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animal.
    I noticed he was several inches taller and had forty pounds (at least) on me. But hopefully not all of it was muscle.
    I motioned to the Steins to let me handle this. But they remained.
    “Mr. Temple,” I continued, “have you ever heard of section forty of the Criminal Code? That’s trespassing. Or section seventeen—that’s threatening bodily harm? Or section—”
    “Whatta you—a cop?” he grunted. Clearly he had known a few.
    “Just a lawyer,” I replied, “but I could send you up the river for a lengthy rest.”
    “You’re bluffin’,” Temple said.
    “No. But if you’re anxious to resolve this issue sooner, there’s another process.”
    “Yeah, you fruit?”
    He flexed his looming muscles. Behind me I could sense the orchestra’s anxiety. And inside, a scintilla of my own. But still I calmly took my jacket off, and spoke sotto voce with extreme politeness.
    “Mr. Temple, if you don’t evaporate, I’ll simply have to slowly—as one intellectual to another—beat your Silly Putty brains out.”
    After the intruder’s quite precipitous departure, Mr. Stein broke out champagne (“imported straight from California”). The orchestra then voted to perform the loudest piece they knew, a very spirited rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. In which I even played an instrument: the cannon (empty ash can).
    Several hours later—all too soon—the party ended.
    “Come again,” said Mrs. Stein.
    “Of course he will,” said Mr. Stein.
    “What makes you so sure?” she asked.
    “He loves us,” Louis Stein replied.
    And that was that.
    No one had to tell me that my duty was to take Joanna home. Although the hour was late, she still insisted that we take the number-five bus that goes down Riverside and ultimately snakes across to Fifth. She was sort of tired from her hours of work. And yet her mood was up.
    “God, you were fantastic, Oliver,” she said. And put her hand on mine.
    I tried to ask myself just what I felt about her touch.
    And couldn’t get an answer.
    Joanna still was bubbly.
    “Temple won’t dare show his mug again!” she said.
    “Hey, listen, Jo—it doesn’t take much brains to call a bully’s bluff.”
    I’d used my hands to gesture and they now were disengaged from hers. (Relief?)
    “But still . . .”
    She didn’t finish. Maybe it began to puzzle her the way I kept insisting I was just a stupid jock. My only purpose was to let her know I wasn’t really worth her time. I mean she was so nice. And kind of pretty. Well, at least a normal guy with normal feelings would have found her so.
    She had a fourth-floor walk-up near the hospital. As we stood outside her door, I noticed she was shorter than she’d seemed at first. I mean she had to look straight up at me to talk.
    I also noticed that my breath was kind of short. It couldn’t be from climbing stairs (I run a lot, remember). And I began to feel the vaguest sense of panic as I talked to this intelligent and gentle doctor lady.
    Maybe she’d imagine that I liked her more than just platonically. What if maybe—
    “Oliver,” Joanna said, “I’d like to ask you in. But I go on at six A.M .”
    “Another time,” I said. And suddenly could feel more oxygen within my lungs.
    “I hope so, Oliver.”
    She kissed me. On the cheek. (They were a bunch of touchers , her whole family.)
    “Good night,” she said.
    “I’ll call you,” I replied.
    “I had a lovely evening.”
    “I did too.”
    And yet I was ineffably unhappy.
    Walking back that night, I came to the conclusion that I needed a psychiatrist.

Chapter Seven

    “L et’s begin by leaving out King Oedipus completely.”
    Thus began my well-prepared self-introduction to the doctor. Finding a reliable psychiatrist involves a simple set of moves. First you call up friends who are physicians and you tell them that a friend of yours could use some help. Then they recommend a doctor for this troubled person. Finally, you walk around the phone two