I suppose it’s only fitting that the opening frames of my next tape segment would have me on El Camino Real, the historic six-lane thoroughfare spanning the San Francisco peninsula, and the very road I’ll forever associate with permanent records.
Two decades earlier, while riding down El Camino in the back of my parents’ Ford LTD station wagon, I’d watched my father get a traffic ticket and, within minutes, slip into a funk so deep and dark that it gave me shivers. I understood even back then what it was all about. Dad, after all, worked in the insurance business. He was always preaching to us about permanent records: how crucial they are to one’s future, how many people and agencies have access to them, and most of all, how important it is to protect them at almost any cost. I knew that this ticket meant Dad’s record was no longer perfect, and if I’d had any doubts before about the significance of a blemish, I never would again after seeing his reaction.
So now here I am, all grown up in 1993, heading down El Camino to an appointment certain to forever taint my own permanent record.
It’s a Tuesday morning, and I am keeping my promise to myself, making good on the deal that allowed me to confess my sins to the guy from the cabin cruiser. It seemed like a fair trade-off at the time, but now, on my way to actually sit down with a “professional,” I am realizing what a poor decision this was. I know Dad would think so—even if I succeed in keeping any trace of this visit off my permanent record.
My appointment is with Dr. X, a man I know nothing about except that he comes recommended by my only link to the counseling world: my mother. Mom is a high school guidance counselor, so she had seemed like a logical starting point when I’d set out to find a psychologist. It wasn’t until I’d left her house that day that I realized the irony of a grown man turning to his own mother for advice in selecting a shrink. Now I can’t help wondering if my decision might have had something to do with the very confession problem with which I need help.
I also wonder if Mom has shared our conversation with Dad.
Samantha says I shouldn’t worry about any of this. That what I really need to do now is focus on getting myself better.
She never has understood the delicate dynamics that hold my family together.
Arriving early, it turns out, was not my best idea. While I’m fairly certain no one saw me park my car three blocks away, or snake my way on foot to this old brick building, I never anticipated I’d have company in the oversized closet that serves as a waiting area for the ground floor’s several psychologists. Fortunately, the middle-aged woman sitting across from me and fidgeting like a kid at church seems every bit as intent as I am on remaining anonymous.
Following her cue, I bury my nose in an issue of Newsweek.
I am waiting for someone to call out my name. But it’s five past eleven, and the door marked Dr. X hasn’t cracked an inch. Is the last patient still in there? Am I supposed to get up and knock on the door?
Two more minutes pass. And then another. I am getting uncomfortable.
“Jeff?”
A stocky man in his fifties appears in the doorway. Did he really have to use my name like that, right here, out in public?
“Dr. X?” I ask. I am watching the fidgeter out of the corner of my eye.
“Yes. Come on in.”
At least we’re now moving this conversation behind closed doors.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, as I step into the room.
But I can’t find the couch. There isn’t one anywhere. The doctor sees my confusion and points to a chair.
“You were expecting a sofa?”
“Well, it’s just that I’ve never—”
“They only use those in movies,” Dr. X says with a slight chuckle. I can tell he’s trying to put me at ease. But I’m in no mood for chitchat or wisecracking comments.
“I need to ask you something, Doctor, before we get started.”
“Shoot.”
“Is anyone ever going to know about these conversations?”
“Not unless you tell me you’re about to commit a crime.”
Is that what he thinks? Why would he say that?
“No. No! It’s just that I’m very concerned about word of our meetings ever getting out.”
The doctor moves his pen now without looking down. I wonder if he’s making some note on the legal pad on his lap.
“Counseling is a very confidential process,” he tells me. “I truly don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Yeah. Easy for him to say. No one’s going to yank his career out from under him when they find out we’ve been talking.
“So how ’bout we start with what brings you my way.”
This is my cue. Now I’m supposed to spill everything. I’ll be damned though if I’m going to let my deepest, darkest secrets wind up on that yellow legal pad. Not a chance.
Confessing to my boat mishandling, on the other hand, is something I’m more than willing—perhaps even eager—to do. So that’s where I start. I tell him the whole story, from the engine dying to my recent conversation with the cabin cruiser guy.
“So you’ve told these other boat owners about your concerns, twice now?” he asks when I’m done.
“Right. But I’m not convinced they understand that I might have damaged their boat.”
“Sounds like they couldn’t care less. From what you’ve described, this old ‘cabin cruiser’ is a real piece of shit.”
The doctor’s choice of words might have caught me off guard, but I’ve already decided that everything about him seems to scream tough guy. His gestures. His expressions. Even the way he cocks his head.
I like this, for some reason. Yet I can’t help wondering if he thinks I’m a sissy. Real men don’t go whining to shrinks.
At 11:50, I figure out what Dr. X has been glancing at just above my right shoulder. It’s a clock, telling him it’s time to wrap up our conversation, which by this point has moved on to a quick overview of my life and my fast-track radio career.
I ask him what’s next.
“Well, are you up for doing this again?”
I’ve already decided that he gets exactly four sessions to fix me. I tell him that, in so many words.
