by Laurel Brett
“You’ve moved? What’s the deal?”
“I turned my patients over to another analyst if they wanted to continue. I kept my apartment—sorry, kiddo, but you couldn’t afford it anyway—but leased him the consulting space. I am a staff therapist here. I’m working with Perls. They’re paying my expenses for now. It’s wild. It’s grand. I feel free.”
“How long have you been gone?”
“Two weeks.”
“You didn’t let me know?”
“I wasn’t in the mood for goodbyes. Besides, you’re doing all that acid shit. It’s not exactly good for my sobriety.”
“I get it.”
“Be careful, Garrett. I’m afraid you’re going to get caught down the rabbit-hole and be unable to get back up. Getting sober isn’t easy. And there’s always the question of your job. Leary and Richard Alpert lost theirs. We wouldn’t want to see that happen to you. Why are you taking all these trips?”
I might have made a mistake telling Jerry what I was doing. Although our ideas about psychology were coming together—we were both becoming “New Age” psychologists, I guess you’d call it—our personal lives were drifting apart. I couldn’t stand his moralizing about drugs. I hadn’t done that to him, had I? Or maybe I had. Maybe I had been a self-righteous prude. Then I said, “Daphne.”
“Daphne? What do you mean?”
“She’s why I’m taking all these trips.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Not great.”
He just let my answer hang there.
“I left you a present,” Jerry said. “Well actually, two presents. I left you my decanter that I always kept on my desk. I won’t be needing that. You can pick it up from Jim Carruthers at my apartment.” He gave me a phone number for Jim. “And I left you a pair of Yankees tickets for a twilight doubleheader. That’s the one thing I am sad about. That we didn’t see a game together before I left.”
“You’re not changing teams, are you?”
“I just might,” he said with a twinkle in his voice. “I’ve been missing the Giants. I had to save myself. I was dying in New York.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Now Jerry was gone, Caroline was estranged, and for a while I’d been seeing Daphne only in my acid dreams.
I called Stony Brook Daphne at Tall Oaks, the rehab center.
“Yeah, I’ll go to see the Yankees with you. I’ve never been.” I heard a catch in her voice. “After all, I have the hat,” she added. I knew she was thinking of Rick.
On the day of the game, when I got to the building in the early afternoon and went to the desk, I was greeted with a note Daphne had left me:
I know you’ll understand. I went to Massachusetts a few weeks early to set up my room for Wellesley. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I’m sorry about the baseball, though. I was afraid I’d cry the entire time. Have a good life. I’m going to really try.
—Daphne
Her note felt final, a final farewell. I hadn’t known Stony Brook Daphne for as long as the others, but I was already mourning her loss. I retrieved the tickets and the decanter at Jerry’s place. I asked Jim if he wanted to see the game, but unlike Jerry in his last months in New York, he had patients to see.
I drove to Yankee Stadium and stood outside waiting for someone wanting a ticket. Like the day I’d met Daphne at the bookstore, I decided to surrender to chance and resolved to give the second entry pass to the first person without one. There were still plenty of empty seats, but all of them were in the nosebleed section. A burly guy with a five o’clock shadow was shouting, “Anyone with an extra seat for sale? I’ll pay twice the face price to avoid the upper reaches of the bleachers!” Jerry had paid a small fortune for seats right behind home plate. A deal’s a deal, so I had to go with him, still hoping that the encounter might prove magical, like my first meeting with Daphne.
“I’ve got an extra ticket,” I said. But as I handed it to him, he blanched when he saw the ticket price.
“I can’t pay twice that. Too rich for my blood,” he said, his shoulders hunched in disappointment. I almost passed him by, considered waiting for the next taker. He really didn’t present himself as the ideal companion, though I was resolved to keep my bargain with myself.
“No. I meant that I’d give you the ticket.”
He regarded me, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Why would you do that? You could get really good money for that ticket.”
“Money means nothing to me.”
He didn’t laugh but gingerly accepted the ticket. I could see that he thought he’d be sitting next to a weirdo, but he seemed like the kind of guy who could take care of himself. I could also see that he had weighed his options and decided that he couldn’t possibly get into trouble at the crowded stadium.
He showed some grace in buying me a watery beer and a couple of hot dogs, but we didn’t converse much, and we cramped each other’s style when we got excited at some of the plays. I imagined Stony Brook Daphne sitting here, in her hacked-off hair, wearing Rick Lopez’s cap, rooting for his team and talking to me about plants. Or Caroline. We’d never been to a game together. Or Jerry. Saying goodbye to Jerry at a game would have been a bittersweet event.
This time I didn’t feel the hand of destiny. My random stranger was just a guy I’d never think about again. Our time together seemed to go on forever; the two games went well into the night. The Yanks won the first with a two-to-one score, but the second game went nineteen innings, past one a.m., and ended in a tie, the first I’d ever seen in all the baseball games I’d attended. I never even learned the name of the guy I’d sat next to for almost eight hours, and the Yankees’ tie against the Tigers did not end the day well.
