'Therapy', by Eric Morlock
It was to be my fifth consultation with the old man. I had rushed over to his rooming house late in the afternoon, immediately following work. Although the day at the office had run its usual mundane course and had presented no outstanding aggravations, for some reason I felt particularly depressed this day, and needed to talk to someone. Normally, I would have gone straight home to fix myself several potent libations, but recently I had acquired a healthier cure for my psychic ills. Through an obscure newspaper ad, I had come into contact with a “Home Therapist,” a house-bound old man who possessed the one great virtue that conventional psychiatrists do not - he spoke not a word.
I now knocked several times on the cheap plywood door of his tenement room, anticipating another exhausting but fruitful session. At length, he answered the door and welcomed me in with his usual ceremonious sweeping gesture. He then hobbled off toward his ancient but well-padded recliner, and, with obvious gratitude, let his fragile body fall into its welcome embrace. I took my seat in a creaky rocking chair opposite the old man, and since he was mute - although I wasn't absolutely sure that he couldn't talk, and indeed simply chose not to - I allowed myself a moment to inspect the tiny room that served as his living quarters. I had hoped he might have tidied up a bit since my last visit but, alas, the room was still filthy and unkempt. Although I had to wonder if anyone who lived here would ever feel moved to care for the place. The cracked plaster walls were completely bare. The dusty, wooden floor had not one rug adorning it. And the only pieces of furniture that the old man possessed were our two chairs and an old bureau sitting forlornly in the corner, atop which rested a “donation” basket. Adjacent to the bureau was a rickety-looking cot, which contained a crumpled up sleeping bag and a stained pillow. I refrained from looking long at what served as his kitchen sink - a wash basin full of dirty dishes beside which rested a crusty hot plate. The effect of this place was almost supernatural. It was like being in a wooden crypt. I shook off an increasing sense of claustrophobia by launching into a discussion of my problems.
“I don't know what is wrong with me,” I told the old man. “My life seems so pointless. I've done everything I can to make it more interesting, but nothing seems to work. I've tried to develop a certain appreciation of culture, for instance, which I never much had before. I attend all of the best concerts and plays. I make a point of reading at least one supposedly ‘great’ book each and every month. I have even visited the art museum, of all places. But I think I'm going to have to stop going there, because most of the art is so weird that I have to wonder how it even got in there. Anyway, none of this culture has made the slightest difference in my outlook on life. It's all so deathly dull! And somehow I have this sinking feeling that absolutely nothing can help me now. This depression is going to go on forever! And why should it be otherwise? It seems I have always been dissatisfied with my life, and it appears that I always will be. So sometimes I do get the notion that I should put an end to the whole sorry mess.”
The old man looked at me dispassionately. He wasn't the least bit shaken by anything I had said. In fact, he seemed downright unshakable. I had confessed to some pretty outrageous actions and inactions, intentions and avoidances, during the course of my “therapy” with him, and never once had he shown any sense of dismay. Occasionally he would smile, or rather his lips would part to form something like a grin. But his mouth revealed virtually nothing about his character, buried as it was beneath a mass of scraggly white beard. His eyes, though, were no doubt the very least expressive aspect of his face. Red and rheumy, they gazed at me unemotionally, either supremely disinterested or else supremely weary.
I had stopped talking at this point, looking at him with raised eyebrows in order to elicit from him some sort of engaged expression or gesture. However, he remained as silent as ever. And perfectly motionless as well. I thought for a moment that he might have even left lapsed into a trance, for his eyes now looked much more glazed than usual. I wondered if he had been listening to me at all. We sat there for a long time, staring at one another. He showed only the barest signs of life. Then, just as I had given him up for dead, he raised his right hand and turned it palm upward, nodding his head for me to continue.
“Take my sex life,” I said, feeling emboldened. “I know I haven't talked about that before, but now I feel I must. My sex life is non-existent. I haven't had any in months! I can't understand it. I'm 38 years old and perfectly healthy in most respects. And I don't think that I'm that bad looking either, if I may say so. Wouldn't you agree?” He nodded his head ever so slightly. “Now, I understand that all men go through stages when they experience sexual frustrations and such, but even so, I simply refuse to believe that I am impotent. Of course, it's been so long since I've tried that I really couldn't know for certain. Still, I've kept up my interest, you can be sure of that! What I mean is, whenever I see a beautiful woman, I still get aroused.