“Fine then,” he says. “I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
My second meeting with Dr. X begins much like the previous one, with a sweeping invitation.
“So what do you feel like talking about today?”
It’s a loaded question, and I find myself thinking less about my answer than the expression on his face. Sincere, but macho. Very tough. Hey, big man, it seems to say, we’re just a couple of guys shooting the shit. You can tell me anything. Go on now.
I’m not going to fall into his trap.
“I dunno.”
“Well, this boat concern of yours. Let’s start there. Tell me how it’s affecting your life.”
Uh-oh. That’s where he’s trying to take me now. No way. I’m not going to talk about all the crazy stuff I’ve been doing around the boat. And I certainly don’t need him writing down something about “tapes” playing and replaying in my head. That’s not the stuff for legal pads.
“It’s very … distracting.” I choose my words with great care.
“How so?”
“Well, the more time I spend worrying about the whole thing, the less time I have to devote to my radio career.”
“Ah. Your career! You’re having trouble accepting your success, aren’t you?”
Huh? Where did that one come from? I tilt my head slightly and lift one eyebrow.
“It’s a very common thing. You’re young. Very successful. Everything’s going your way.”
“Yeah?”
“A lot of guys can’t handle that. They need to find problems to distract themselves. I see it with young doctors, lawyers, all kinds of professionals your age.”
Dr. X is on a roll now. He’s figured everything out and is imparting his wisdom to me. Fear of success, he calls my problem. Says it’s been around forever. Apparently, ancient tribes even had a ritual for dealing with it.
“I bet you were always a big overachiever,” he says.
“No argument there.” I’ll play along. Beats talking about the stuff I should really be sharing.
We spend the rest of my fifty minutes discussing my high school and college honors, my athletic achievements, and my recent broadcasting success.
Lots of fuel for the good doctor’s fire.
A few days later, Samantha and I learn of another success, one that has her beaming and me more concerned than ever about the future. According to the plus-sign on the plastic device she is holding, we are now eight months away from our second child.
I fake my delight as best as I can and, together with Sam, make calls to our closest family and friends. I am uneasy though, and my mind keeps flashing back three years, to the day Sam and I first learned we’d be parents. It was, as I recall so vividly now, both the most exciting and the most horrifying day of my life.
The excitement had come first, in the form of ecstasy and wonder. I remember holding Samantha tight, the two of us contemplating our lives ahead as real-life parents.
But what I remember most is the bizarre question that popped into my head just a few minutes later: What if I already have kids out there, bastard children I don’t know that I’ve fathered? What if one of my old girlfriends got pregnant but never told me?
It was the strangest, most illogical notion, especially considering that I had never slept with any of the women I dated before Sam. But logic aside, the question was more disturbing than any before it, and worse yet, it begged an even more tortuous one: How could I ever feel good about myself as a parent if I might have sired illegitimate kids I’ve unknowingly abandoned? That whole prospect haunted me for weeks, maybe months. And now, three years later, I know it’s coming back for me once more, like a playground bully who’s been waiting at the fence.
By nightfall, I am locked in my den, mentally reviewing every date I can remember with every girl I ever went out with.
Play. Rewind. Play. Rewind.
Is it possible I could have got any of them pregnant? Maybe while sharing a hot tub, or simply locked in a passionate embrace? Reason is no longer a part of even my best thought-processing.
I think back on all the weird hang-ups I’d always had about intimacy. Unlike most every college guy in America who was trying to get a woman into bed, I was doing all I could to ensure my dates never wound up there. I’d always spun it as a matter of morals. But, truth is, I couldn’t imagine having sex with a woman who might get pregnant and might disappear from my life and might be carrying a child I’d never know about then. Talk about having to live with the ultimate uncertainty!
None of this ever struck me as odd until just now, as I sit here thinking about what great care my college-self had taken to protect me from the very hell I now find myself in.
On June first, three weeks to the day after first slithering into Dr. X’s office building, I am about to slither out for the very last time.
He doesn’t know this yet.
Our third session had passed quickly, and now this one is too. We’ve continued to talk about success, and why young professionals, in particular, have so much trouble dealing with it. I like the whole theory. As psychiatric hang-ups go, this seems like a noble one.
But I’ve been holding back, and I know it. Never once have I mentioned the tapes, or my bastard children concerns, or even my increasing troubles walking away from a car without going back to check its parking brake at least two or three times.
Now Dr. X is again peering over my shoulder, giving me the old let’s-wrap-it-up-for-the-day smile. He’s not saying anything, though, as he usually does at the end of our sessions.
“I guess this is it,” I finally say.
“Is it?”
“Well, this was our fourth appointment, and I am doing much better.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t you say we’re done with our work?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
Enough with the damn questions, already. Is this what all shrinks do, throw everything back at you?
“Why don’t you think about coming back for a while,” he says after a second or two of silence.
“I’ll give it some thought,” I promise, knowing damn well that I’ve already made up my mind.
Thirty minutes later, I am back at Oyster Point Marina, making up for weeks worth of lost checking, and assessing the damage to my permanent record.