I TELEPHONE MY FRIEND Ocky, who coincidentally has been in therapy starting from when we first became friends.
“Hello?”
“Ocky, it’s me,” I say.
“Hello.”
“I’ve been thinking of seeing a ‘shrink.’ ”
“OK.”
“I am calling to ask for the number of your ‘shrink.’ ”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I can’t let you see my therapist, B.”
“Why?”
“We talk about you. It would be a conflict of interest for thon.”
“Your therapist is a thon?”
“No. But I prefer not to even be specific about thon’s gender.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid it might allow you to track thon down and see thon behind my back.”
“Just by knowing thon’s gender?”
“Thon’s gender is so specific as to be almost unique.”
“Fine. Well, do you know of any other ‘shrinks’ who are supposed to be good?”
“I have heard tell of a Dr. Bismo in Harlem.”
“B-i-s-m-o?” I ask, spelling it out.
“H-a-r-l-e-m.”
“No, the therapist’s name.”
“Oh. Yes, then.”
“Do you know his first name?”
“Interesting that you assume it is a he. Sexist much?”
“Her name then?”
“It’s a male.”
“Then, why—”
“I just thought your assumption was telling.”
“What is his first name?”
“Frederick G.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I hope it helps you. I really think this is long overdue.”
“Thank you, Ocky.”
I hang up. Ocky, my oldest and dearest friend, is a terrible person. The thing is he is even more cisgender than I. His high horse is a defensive mechanism. I would pity him if I didn’t despise him. Dr. Frederick G. Bismo is an African American, I hope. There is a good chance because his office is in Harlem, although with the current gentrification (the Harlem Shame-aissance, I call it) of that area, it is impossible to know. But I would enjoy talking about this issue with an African American. He would undoubtedly notice how seriously I take the artistry of his fellow African Americans and we would bond over that since he would recognize me as an ally.
FREDERICK G. BISMO is white. Possibly Scandinavian, that’s how white. Tall, blond, and severe. He seems to despise me. Perhaps he is not a good fit. Or perhaps this is just what I need—a form of tough love. Or tough hate. Perhaps I should give him a chance.
“Tell me how I can help,” he says.
You tell me, I think. You’re the goddamn “shrink.”
“I’m having some problems,” I say.
“I see,” he says.
What do you see? I think. I’ve told you nothing. Why don’t you ask me what the problems are? Must I play both of our parts? Must I always—
“What sort of problems?” he asks.
Finally.
“Thank you for asking. For starters, I’m having some problems remembering.”
I’m hoping he will say, Oh, that’s quite common at your age. Nothing to worry about.
“That is worrisome,” he says.
“Really?”
“Do you get lost trying to get home?”
“No! For God’s sake! No! Egads, man!”
“Well, what sort of memory problems then?”
This man is a joke.
“I cannot remember the details of a film I have watched.”
“Oh,” he says. “That is nothing. Movies are a disposable art form.”
I hate this man.
“I am a film critic by profession, as well as by passion,” I say.
“I see. Well, then, why not just watch it again and take notes this time?”
“The one copy of the film has been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Yes, in a terrible fire or tsunami.”
“This is a very unusual circumstance.”
“Perhaps,” I say.
I don’t want to get pally-wally with this man. I am not about to make small talk.
“What should I do?”
“Why don’t you discuss it with the filmmaker? Perhaps he remembers it?”
“He?”
“She?”
“She?”
“Nonbinary?”
“He,” I say. “I just found it interesting you made that assumption.”
This man is a dinosaur.
“Well, then, he. In this specific case.”
“He is dead.”
“From the fire?”
“No,” I say.
“Did you murder him?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t. Necessarily. I simply by law have to ask.”
“No. I did not murder him. He died of old age.”
“I see. Well, you’re in a pickle.”
“Do you think I am suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s?”
“I don’t see any signs of that. But I cannot say with certainty at this point. I will give you a memory test, if you like.”
“OK.”
“It’s extra.”
“How much?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Fine.”
Bismo sifts through some drawers for a long while.
“This should not be on the clock, your sifting,” I say.
He pulls out a booklet.
“Here we go,” he says. “To begin, I will recite a list of ten items. You then recite them back to me.”
“OK,” I say.
I am nervous. What will I learn about myself?
“Orange, flypaper, pencil, heartthrob, Raisinets, Purim, charm bracelet, pinking shears, platelets, stocking cap.”
“Orange, flypaper, pencil, heartthrob, Raisinets, Purim, charm bracelet, pinking shears, platelets, stocking cap.”
“Perfect.”
“I take issue with categorizing a few of those as ‘items.’ Heartthrob, Purim, and platelets are not items,” I say.
“What are they?”
“Purim is a holiday celebrated by the Jews.”
“It’s a noun, no?”
“Yes, but not an item,” I say. “And a heartthrob is a person.”
“OK.”
“Platelets are cells.”
“You certainly know your definitions.”
“Perhaps next time just call them things.”
“I am simply following the instructions.”
“The Nazis said that.”
“I am not a Nazi. What are you insinuating?”
“I was merely making a point,” I say.
“About what?”
“One mustn’t blindly follow orders.”
“So now directions have become orders?”
“I am simply saying—”
“I know what you are saying. You Jews are always saying—”
“Ha! I am not Jewish. Interesting,” I say.
“I find that hard to believe. Rosenberg?”
“The world is filled with non-Jewish Rosenbergs. Were you at all educated, you would know that.”
“I know that. Besides, one’s Jewishness is…communicated matrilineally.”
“Communicated? Like a contagion?”
“I was searching for the word. That was a placeholder.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“What I am saying is that your mother may have been Jewish even if your father was a Rosenberg of the Christian variety.”
“My mother’s name is Rosenberger. That is my middle name.”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“Rosenberger is not necessarily a Jewish name, either.”
“No?”
“I don’t think I need to remind you that Alfred Rosenberg was a high-ranking Nazi in the Third Reich.”
“There were those who suggested Rosenberg had Jewishness in his ancestry.”
“The virulence of Rosenberg’s hatred of the Jews was peerless.”
“The Jews are a self-loathing people.”
“Interesting position to be taken by a purportedly neutral psychologist,” I say.
“I have a master’s in social work and am certified in marriage and family therapy. That being said, there are many peer-reviewed studies pointing to the issues Jewish people have with self-loathing. And you gave me a non-Jew Rosenberg example, but not a non-Jew Rosenberger example. Curious.”
“Finally, you need to call them Jewish people, not Jews,” I say.
“Jew need not be a pejorative. Do not you refer to yourself as a Jew?”
“If I were a Jew, which I am not, I would have license to refer to myself as such. You as a non-Jew do not.”
“Curious.”
“I’m afraid this is not and cannot be a successful pairing,” I say.
“Let’s investigate why you feel that way.”
“I don’t want to investigate. It’s time for me to leave.”
“There’s plenty of time left in your session, which you will be charged for. We’d make better use of it and perhaps overcome this hurdle if we discuss the issues you’re having.”
“I’m going now.”
“I accept that you are not a Jew. Jewish. Judaism. Please, stay.”
“I’m afraid that is too little too late,” I say.
“I think I can help you remember. There are certain tricks to recovering lost memories.”
“I’ll seek that help elsewhere.”
“You will not find anyone who can help you the way I can.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I leave. As I’m closing the door, I swear I hear him muttering “Jew” under his breath.
“I am not a Jew,” I mutter back.