“Take the other day, for example. It happened at the laundromat, of all places. I was leaning against a wall, waiting for my clothes to dry. Then, in waltzes this gorgeous girl. She must have been six feet tall. Auburn colored hair. Long muscular legs. She begins to dump her clothes into the washer. Then, after she's done, she starts to undress! Of course as it turned out all she wanted to do was wash the clothes she had on, and she was wearing a bikini underneath, but for a minute I thought she was going to strip naked! She really had me going, I'll tell you. Then I deduced that she was going down to the beach. I actually considered following her. But before she left she happened to glance my way. A slightly alarmed look flashed across her face as she noticed the bulge of a semi-erection underneath my tennis shorts. I was barely aware of it, but quickly put my hands in my pockets to cover myself. Needless to say, I was terribly embarrassed. I turned away and strode back over to the dryer. After she left, I stuffed my half wet clothes into my laundry bag and exited as quickly as possible. What if she told someone, you know? So it was a pretty dicey experience. But it has really started me wondering if there might be something wrong with me. I mean, if I have no control over myself, maybe I'm perverted or something. It really worries me.
“But you know, ever since my wife left I've been in a kind of sexual limbo. During these past months, I haven't even had one date! Not that I don't know any women that I'd like to take out. No, I know plenty of them. Some of the secretaries at the office are single and I am on good terms with them. But, somehow, whenever I get the inclination to ask one of them out, I get incredibly nervous and awkward. I don't know, I guess when you come right down to it, I'm just afraid. I'm afraid that I really might be impotent, and this fear prevents me from trying to find out if I truly am or not. It's a real vicious circle.
“The odd thing is, though, that part of me hasn't really been missing intimacy that much since Carole left. Toward the end, our sex life was not exactly bountiful. And I'm sure that, to some extent, this must have been a factor in her leaving me. But it was not my fault, I tell you! At least, not primarily my fault. What I mean is that neither of us were at fault. We just grew weary of each other. Physically and emotionally, we simply exhausted ourselves. And when I think of how close we were before we got married - how absolutely devoted we were to one another - well, when I think of this I just get so sad.
“But I know that I have got to break this spell somehow. The time for self-pity is over! I've got to climb out of this awful rut I'm in. And, as crazy as it sounds, I think that at this point, the part of me that wants a satisfying sex life would settle for a tryst with just about anyone. Good lord, I sound like a sex-starved animal, don't I? Well, I guess I am. I just guess maybe I am.”
Suddenly the old man began to stir. He placed his hands on his knees and, leaning forward, tried to push himself up from his chair. He couldn't seem to manage it. I thought of helping him, but he seemed the kind of man who was probably too proud to accept assistance. So I waited for him to get up. After several abortive attempts, he was able, in one monumental effort, to complete the task. He tottered there for a moment, trying to regain some sense of coordination. Soon, after he succeeded in stabilizing himself, he was off and walking, though very slowly and uncertainly. It looked as if his legs, independent of his will, were making their own decisions as to where and how to move. But they were making relatively sound decisions and, after a time, the old man found himself at his bureau.
He reached for a notepad and pen and turned around to make the return journey to his chair. He arrived safely enough, bobbing and weaving the whole way. Sitting down, it seemed, was not as complicated as getting up. He simply thrust his rear end out over the seat cushion and plopped down. I couldn't suppress a small chuckle as he did this, for he bounced a number of times, looking like a shriveled up little boy on a trampoline. He didn't seem to notice my amusement, or else disregarded it, and instead began to write out something on his notepad. He was having a rather rough time with his writing - his hand was shaky and he couldn't get a very firm grip on the pen. Still, he was done much sooner than I expected, as his note was very short indeed. He ripped off the piece of paper and handed it to me. It read: For sex, call Sharon at 226-8135.
Naturally, I was astonished by the note. It was the very last thing I had imagined he would write. For one thing, I had suspected that he was actually taking notes for his own reference - that, like any self-respecting therapist, he was jotting down some observations and insights about me and my mental condition. But now, with this perverse little note, I was forced to conclude that not only was he a charlatan, but he was also a dirty old man. No, not a dirty old man. A filthy old man. I cannot adequately convey the contempt which I now felt for him. The thought of a man of his age and appearance possibly bedding down with this Sharon, whoever she was, seemed to me the vilest thing imaginable.
I looked up at him, nauseated. And the look that he returned to me made me feel even queasier. Through his massive beard was revealed a crooked little grin, and his normally vacant eyes were alive with glee. I was overcome with revulsion. I jumped from my seat and made for the door. Before leaving, I cursed him as a fraud and a reprobate. My words seem to have no impact on him whatsoever. And then, from out of nowhere, he actually winked at me. I thought about refraining from giving him my usual twenty-dollar donation, but decided that would be crass, so I dropped the bill into his basket on the bureau. Then I went over and seized the doorknob, stepped quickly outside, and slammed the door shut.
