ideas. When did he meet her? How long did they go out? How often did they see each other? He wanted to avoid the
whole chronology. Instead, for the next few months he asked himself on a daily basis why she had been so cruel.
This woman in white leather was clearly an oppression experience. She could not be nice. Yet, to this day, Doc mourned, stupidly, the absence of her hostility. After all, being put down by her was still a relationship, no matter how feeble. Like most mean people she was equally self-centered and malleable. This fascinated Doc. Secondarily, there was something in that combination that reminded him of America. But much more important, he wanted a happy ending. He wanted some modicum of control.
Now, so much later and alone in his apartment, Doc did some self-analysis.
Iâm not the kind of person for whom time heals. The only thing that heals me is resolution .
Doc would have no rest until he didnât care whether she would ever love him again. But God, that would take up so much of his time.
Time passes very slowly for me , Doc thought.
âThis was an accurate perception,â he said and then remembered, with a start, that it was his own life on the table. He had put his own self on the couch. Warily, he walked through the dark kitchen and shined a flashlight into the bathroom mirror. His face was obscured by glare and shadow. All he saw was one soft lip. He ran back to the bed.
Even though the doctor was young, he didnât feel that his life had happened quickly. He felt that it had happened very, very slowly and he fully realized the impact of years of twenty-four-hour days. This was why he hated the past. He never wanted to relive one minute of it. He couldnât even bear to think about it. He wouldnât even want to relive breakfast, because the doctor was waiting for a particular thing to happen. A particular explanation.
Enough reminiscing , Doc told himself sternly. I could spend the rest of my life poring over the first thirty-one years of it .
Finally he rolled himself out of bed.
At his feet lay yesterdayâs ancient drab clothes. They would do fine. It was easier to dress down when working the street. Frankly, it helped his patients trust him. They didnât worry about trying to impress. Doc spooned out a cup of instant coffee and ran the comb through his hair. Then, in a burst of impending entrepreneurial spirit, he went downstairs to take care of his own business before the Hare Krishnas got the best corner.
As soon as he hit Second Avenue, Doc started madly distributing his business cards to reasonable-looking neurotics. Anything to drum up new clientele. Since Doc had a policy of never seeing a patient for more than three sessions, he had to advertise constantly.
Â
THE DOCTOR IS IN
LAY ANALYSIS MY SPECIALTY
RATES YOU CAN EMOTIONALLY ACCEPT
Â
Plus address and phone number.
Handing it out with meaningful glances, Doc looked at passersby as potential patients. He wondered which person and their problems would enter and transform his life?
Doc noticed one young man who had that expression on his face as though he had given up looking for work. He couldnât stand his jobs, even the one wrapping muffins. Doc could see he was blaming himself, believing the lies on the television set. Doc could tell him how many millions had the same problem. That it wasnât personal.
Another guy passed by. He had a neuromuscular disorder, maybe MS. His boyfriend was scared, didnât know what to do. Doc could sit down with both of them and lay out the facts. He could help them face it.
That woman over there had an observant ego. Even though she was tired and on her way to or from work, Doc could tell she watched everything closely. Sessions with her would be a sharing of ideas, a
place to freely engage. Doc and she would sit back proposing this or that. They would just talk.
These strangers filled him with feeling. There were so many things he wanted to
whole chronology. Instead, for the next few months he asked himself on a daily basis why she had been so cruel.
This woman in white leather was clearly an oppression experience. She could not be nice. Yet, to this day, Doc mourned, stupidly, the absence of her hostility. After all, being put down by her was still a relationship, no matter how feeble. Like most mean people she was equally self-centered and malleable. This fascinated Doc. Secondarily, there was something in that combination that reminded him of America. But much more important, he wanted a happy ending. He wanted some modicum of control.
Now, so much later and alone in his apartment, Doc did some self-analysis.
Iâm not the kind of person for whom time heals. The only thing that heals me is resolution .
Doc would have no rest until he didnât care whether she would ever love him again. But God, that would take up so much of his time.
Time passes very slowly for me , Doc thought.
âThis was an accurate perception,â he said and then remembered, with a start, that it was his own life on the table. He had put his own self on the couch. Warily, he walked through the dark kitchen and shined a flashlight into the bathroom mirror. His face was obscured by glare and shadow. All he saw was one soft lip. He ran back to the bed.
Even though the doctor was young, he didnât feel that his life had happened quickly. He felt that it had happened very, very slowly and he fully realized the impact of years of twenty-four-hour days. This was why he hated the past. He never wanted to relive one minute of it. He couldnât even bear to think about it. He wouldnât even want to relive breakfast, because the doctor was waiting for a particular thing to happen. A particular explanation.
Enough reminiscing , Doc told himself sternly. I could spend the rest of my life poring over the first thirty-one years of it .
Finally he rolled himself out of bed.
At his feet lay yesterdayâs ancient drab clothes. They would do fine. It was easier to dress down when working the street. Frankly, it helped his patients trust him. They didnât worry about trying to impress. Doc spooned out a cup of instant coffee and ran the comb through his hair. Then, in a burst of impending entrepreneurial spirit, he went downstairs to take care of his own business before the Hare Krishnas got the best corner.
As soon as he hit Second Avenue, Doc started madly distributing his business cards to reasonable-looking neurotics. Anything to drum up new clientele. Since Doc had a policy of never seeing a patient for more than three sessions, he had to advertise constantly.
Â
THE DOCTOR IS IN
LAY ANALYSIS MY SPECIALTY
RATES YOU CAN EMOTIONALLY ACCEPT
Â
Plus address and phone number.
Handing it out with meaningful glances, Doc looked at passersby as potential patients. He wondered which person and their problems would enter and transform his life?
Doc noticed one young man who had that expression on his face as though he had given up looking for work. He couldnât stand his jobs, even the one wrapping muffins. Doc could see he was blaming himself, believing the lies on the television set. Doc could tell him how many millions had the same problem. That it wasnât personal.
Another guy passed by. He had a neuromuscular disorder, maybe MS. His boyfriend was scared, didnât know what to do. Doc could sit down with both of them and lay out the facts. He could help them face it.
That woman over there had an observant ego. Even though she was tired and on her way to or from work, Doc could tell she watched everything closely. Sessions with her would be a sharing of ideas, a
place to freely engage. Doc and she would sit back proposing this or that. They would just talk.
These strangers filled him with feeling. There were so many things he wanted to
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