Chapter Four
By one-thirty the next afternoon, Doc was a nervous wreck. He paced and paced, opening and closing the refrigerator, rearranging all the food. Finally, at three minutes to the hour, he recovered somewhat and managed to slip delicately back into the office mentality.
Doc didn’t believe in regular appointments. His patients only came when something was up. And even though Ms. O. didn’t officially know the rules, something appeared to be definitely up. He hoped this would be more meaningful than most patient encounters. He hoped Anna O. would want to really discuss. Usually Doc just sat there while they talked about the unpleasant side of life. Then he did his bit.
Finally, at exactly two o’clock, he heard his door creak open and Doc saw a young woman standing in the threshold. She reminded him immediately of himself as a girl. She was a little pudgy, a little too soft. She had messy, romantic brown hair and noticed everything at once. She stepped into the room the same way he did, with a hesitant self-confidence. She had that kind of alienation that Doc recognized from years of therapy - somewhere between feeling exceptional and feeling like a clown. Anna came from the same kind of middle class that Doc knew oh-so-well. The kind that could pass up just as easily as down.
“Could I have something to drink?” she asked.
“Uhh.” Doc walked over to the refrigerator. “I’ve got mayonnaise, cocktail sauce, Canada Dry, white rice, Hershey’s chocolate milk, and boxed corn muffins.”
“Water will be fine,” she said. “I’ll get it,” following Doc into the dark kitchen.
“There’s no electricity in the bathroom, bedroom, or kitchen,” he said apologetically. “The whole place functions on extension cords.”
Then he laughed the way a man is supposed to laugh when brushing off his own inadequacy.
“I love this neighborhood,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered. “Do you live here too?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I fit in perfectly. Everyone here has a secret and people they can’t run into plus others they’re always looking for. The potatoes are soft here. The wine is bad. It’s strange here. Many people have died and left a lot of stuff for the living to avoid. There is baggage.”
“Oh, your friends died of AIDS too,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And two got shot.”
Anna settled into his couch and took a look around. The whole place was plain. There was no television, no tape player, no CD player, no VCR, no computer, no camera, no stereo. It was basic.
“You’re a yes-and-no person, aren’t you, Doc?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe in good and evil.”
Anna looked him over, clumsily adjusting her skirt. Clumsily she crossed and uncrossed her legs.
“I find these clothes so humiliating,” she said. “These stockings are so expensive. Your toenail becomes your worst enemy. Your couch is old-fashioned. I like that.”
Doc smiled. He was still anxious about having admitted his belief system, so this slight compliment was warmly welcomed.
“I never buy anything interesting new,” he said. “Just a coffeepot and towels.”
They looked so much alike. Doc noticed that there was practically no difference except that Anna had to wear clothes that she hated and he could wear whatever he liked.
“I also believe in good and evil,” Anna said. “Things are falling apart in this country with great rapidity and everyone wants to pretend that they have nothing to do with it. That no one is responsible. Now, I happen to be a happy person, Doc. I like my life the way it is. But when I look around for one minute I get … ideas. Ideas about structures.”
“You mean politics?” he asked wistfully.
“Well, I do know that there are other things going on out there besides my happiness, if that’s what you mean by politics.”
“How strange,” Doc mumbled and covertly made a note.
“What is it, Doc?” she asked, sinking back even more into the sofa’s springless cushions, legs crossed tightly at the ankles. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re suffering from empathy,” he said. “You must have some unresolved past experience.”
“I have to go retouch my makeup now,” she said. “I feel naked without it.”
Waiting in his chair for Anna’s return, Doc gleefully reserved judgment. He was so happy to find a patient with an intact set of beliefs. What a relief. Doc had had his since childhood and found it easier to get along with others who had their own beliefs too. When he was a kid, there were two systems. They were called Capitalism and Communism. Morality was easy then. Even later when he started thinking for himself, Doc could still tell right from wrong because both systems were wrong and the third system, the Imagination, was right. But these days there were no more easy Cold War systems to position himself against. Doc found this very trying personally because there was no longer an existing method for evaluating situations. Banality was the new enemy within.
Outside, global relations seemed to be one big blob. A comet. Out of control. One day Doc even crossed his fingers hoping that President Bush would die of a heart attack soon because nothing else he could imagine would get rid of that guy. It was a humiliating last resort, but he had to try everything.
Anna returned from the dark bathroom where she’d clearly thought things over.
“Well?” he asked gently.
“Well,” she said, courageously. “I guess it all started with my childhood.”
“I thought so,” Doc said.
Then he waited. There is a way that people tell their secrets. If they make it into a big production, it’s no secret. Only shame is the true indication of authentic camouflage.