*
One Saturday night, about two weeks later, I found myself climbing up the stairway leading to Sharon's apartment. Following my altercation with the old man, I had remained for several days in a state of self-indulgent brooding. I certainly disliked the old goat, but what I really wanted was a reason to hate him. That I did not have. True, he had behaved like a low-life letch, but I was not so affronted by his behavior that I should actually despise the man. So, after these few days of brooding and pouting, I recovered from our little encounter. And, eventually, finding myself rereading his note so many times that the paper had almost disintegrated, I began to seriously consider calling this Sharon.
Then one day, during my usual early evening walk, I was surprised to witness myself reaching into my breast pocket for my cell phone, which I rarely took with me on outings. Almost automatically, I began to dial Sharon's number, which I had easily memorized by now. She answered after several rings, and immediately upon my mentioning the old man, agreed to see me. And while she did not set any strict appointment for our meeting, she did insist that I come sometime late at night, preferably between ten o'clock and midnight. Whichever night that suited me would be fine with her, she said. Just give her a head's up call.
Why I chose a Saturday night to visit Sharon, I do not know. Perhaps my reasoning was that, since Saturday is the night traditionally set aside for man's pursuit of sensual pleasures, why shouldn't I partake of my own rightful share? But whatever the reason, it was a fact that as I approached Sharon's door on this particular Saturday night, I was shaking in my boots. I could not believe that I was actually going through with this. Was I actually visiting a whore? No mention had been made of money. But I watched myself from a distance, feeling a peculiar sense of inner division - of finding my conscience completely at odds with my actions, and yet being utterly incapable of altering their course. So now, standing in front of Sharon's door - one of many in this rambling and unremarkable apartment complex - I extended a tremulous finger and rang the doorbell. I had called her earlier in the day to ask about seeing her, and she seemed to appreciate the adequate notice.
As I waited for her to answer, a myriad of images passed dreamlike through my mind, visions of what I hoped Sharon might look like. I remembered her voice on the phone - deep and melodious, and very sultry. I had attached to this voice a number of corresponding faces and figures, all of which represented some ideal form of beauty. First there was my Nordic ideal: tall and stately, with blue eyes and blonde hair. Next, there was my Latin beauty: dark and diminutive, with the sad eyes of a gypsy. And then there were variations on these two: tall and dark, small and fair, and so on. Not the least of these, of course, was my auburn-haired striptease queen from the laundromat. Yet, with all their apparent differences, each woman shared various things in common. Certainly, all were strikingly beautiful. But more importantly, each of my paragons had a certain reverential mystique about her that made her seem almost holy. So was my dream lover actually a nun? At any rate, as I stood there in the dark, foolishly and anxiously contemplating these impossible images of femininity, Sharon finally came to answer the door.
She brought me back to reality, but not too hard. She was certainly not beautiful, but neither was she plain. Strangely enough, I felt relief in the fact that she was not that comely. I suppose if she had been, I would have become even more uncomfortable than I already was. After all, with beautiful women comes pressure to perform. Sharon graciously invited me into her humble apartment. She led me down a bright hallway to her living room, which was suffused with a pleasant glow from indirect lighting. Numerous art prints adorned the walls. Then she motioned me toward her sofa and asked me to sit down. After doing so, Sharon asked if I would like a nightcap. I answered in the affirmative. Scotch and soda okay? I nodded, and she crossed her living room to a mini bar - an uncommon luxury in this common place - and began fixing two drinks. She cast me quick glances while doing so.
I couldn't help examining her. I did not much like her hair. It was all in tight, long, curly black strands, and looked almost like dreadlocks - which they were not. However, she did have an interesting face. Her wide-set eyes were a deep, clear brown and her nose was thin and delicate. Her chin, it seemed to me, was the only thing about Sharon's face that looked incongruous. It was unusually small. And it occurred to me that this was truly unfortunate. Had her chin been a bit larger, and her lips as well, Sharon might have been quite a lovely woman. In any case, the rest of her was unremarkable. She had small breasts, and her hips bordered on chubby.
With her next glance, Sharon fixed her eyes on me. “Have you finished inspecting me?” she said. “Well? Do I pass the test? Am I Grade A or have I been rejected?” She was justifiably annoyed, although her face remained composed. I made a weak attempt at an apology.
“I'm sorry for staring at you like that. Really. It's just that you're so striking to look at.”
“Bull,” she countered. “I know I'm no beauty, so you can stop throwing me that crap. Why don't you just admit it? You were sizing me up.”
“No no! Please don't say such a thing. It's just that I'm nervous. Frankly, I don't quite know what I'm doing here. I guess I was staring at you because everything, even you, seems so unreal to me at the moment.”
She brought our drinks over and set them down on an end table between the sofa and her recliner, upon which she now sat. “Well, maybe you are just nervous after all,” she relented. “You do look kind of spaced out. But that's still no reason for you to look at me like I was a damned guinea pig or something.”
