Michael stood behind her and started pressing both thumbs down, one on the outside of each shoulder. It might seem strange, especially if anyone were to walk in on them all of a sudden, but Michael was unbothered.
Ms. Johnson made little delighted sounds as Michael repeated his movements and applied more pressure. She turned her head slyly to catch Michael's eyes. And then batted her eyelashes some more. Michael turned his head to the side and cleared his throat.
"Good?"
"Very good," Pamela smirked.
Michael took a deep breath and resumed his seat at his desk, bracing himself for another whirlwind session.
"Well, then. Shall we begin?"
"...and the medication you gave me last time worked."
"Ah. That's good to know. No anxiety attacks since then?"
"A few. But it's less intense now. I don't think it'll ever go away," Pamela said with a sad smile. Her time in the spotlight as an actress aggravated the anxiety disorder since she was a child. Every time she was in a room filled with people, which was a lot of the time, she felt like passing out or running away. Or both. Her heart would pound so fast she's afraid it would leap out of her chest. She wanted to crawl out of her skin and disappear completely.
"Well, anxiety is a beast, but it is possible to win the battle," Michael smiled softly.
They talked about her issues, going through mental tricks that could help her whenever she has a panic attack. Pamela spoke with eloquence, the kind of intelligence brought by her elite upper-class upbringing. When they moved on to lighter topics of discussion, she often punctuated this with harmless flirting.
"...and you know how my big old house feels so empty when it's just lil old me," she drawled with a mischievous smile.
"Well, I'm sure that..."
"I bet you'd fit right in," she smirked, adding a little wink.
Michael sat frozen in place, not quite knowing what to say. After a beat, Pamela let out a hearty chuckle, her shrill voice echoing in the room.
"Oh, relax. I was kidding!"
Michael laughed with her but subtly kept his hand within eyesight, moving his fingers around so the light would catch the glint of his golden wedding band and make her take notice. But she didn't seem to notice, or she just chose to ignore it.
After their hour of talk therapy, Pamela had another hour of bodywork and manual therapy. Soon, she was facedown on the massage table with Michael's hands gently applying pressure on her back muscles, which were tight as a drum.
"I need you to relax your hamstrings. You constantly tighten your lower back and hamstrings. Relax," Michael said in a soothing tone.
"I'm trying to relax, but I don't know how."
"Here lies the problem. Muscle tension travels from the neck to toe, traversing every articulation to balance your neuromuscular imbalances. Stress does not exist, and relax is a curse word."
Pamela scrunched up her face in confusion. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"Usually, a patient feels pain before or after they hear the word 'relax.' For example, you are already in pain, and the doctor or technician tells you to 'relax.' Or your phlebotomist or nurse says 'relax' before they stick you with a needle. Health care providers hardly receive the desired intent, 'letting go' from their patients when they say 'relax.' With pain before and after the word relax, where is the peace or pleasure? This makes 'relax' a cuss word because we rarely get the result we're asking for. We tell you to relax. We rarely get you to relax. You usually get the opposite effect. You tense up. I tell you to relax; you go and hold your breath."
The room was quiet as Michael continued the gentle pressure on her hamstrings.
"What therapists mean most of the time is: 'let go,'" he added.
"That makes sense!"
"Do you want to learn how to let go today?"
"Sure."
With her face buried in the face cradle of the massage table, Michael places a massage tool in her hand.
"Grab the tool as tight as you can," Michael instructed. Pamela did as she was told, holding the plastic tool so tight that her knuckles started turning white.
"Now, let go!"
Pamela opened her hand and let go without any second thought, making the massage tool fall to the floor with a loud clunk.
"See? Now you know how to let go. It's that simple."
"Okay, right," Pamela laughed.
"Now that I have your attention and demonstrated the physical means to let go as an example for the mental let me guide you through a short meditation to let go of stress at any time or in any place you need to escape."
"Okay," Pamela whispered, her voice shaky.
"Envision your consciousness as full of water from your head to heel," Michael said, gently touching the back of her head, glutes, and heels. "Now, sink half full, slightly below the table to the level of your ear lobes."
Pamela did as she was told, sinking halfway into the plush massage table.
"From the sound of my voice, sink below the table barely floating over the floor. Now, sink to the floor, grab your belongings, walk out the door to your car. Drive home pack a bag, and arrive at the airport. Fly to your most desired destination, unpack your bags Get dressed into something comfortable. Head to the beach, restaurant, or bar. Order your favorite drink, savor each sip. Doesn't that feel good?"
"Yes, that's amazing," Pamela whispered, feeling transcendent at the mental exercise.
"Anytime you want to go back to this place, just say, 'let go.'"
"Okay. Thank you!" Even though he couldn't see her, Pamela smiled into the face cradle of the massage table.
"Now, let's stretch every muscle in your spine. I want you to move your eyes, looking in the direction of the hands of a clock. Never look towards 12, which's the top of your head, or 6 o'clock, that's towards your feet. Hold your eyes in the position until I say 'down.' Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered in reply.
Michael starts with eleven o'clock and down, then one o'clock and down. He meticulously called each hand on the clock face alternating from left to right until he ended the exercise with seven and five.