I’d met Daphne just over a year before, but I could barely recognize myself as the guy I’d been then. I’d been complacent and cut off, disdainful of the culture of my students, with little interest in the events taking place around me, and buoyed up only by my unwavering commitment to the principles of behaviorism, secure in the system I was passing on to my students, insular and numb. Now not one of those things was true. I was raw and lonely and open to doubt and experience. Walking back to my car at the stadium I debated which way I was better off. I hadn’t been in emotional pain then, yet I had been just so small; I was even oblivious to my best friend’s sad predicament. I had to conclude that the hurt I felt now was salutary and the cost of being truly alive.
Late in the evening on August 28, I was watching the news and seeing that riots had broken out at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Chicago was a mess. The Democrats were split between McCarthy and Humphrey, the maverick peace candidate and the party regular. McCarthy was running on a peace platform; Humphrey was not. Party insiders had selected Humphrey, and that didn’t sit well with young people who were demonstrating. The confrontations between the police and the protesters turned violent. I’d had enough and decided to turn off the news when the phone rang. The voice on the other end gave me butterflies in my stomach, and I turned vigilant with concern.
“Garrett,” the familiar voice faltered, and seemed to need to push past her vocal constriction.
“Daphne?”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m in Chicago.”
Shit. Chicago wasn’t safe at the moment. I made a quick deduction. This was SDS Daphne, of course. I imagined she had gone to the Democratic National Convention with Terry, part of some political group.
“Are you with Terry?”
“I was.”
Where was the sassy girl who had gotten herself kicked out of an army recruiting center? And how did she get my home number? And why was she calling?
“What’s going on?”
“Riots. Tear gas. Beatings.”
“Yes, I’m watching all that on TV. Are you safe? What can I do?”
“Can you come to Chicago?” She was sounding stronger. I could feel my muscles relax and my protective instincts dial down a notch.
“Start from the beginni
ng.”
“Terry and I came here to be with the Yippies. You know, Abbie Hoffman, Tom Hayden, Jerry Rubin, and the rest. They wanted to disrupt the convention because the Democrats weren’t going to nominate a peace candidate. I know it all registers as frivolous from the outside, but we’re all just trying to save the lives of Vietnamese people and American soldiers.”
“I know that, Daphne. You really don’t have to convince me.”
“Anyway, with RFK dead, it’s pretty clear that Humphrey is just being anointed by the party!” Her old anger flared.
“Why are you calling?”
“Terry’s in jail. He’s going to be indicted for resisting arrest, criminal trespass, and incitement to riot. I tried to raise bail money, but he was able to get me a message that he didn’t want to be bailed out. He wants to stay in jail and go on trial like the big shots. I’m sick of politics being taken into the street and I’m supposed to just hang around while he plays hero.”
“But why do you need me?” I didn’t mind flying out, but school was starting, and I didn’t see what I could do. The rioting would be ending before I arrived.
“I watched it, Garrett. I saw a kid take down the flag, and I watched the police beat him bloody for it. I can’t explain how shocked I feel. It was like watching a newsreel from Nazi Germany. Then the crowd went wild, and the cops began throwing tear gas.”
“Did you get sick?”
“No, Terry and I seemed to be all right, but I moved away from the cops and the melee. Terry ran toward it and joined in the brawl. I think he totally forgot I was there. Then he got arrested. I can’t stop thinking about the guy the cops beat to a bloody pulp.”
This was like the peace march, but even worse. I had just watched a newscaster say that even Humphrey was affected in his hotel room near the convention center.
“But you’re okay, right? You’re not hurt and not sick?” I asked again.
“I guess.” She clearly just needed moral support.
“By the time I get there, all the fireworks are going to be over. Do you have a plane ticket?”
“No. Terry wanted to leave things open-ended, in case he wanted us to do organizing work in Chicago.”
“What about school?” I asked.
“I guess he doesn’t think high school is very important.”
Little shit, I thought, though he wasn’t little and probably wasn’t a shit, just a self-righteous ideologue.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go somewhere and have something to eat. At least get some coffee. Do you have money?”
“Yeah, I have enough money for that.”
“You need to be totally off the street. Find someplace where they say you can take a phone call. Then call me with the number. I am going to see about getting you on a plane. Do you have a credit card?”
“Get real. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl. Even my mother doesn’t have a credit card in her own name.”
“Right. I’ll buy the ticket. You’ll just have to get to the airport. Do you have enough money for a cab?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Call me when you have a number where I can reach you.”
* * *
When she called, I had to give her the bad news that it was impossible to buy a ticket at that time of night. Offices reopened at nine the next morning.
“Do you want me to arrange a hotel room?” I asked.
“You know, I can just stay here. This is an all-night coffee shop. The people are really nice. I’ll just keep buying coffee and donuts until morning. I don’t want to go anywhere, and I can’t imagine sleeping. Besides, I don’t want to be alone in a hotel room. I have a book in my purse—Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle. It’s really good.” Her voice sounded almost clipped. She had a no-nonsense quality that I didn’t recognize.
I called her once during the night to make sure she was okay. At nine fifteen a.m. I called with an update: “A ticket for the noon flight is being held at the reservations desk in your name.” I gave her the gate number. “Be there an hour early.”