“Please accept my apology,” I said.
She considered this for a time and finally seemed to weaken. “All right,” she said. “Okay, fine. Apology accepted. I just tend to let people know when they're acting rude. So anyway, I might as well tell you what you want to know. I'm twenty-seven. I have, as you can see, naturally curly black hair, hazel eyes, and clear skin. My body isn't great, but it's not all that bad, either. I like jazz, Vincent van Gogh, and modern dance.” She pointed towards numerous prints of dancers adorning one wall. I scrutinized them. Many featured the choreographers Twyla Tharp and Martha Graham, whose pictures I recognized from their performances in certain ballets that I had come to know about. On the adjacent wall were arresting prints of van Gogh. Too arresting for my taste. “I'm also into Zen, and I meditate twice a day, in the morning and before bed.” She paused a moment to think. “Well,” she said finally, “the only other thing is that I like to have a good time now and then.” She looked at me with raised eyebrows, as if in anticipation of a good time. “And I like to help men out if they happen to need some attention. You might call me a physical therapist of sorts.” She grinned broadly. Noting my chagrin, she answered the question I could not pose. “I'm not a prostitute,” she said calmly. “There's no money involved.”
I changed the subject.
“How did you become interested in van Gogh?" I asked, feigning interest.
“Well, I first got turned on to him from an art history class I took during my freshman year at the University. I loved the colors, you know? But then, after a while, I noticed something else in his paintings. And that is that he really gets down to the bare facts of life. I mean, look at that self portrait.” She singled out one particularly grotesque picture. “He obviously doesn't mess around with his feelings. You look at that and you know what suffering is. You think: this is a man of passion. And you can see that same passion in his other paintings too. The Sunflowers, the Cypresses, all of the interiors. And of course the night sky. They all have a vitality, you know? A sort of intense vitality, I guess you might say. Don't you think so?”
“Well, I suppose so,” I conceded. “I don't know much about art, but as you say there seems to be a certain passion about the man.” I was trying to humor her. I did not like Van Gogh at all.
“Exactly!” Sharon confirmed. She got up from her chair and came over to the sofa and sat down next to me. “And you know what?” she said. “I love passionate men.”
This bold statement made me uncomfortable, so I brought her attention to a photograph on the other wall that suddenly caught my attention. It was a picture of Thwyla Tharp and another famous dancer whose name I couldn't quite recall. A Russian for sure, I thought to myself - maybe Nureyev? But no, it was someone younger, and more renowned in pop culture. Suddenly the name popped into my head. Baryshnikov! So I said quickly to Sharon: “Isn't that Twyla Tharp and Baryshnikov?” I thrust out my finger at the photograph. “And weren't they kind of a mismatch or something?”
Sharon glanced at the photo briefly, then looked at me somewhat critically. “Not a mismatch at all. They were both doing something completely original, something they both were totally invested in. A happy marriage of modern dance with classical ballet.” She raised her eyebrows. “And they were lovers, you know. Passionate lovers.” Abruptly, Sharon started to stroke my leg. “And as I say, I love passionate men.”
She was going way too fast for me. I jumped up from the sofa, then shook my head at her soberly. She looked hurt. And that made me even angrier, somehow. “So what makes you think I'm so passionate?” I asked coldly. “You don't even know me! You just want to go to bed with an older man. That's what your problem is. You have some sort of neurotic infatuation with older men.”
Sharon was now at least as angry as I was. She looked at me through piercing, resentful eyes. She opened her tight little mouth to speak. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she said forcefully. “I mean, what did you come here for anyway? Did you come here to judge me or did you come here to screw me?” I cringed. “Look, mister, if you want to play some stupid psychological game with me then you might as well leave. I'm not about to put up with any more crap from you.” She got up from the sofa and walked a short way down the hall to her bedroom and opened the door. “If you want to come to bed, then I'll be waiting. But I better get an apology first. If that's a problem for you, why don't you just go?” With that, Sharon closed the bedroom door and left me alone.
I didn't have to think about the matter for long. The girl disgusted me, so what was the use in staying? So I hurriedly left the apartment, slamming the door hard as I left. As I walked home in the night, I tried to console myself. For someone so supposedly adept in sexual matters, this little tart had no sense of romance at all, I told myself. She just wanted to hop into bed, nothing more. Why couldn't she have waited until we got to know each other a little better? Apparently, she was after me the minute I set foot in her apartment. Then coming on to me from out of the blue like that. Some nerve! Lucky I found out what she was really like before making a huge mistake.