"You can repeat this exercise at home with your hands under your chin. It will help stretch your spine. Where your eyes go, your mind will follow."
Soon, her time drew to a close, and they said their goodbyes. Michael sighed, suddenly very drained. Talking to her was usually pretty tiring, what with all the flirting he has to fend off. There's also the trouble of having to separate the truth from her lies. He opened his notebook and went through all the details he had on her. Pamela Johnson was a retired actress and most likely a sapiosexual. She also had some perversion focused on hands and massages.
Michael's notetaking was interrupted when the door of his chamber opened, and another woman stepped inside.
"Hello," signed his wife, Nia, as she strode in. She brought her hand up in front of her ear, then flicked it away from her body, almost like a salute.
"Hey," Michael smiled, mirroring her gesture.
"What was Ms. Johnson up to?" Nia signed, raising her eyebrow at Michael, who couldn't help but laugh.
"Oh, you know her and how flirty she gets," he answered, signing the word FLIRT with his outstretched fingers.
"She tryna get her claws on you?" Nia signed, pretending to look angry and jealous, but the amusement in her eyes gave her away.
"She can try all she wants. Not gonna happen," Michael replied, kissing his wife.
"Are your clients going to arrive soon?" Michael asked.
"In an hour. I have that..."
Their conversation was interrupted when a phone suddenly rang.
"Hi, Michael. Me again. I'm so sorry about that. We kept missing each other," David said through the phone, his voice low and gravelly.
"No worries, David."
"So I called to invite you to a seminar this month, Neuromorphic Quantum Computing and The Future of Machine Learning. It'll be there in DC, in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. It's quite something. I think you'll enjoy it," said David.
How interesting, Michael thought. It is introducing human brain-inspired hardware with quantum functionalities. He thinks it's the future of bioengineering.
"You know me well," Michael chuckled. They've known each other for years and worked on artificial intelligence together. "Count me in."
"Great! Now that that's settled, I have a question regarding the augmented reality segment of AVI…" David started.
AVI. Artificial Virtual Intelligence. It was created to help Dr. Galen study the complex systemic interrelationships of mental diseases on the physical body propagated onto all modalities and current research. AVI is also the nickname of Michael's deceased sister.
At the mention of AVI, Michael cleared his throat loudly on the phone, an almost warning sound.
"Ahem."
Not long ago, David and Michael were meeting where they discussed creating a new system like AVI. Michael was comfortable talking until he later discovered that two hackers started building a system like AVI to steal government secrets with a prototyped virtual virus.
This time, Michael didn't want to take any chances, worried that hackers might have wiretapped his phone for information. So he opted to play the hush card. Luckily, David got the message pretty quickly and started to backtrack.
"…Oh, right! I mean…what I wanted to ask was…" David stuttered. Michael was amused, knowing David to be a terrible liar at times. "I'm… I'm curious, Dr. Galen," he continued, finding his footing. "What really motivated you to pursue the healing arts?"
A Pinch of Salt is the story of a talented doctor who masters traditional and unorthodox medical treatment methods for various mental and physical diseases. He starts a successful medical practice with a partner, but soon leaves to become a solo practitioner. The story is about how he navigates the different complex feelings of love, lust, betrayal and so on. It also narrates the story of other people too, all of which are mostly patients of the doctor, Micheal Galen, and how they came to be where they were in the story. Then at the end, it teases a second Pinch of Salt book.
Usually, I don't narrate the book's synopsis in so many words when I review, but this had to be done because I believe that the premise of the story is the good thing the narrative has going for it. It is a very interesting concept to write about and if well-written, could be an amazing story.
This story falls short of that in many ways.
For one, the time sequence in the story is jumbled up. I understand that sometimes, the best way to narrate a story is to narrate in a non-chronological timeline. The Pulp Fiction movie did it to great effect. I'm sure we have read some amazing stories that this too. But this story did not feel like that at all. It felt like some sort of dizzying time-travel experience, with the reader moving abruptly and absurdly through everything. Narrations were left half-done and another would abruptly begin. It made the story very hard to follow.
Another thing I would say about the story is that some parts in the story felt like filler. It did not seem like they had anything to add to the story. For example, at a point, the story narated the fraught betrayal of someone called Uncle June, a master traditional healer, but it doesn't tie into to the story. It's just there, like some sort of lengthy annotation.
I also noticed that the narrative point-of-view changed frequently from first-person to third-person, and it takes careful writing for a story with changing perspectives to be good, but this story wasn't that, and so the frequent POV change was all very confusing to unravel. This is the exact same thing with the tenses used in the story, with the tensing switching from present to past too abruptly.
Finally, the story became an expository essay at the end. From what I understand, it was supposed to be a paper the main character wrote, but I didn't expect that the paper be written down entirely in the novel. Readers will go from reading about love to reading a long, in-depth treatise about traditional healing techniques, which is not the point of a novel.
Overall, my opinion is that the story does not feel like a final work ready to be published. I think it still feels like a first draft, and it needs to be edited and spruced up greatly in order to fulfill the potential it has.