“I will.”
“Then I’ll pick you up at LaGuardia.”
“See you then.”
It was late afternoon in New York when her plane landed. I waited at the gate. I hated the harsh fluorescent lights of the airport and its high-pitched hum. Almost as soon as the board marked her plane as landed I saw her flame-colored hair done up in a French braid down her back and not her customary side braid. It made her seem older and more put-together, just as her white oxford shirt and fashionable jeans did.
“Garrett.” She gave me a perfunctory hug. “You’ve grown a beard. It looks good on you.”
“Luggage?” I asked.
“Everything is in my backpack. It doesn’t make much sense, does it, when we didn’t know how long we were going to stay. Terry told me to just pack the basics—a few tops, something to sleep in, a toothbrush, other toiletries, and a couple of books.”
We sat down in an airport restaurant and I ordered a coffee.
“None for me, thanks. I’ve had enough coffee for a month.” But she let me buy her a sandwich and a Coke, not that horrible TaB that Ur-Daphne drank.
“I can take you back to New Paltz with me, if you need a place to stay.”
“That’s so nice of you, but everything is under control. I’m going to stay with a girlfriend. Her mother is really cool. She knows about Terry, but doesn’t care. Not a prude. She’s happy to have me. Their household is just the two of them, her and my friend Liz. She even said I could stay with them until I finish high school, but I don’t know about that. I do want to stay at my new school. I’m their star debater, and I think we could come first in the state. But thanks for the offer.”
“You’ve been busy getting everything sorted out. Should I drive you or do you want to take the train?”
“Either is fine, though it would be fun to catch up in the car.”
“Car it is.”
She looped her arm through mine in a very grown-up gesture and we walked to short-term parking. I had the oddest feeling that I had just met a fifth Daphne. I heard the change right while we were on the phone. SDS Daphne must have decided to stay in Chicago with Terry. Of course, I was just speculating, but this dispassionate girl seemed like she’d be running the world someday. I wondered how many other Schrödinger girls I would never meet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
* * *
In September the fall semester began the way it always did. The two seminars, one on Pavlov and the other on Watson and Skinner, were in smallish classrooms, whereas Introduction to Psychology, Section 3, emphasis on behaviorism, was in the small lecture hall because my classes were never very full, although they were always respectably attended. I was a fair teacher, but I used to be a rather dry lecturer.
Thirty-seven students were enrolled; the class was capped at fifty, which was the capacity of the room. The bookstore had put up a sign that the textbook was mandatory for the first day of class, and I usually got about 80 percent in compliance.
I began my first-day lecture the same way I always did, with a brief history of psychology, until we got to Pavlov, and then I directed the students to open their texts to notice images of the apparatus he used for his experiments with dogs. Somewhere in the middle of my explanation, as they were taking in the illustrations, I stared up at the ceiling, and it suddenly began its green-purple paisley dance. Some would call this experience a flashback, but I prefer to think that in a boring situation my neurology provided some diversion. I now found the world stripped of acid too prosaic, and I felt the class stifling.
“Close your books,” I commanded. About thirty books slammed shut at the same time, making an impressive percussive sound. “I’m taking a casual poll. Raise your hand if you would mind switching your section to Intro to Psych, Section 4, consciousness expansion.”
“Dr. Adams,” someone called out, “that course doesn’t exist.”
“I know
that,” I assured him, “but I am proposing to bring it into existence right now instead of the course you signed up for. You guys are in charge. If you want to leave things as they are, we can. But if you want something a little more cutting edge, we can do that too. The textbooks will still be good. So, raise your hands if you disapprove of the change.” I gazed out at the lecture hall. I saw beards, shell necklaces, bell-bottoms, bandannas, long hair, tie-dyed shirts, camouflage jackets, long skirts, and leotards. Of course, there were some khakis, polo shirts, and Peter Pan collars as well, but I thought my proposal stood a good chance of carrying the day. Indeed, not one hand was raised.
“So, we’re doing this?” I asked. I received a resounding yes in response.
That was on a Monday. By Wednesday all fifty seats were filled; thirteen new people had registered for the class. I told them about a hypothetical experiment that involved Schrödinger’s equation, which I put on the board. I could actually explain all its symbols. I also asked if anyone had heard of Hugh Everett, and although no one had, many had seen the Twilight Zone episode that talked about alternate realities. “So, we are going to talk about a very hypothetical situation, one that would be utterly impossible in the world, even the world Everett describes, a situation that defies the laws of physics but teaches us a lot about personality. We are going to talk about one girl separating into different iterations, with different personalities. One personality is lighthearted and inquisitive. One is elegant and aesthetic. Another is political, angry, and direct, and yet another is wounded and earthy. How do these personalities come about? How would they react in different situations? Can one personality ever morph into another? These are some of the questions we are going to be investigating through role-play, group work, and speculation. We are going to discuss the roots of personality and the implications of the differing personalities and their relationships to differing destinies. Let’s name this hypothetical girl Diana, after the many phases of the moon.”