*
I arrived at the old man's place after work the following Monday. His hovel was in a derelict part of the inner-city, not that far from my office building, so it didn't take long to drive there. Which was good because I had a lot to get off my chest, and I wanted to unburden myself as soon as possible. I meant to take the man to task for sending me to that Sharon wench. He greeted me with a sardonic grin, and somewhat brusquely invited me in. He looked his usual haggard self - his long white hair was all tangled, his eyes were tired and bloodshot, and his ragged clothes were even more disheveled than ever. He shuffled off mechanically towards his chair and plopped down. There he waited for me to take my seat.
Considering his sorry state I wasn't sure whether I should reprimand him. He sat there inert as usual and cast me a rather severe look. Had he heard from Sharon? Was he actually mad at me? It pained me to think that he might blame me for that debacle. If so, that meant that he didn't care one whit about me. Probably this whole time all the old man was doing was functioning as a sounding board for my confessions. He was apparently some sort of derelict Father confessor, except that he did not give absolution. At the beginning of my therapy with him that was fine, but now that I really needed some sympathy from him, such a lack of concern would be maddening. So I cautiously approached my chair and sat down.
There was a moment of tension as I tried to gather my thoughts. The old man did not help matters by staring at me mercilessly. After a time, I became so unnerved that I had to avert my eyes. Trying to outstare him was exactly like trying to outstare a catatonic. As a diversion, I looked around the room. The bare walls presented quite a contrast to the extravagantly postered walls in Sharon's apartment. And conspicuous in its absence was that ancient hot plate beside the sink, which was now free of dirty dishes. Did the dubious contraption cease to function, so that it had to be discarded? If so, how in the world did the old man feed himself? There were a few boxes and cans of non-perishable items on a shelf above the sink, so I had to wonder if he was down to eating beans out of a can or something. The fact was that he looked as if he had not eaten or slept for days. This concerned me and, hoping at the same time to break the ice, I told him so.
He shrugged his shoulders as if the issue were unimportant, and continued to stare and wait. Though still uncomfortable, I knew that I needed desperately to talk, even if it meant talking to a brick wall. And so, reluctantly, I began to divulge some of what had taken place between Sharon and me the night before.
“I visited Sharon last night,” I said firmly, hoping to rouse an animated response. Instead, he merely raised his eyebows and shook his head at me in derision. So he apparently knew what had transpired. “Nothing at all happened though,” I continued. “Not a thing. In fact we didn't exactly hit it off. Somehow, I don't think the time was right. And I admit that I didn't give her much notice. So she seemed a little put off. I guess I shouldn't have come.” I tried to be delicate about the next disclosure. “Although she was rather accommodating at one point.”
He nodded his head slowly, then pursed his lips in disapproval, seemingly aware that I had not accommodated her. Then he motioned for me to continue. His brow furrowed as if expecting me to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“All right,” I relented. I couldn't stand up under the weight of his gaze. “So you want the unvarnished truth, right?” He nodded. “Yes, Sharon did invite me into her boudoir. Oh, I'm sure she wanted to get me into bed as soon as possible. But why so soon? That's what I'd like to know. We had barely gotten to know each other. So it was only too obvious that she didn't care anything about who I was! To me it was all too clear that the only thing she cared about was the fact that I was an “older” man and that I looked “passionate" somehow. Tell me now, what kind of woman is that?” I looked at him pointedly, but wasn't sure I should say what I next said. “True, she doesn't charge anything for her services, but still…”
The old man frowned and shook his head slowly. As always, I didn't have a clue as to what he might be thinking, but it couldn't be good. He just shook his weather-beaten old head from side to side slowly and gravely, for far too long. Finally, he stopped and flashed me a quizzical look, as if he couldn't believe how obtuse this person was before him. As a defense, I continued talking, saying anything that entered my mind.
“Whatever happened to romance?” I said witlessly. The old man's questioning look turned to that of an inquisitor. I tried to defend myself. “I'm serious!” I said emphatically. “There is absolutely no sense of romance in the world today. Just take a look around and you'll see it's true. On television or at the movies all you see is casual, mindless sex. They don't even think about taste. It's lewd and it's disgusting. And the people who watch that… I mean, there has to be something wrong with people when all they want out of life is a quick vicarious thrill. For God's sake, what in the world ever happened to the art of conversation?” I paused, and he just pursed his lips, as if his muteness was being challenged. “Really, I mean it,” I said, doubling down. “What is wrong with wanting to get to know someone before you hop in the sack? Can you tell me? No. Obviously not. All you do is sit and judge. So maybe you are caught up in the same lame game as all the other heedless hedonists. Maybe you don't care a damn about true love and true happiness. Well, I can tell you this: You and Sharon are made for each other. A couple of rank libertines, that's what you are!”
The old man seemed to be amused by my tirade. This made me furious.
“What's so funny?” I challenged. “What gives you the right to laugh at me? I'm trying to make a point, here! Don't you even care about what I'm saying? Aren't you in the least bit concerned about your blatant immorality? Surely, as old as you are, you must remember a time when people had some sense of decency - when men and women had respect for one another! Now, look at the mess that's been made. Look at all the deviance out there, of every conceivable kind. Just thinking about it makes me sick. Really now, in all truthfulness, don't you wish things were different, like when you were young? For instance, don't you wish sexuality was less about “conquest” than about virtue, like when you were a young man?”
At this the old man suddenly broke into a fit of laughter. I was slightly alarmed at first, because it was the first time that I ever saw any real life come out of him. But the more he laughed, the more my alarm turned to spite. I could not let this reprobate get away with this. So I sneered at him and posed the one question I knew to be taboo. “Did you really have sex with Sharon?” I challenged.
Immediately, the old man's gaiety vanished. His smile turned quickly into an angry frown. His gleeful eyes grew cold and resentful. The transformation was so abrupt that I was utterly shaken by it. I suddenly became tense and apprehensive. I felt a bit like a little boy who has just called his father a son of a bitch. I sank into my chair, ashamed of myself for asking such a tactless question. I waited for my punishment, knowing full well that I deserved whatever it was that I had coming.
The old man sat there for an endless time, looking at me as if I were the most pathetic creature on earth. I shifted my eyes to avoid his deadly glare. Then, suddenly, he began to stir, and I knew from his familiar rocking motion that he was trying to get up. As usual, he was having a difficult time. Since it seemed like the ideal moment to make peace, I extended my hand, hoping that he would accept some assistance. But instead, he slapped my hand and flashed me a vicious look that shook me to the bone. I recoiled and fell back into my chair, helpless. The old man resumed his efforts to push himself up. Finally, straining mightily, he did so.
He began to shuffle off towards his bureau, where rested his notepad and pen. And then I knew how I was to be chastened. He was going to write out something condemnatory on his notepad - something pointed and dreadful - and he was going to make me read it. I began to feel slightly nauseous, as if my welfare depended on what he was about to write. The old man snatched up the pen and pencil then turned around and hobbled back to his chair. He plopped himself down and began to write.
He wrote slowly and thoughtfully, looking up now and then to examine me sternly. It occurred to me that, for the first time during my therapy with him, the old man now really seemed to possess the presence and demeanor of a psychiatrist. When he looked at me, his eyes were clear and penetrating. And his usually shaky hands were now remarkably steady. And he proceeded apace. It was obvious that he wanted his words to carry weight and meaning. I, for my part, could only watch and wait.
It seemed a very long while before the old man was through. Or perhaps it was my anxiety that made the time pass like an eternity. Certainly, a cloud of guilt hung over my head as I awaited judgment. And it was this guilt that kept me glued to my chair, knowing all the while that I was about to be handed an inevitable verdict of guilty. I wanted nothing better than to walk out on the old man, but I simply could not. For even if I did not feel such a stinging sense of guilt, the fact remained that for me to walk out at this point, before the old man had had his say - this would have been the ultimate form of cowardice. So, against every other inclination, I stayed to take my medicine.
Finally, the old man appeared to be finished with his writing. He put his pen in his shirt pocket and held up the piece of paper before him to re-read. There was an air of magnanimity in his attitude, as if he were reading some monumentally significant official document. After a minute he seemed satisfied with what he had written, and then, very gravely, he handed the piece of note-paper over to me. Feeling like a condemned man, I began to read the old man's note.
“I will answer your pathetic question,” the note read, “although you do not deserve any response at all. You have an abnormally perverse mind, and possess the sexual maturity of a child. Nevertheless, I will satisfy your childish curiosity. Yes, it is true. I have had sexual relations with Sharon. She is very excellent in bed. But more than that, she is a kind, loving young woman who has none of your Victorian misconceptions about sex. She is passionate, even impulsive at times, and for this very reason she frightens off the likes of you - a man who will sleep only with virgins. It is most unfortunate that you could not find the fortitude within yourself to stay with her, to endure her frankness and overlook her forthrightness, for you need her much more than you can even guess. She is your true therapist, my friend, not I. And if you have any sense left at all, you will seek her out once again and apologize for your actions. Then you will receive a great gift in return - the gift of love, vitality, and a reason for being.”
I said rigid for a long time, looking blankly at the note and feeling a numbness of both body and mind. The words, and the truth which they expressed, struck me to the quick. The old man knew me all too well. He saw through me with a keener insight and I had thought possible, given his often disengaged demeanor. I had underestimated him. I had mistakenly thought that his mind, mirroring his physical incapacity, might also be somewhat feeble. Obviously, I was dead wrong. And a sickly feeling came over me. It was as if some intimate secret had been rooted out of me, very much against my will. I had been found out! A few well-chosen words from a silent old derelict had knocked the stuffing right out of me. I now felt a wretched emptiness inside.
But how was I to take all of this? It was the first time in my life that anyone had had the audacity to tell me such profoundly disturbing things about myself. And even on paper, the hurt was no less than it would have been had someone screamed the words into my face. And what was worse was the expression on the old man's face, as he witnessed my reaction to the note. He looked at me so smugly - almost triumphantly - as if he were keenly satisfied with his bit of retribution. It was a look that made me tremble, out of fury as well as fear. The piece of paper quivered in my hands. Suddenly, I saw these hands tear the note to shreds and then throw the small pieces onto the old man's lap. Just as suddenly, I felt myself arise swiftly from my chair, and then lean over and slap the old man hard across his face. I had never struck anyone in the face before. I didn't wait to discern his reaction, but I hadn't knocked him down so I presumed he was alright. The next thing I knew, I was out the door.
I hopped in my car and took off. But I didn't head straight home. I needed some time to think, so I wended my way back via the side roads. I had to admit to myself that striking the old man felt good. I wasn't proud of the deed, but I accepted it as a kind of necessity. It was the release that I needed at the moment. Should I castigate myself for it, beat myself up for it as was my usual wont after doing something so morally dubious? No. Not this time. No way. At length I realized that, in my rush to flee from him, I had neglected to leave the man a donation. This gave me even more satisfaction.
*
Three days later, on rainy Wednesday afternoon, I sat in my living room nursing my fourth Manhattan, a libation I had come to know intimately of late. I had taken a vacation from work, informing the office that I was ill - which was not a lie, given a certain soul sickness that now afflicted me. So here I was, drinking and watching some soap opera on television, a preposterous melodrama in which doctors and nurses vied with one another to discover who could have the most affairs with their best friends' spouses. It made me weary, but I couldn't bring myself to turn it off. I didn't want to have to hear myself think. I had done too much of that lately.
Just yesterday my ex-wife sent me an invitation to her impending wedding. It wasn't a surprise - I knew she'd been living with someone for a year or more. But I knew I wouldn't go. Not in the condition I was in. Also, Carole asked me not to bring my mother, which I understood because they had such a fraught relationship. Carole had been married twice before and both of these marriages ended in messy divorces. My mother always predicted we would also get divorced, and that the “little gold-digger” would take me for everything I had. But that was not the case at all. We had a thoroughly amicable divorce. But mother always had it in for Carole, not only because of her history but because she was a bit rough around the edges. She sometimes used mild profanity, which made her “trashy.” She also drank a bit, which made her a “lush.” And on occasion she dressed provocatively, which made her a “tramp.”
Mother did try to be civil when we were all together. But the occasional row couldn't be avoided. I always had to play referee, and when mother was clearly at fault, which was most of the time, I had no choice but to placate her. Carole of course took me to task for that, but I simply had no choice. I knew by rote the whole mother-child dynamic, and that it was thoroughly dysfunctional, but I could not break free. Mother had groomed me well, from childhood on, to be her “rock” - obedient, loyal, and deferential - and I was hardwired to obey her. Shortly after Carole and I were married, mother admonished me never to have children with her. And we never did.
I never told anyone about this problematic triangle, not even the old man. And now that we were history, I was glad for this. Who knows what snap judgements he might have made, and what blame he might have foisted upon me? Since my confrontation with him, I had considered any number of different courses of action that might bring full closure to my relationships with both the old man and Sharon. In one of my more febrile fantasies, a certain amount of mayhem against the old man seemed almost fitting, as further retribution. Merely slapping him didn't seem like enough justice done. But ultimately reason prevailed, and I decided that never seeing the old man again was retribution enough on that front, especially given that I didn't know how much damage my slap had done to him. Good thing that, upon his insistence, we were anonymous to one another, so he couldn't lodge a complaint against me with the authorities. Regarding Sharon, I managed to narrow my options down to two fairly rational alternatives.
First, I could simply forget about her - just banish her into the deep recesses of my memory, where the old man was headed. And to fill the therapeutic void that now manifested, I could actually start seeing a bonafide licensed psychiatrist. Perhaps he or she could help me decide how to proceed with Sharon. But seeing a shrink hardly appealed to me. Their rates were extravagant and, since I had never visited a psychiatrist before, I envisioned a dispassionate, sober-looking, bespectacled man or woman in a tweed suit or dress, wielding a notepad much like the one the old man had. And then there would be the incessant probing questions, which at least the old man had spared me. In my mind, to enter into actual analysis would be humiliating and an act of desperation. But then I was a desperate man who had recently been roundly humiliated.
The second alternative was not much more palatable. I could actually take the old man's advice and, as demeaning as it seemed, give Sharon another try. Curiously enough, after all I had been through with her, I had all along felt a certain compulsion to see her again, as if fate somehow demanded that we come to terms with one another. The old man had made it seem like some sort of sexual obligation, but it felt to me like more than that. Might it not, in fact, be cathartic? But in which way? All I knew was that I was still apprehensive about seeing Sharon again, despite the lingering need. But it still seemed better than dueling with a psychiatrist.
The television droned on. I drained my Manhattan, and continued ruminating. Finally, an absurd but somehow appropriate idea occurred to me. I would make a completely random decision. Indeed, I would flip a coin. It seemed appropriate somehow, my life being what it was, that a pure act of chance should determine its course. To call Sharon or not to see Sharon. I dug into my pocket and found a quarter. I drunkenly flipped it into the air, then drunkenly dropped it. I decided to obey whatever side of the coin faced up. Heads, I call her. Tails, I don't. I looked down at the carpet. It was tails.
I stared at the coin for a very long time. It wasn't right somehow. At least, it didn't seem to be what I really wanted. I reached down to retrieve the coin. I flipped it again. This time it turned up heads. Yes. That was better. I waited another hour or so to allow my head to clear. Then I reached over to my end table and snatched up my cell phone. I still knew Sharon's number by rote, so it was no trouble calling her. As soon as she answered I began to confess to her all of the grim truths that the old man had uncovered several days before, and I punctuated this confessional with sincere apologies for my thoughtless behavior toward her. But I didn't tell her that I had practically been ordered to make amends. Throughout all of this Sharon was patient and receptive, and even encouraged me to continue when I almost broke down at one point. After I finished, she suggested that we get together again, just to talk if nothing else. I agreed, happily and gratefully. I was especially pleased that she, at least presumably, didn't know about my altercation with the old man.
So I now eagerly looked forward to seeing Sharon again. Sharon the dancer, the art lover, the meditator who lived in the moment. Sharon the sensualist, who was everything I wasn't. And, far from being her antagonist, I now desired her - not her body, but her heart and mind. Perhaps I could even seek her tutelage. Perhaps she could teach me how to live. That is, to live without constraint and without artifice. I felt single-minded now, and though I realized it was perhaps simple-minded, I pictured us as unlikely soulmates. We were fated to reunite in that once darkly contentious place - her plain apartment - which now seemed a thoroughly welcoming space, full of light and motion and art and color. How much more inviting it was, especially in contrast to the old man's stale and stolid court of inquisition!
Sharon finally asked what night she might expect me. Any night but Saturday night, I said emphatically. Realizing that was the day of our last meeting, she chuckled slightly, then said, “Yes, we can do better than that, can't we?” I didn't know how to respond, so I just muttered, “Of course we can.” But what did that mean? And although we talked on a good while longer before hanging up, it was that “challenge” of hers that stuck in my mind. “We can do better than that.” It almost sounded like a come-on. Did she really mean something sexual? After I spilled my guts to her like that? Didn't she realize that this time around I just needed someone trustworthy to talk to, that I actually didn't want any “favors” from her now?
I dearly wanted to take Sharon at her word, and that all she wanted to do was talk, heart to heart, and leave the physicality out of it - which could perhaps come at some point, but not now. For God's sake, not now! So again I had to wonder if yet another supposed “caregiver” only wanted to use me for their own selfish purposes. Were her motives pure, and did she really have my own interests in mind? And what if she didn't? If I were to discover that she did not, how might I react? A sudden churning in my stomach told me that I would not react well. Indeed, would I have to subject her to the same punishment I had meted out to the old man? Or worse?
At length I hauled my still tipsy self out of my chair, and weaved my way down to the bathroom to relieve myself. After that I turned to the wash basin to thoroughly wash my hands, which seemed somehow inordinately unclean. Before reaching for the towel to dry off, I cast a reluctant glance at myself in the mirror. I didn't like what I saw. It was not just the darkened bloodshot eyes looking back at me, and the downturned mouth, and the disheveled hair - it was the persona behind the face. Who was this person? And what had he become? Did he really want to exact revenge on anyone who disagreed with him? Or one whom he felt, without evidence, had belittled or insulted him? The evidence of injury from the old man seemed obvious. But what had Sharon done, really? Except to be herself, and speak the truth as she saw it…
I stared and stared at the mockery that was my face. In the end I couldn't help but conclude that he was the one who deserved punishment. And so, quite abruptly and impulsively, I proceeded to slap myself silly.
Art by Ross Schwartz