Lying on the Couch

by Irvin D. Yalom

  "But look at the problems," said Bert Kantrell, one of Marshal's cohorts in his analytic class, "think of the confidentiality issues. Seth could sue us for slander. And what about malpractice? If Seth were sued for malpractice by one of his former patients, what would prevent other patients from coming after the deep pockets of our institute or even the national institute? After all, they could easily enough say that we sponsored Seth, that we appointed him to a major training position. This is a hornet's nest; we'd best keep our hands out of it."

  Marshal loved seeing his competition appear weak and indecisive. To highlight the contrast, he spoke with all his confidence. "Aw con-traire, Bert. We are far more vulnerable if we do not act. The very point you make not to act is the reason we must act and act with dispatch to dissociate ourselves from Seth, and to do all we can to correct damage. I can just see Rick Chapton, damn him, bringing a suit against us—or at the very least siccing a Times reporter on us— if we censure Seth and then do nothing to protect his patients."

  "Marshal's right," said Olive, who often served as the moral conscience of the institute. "Believing, as we do, that our treatment is potent and that the misapplication of psychoanalysis—wild analy-

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  sis—is powerfully injurious, then we have no choice but to live by our words. We must get Seth's ex-patients back into a course of remedial psychotherapy."

  "Easier said than done," warned Jacob. "No power on earth could persuade Seth to give out the names of his ex-patients."

  "That won't be necessary," said Marshal. "Our preferred procedure, it seems to me, is to make a public appeal in the popular press to all his patients of the last several years, or at least all males." With a smile, Marshal added, "Let us assume that he handled females differently."

  Smiles went through the audience at Marshal's double entendre. Though the rumors of Seth's sexual acting out with female patients had been known to the membership for years, it was a great relief finally to have it out in the open.

  "Are we agreed, then," said John Weldon, pounding his gavel, "that we should attempt to offer remedial therapy to Seth's patients?"

  "I so move," said Harvey.

  After a unanimous vote, Weldon addressed Marshal, "Would you be willing to take responsibility for this move? Simply check in with the steering committee with your precise plans."

  "Yes, of course, John," said Marshal, barely able to contain his joy and his wonder at how far his star had risen that night. "I'll also clear any of our actions with the International Analytic Association—I've got to talk to the secretary, Ray Wellington, about another matter this week."

  EIGHT

  our-thirty in the morning. Tiburon was dark except for one brightly lit house perched high on a promontory overlooking San Francisco Bay. The lights of the mighty Golden Gate were obscured by milky fog, but the delicate skyline lights of the city shimmered in the distance. Eight weary men hunched over a table and paid no attention to bridge, fog, or skyline; they had eyes only for the cards dealt them.

  Len, hefty, red-faced, wearing broad yellow suspenders decorated with dice and playing cards, announced, "Last hand." It was dealer's choice and Len called for seven-card high-low: the first two cards down, four up, and the final one down. The pot was shared by two winners, the highest and the lowest hand.

  Shelly, whose wife. Norma, was one of Carol's law partners, was the big loser that evening (and every evening, at least for the past five months), but he picked up his cards eagerly. He was a handsome, powerful man, with doleful eyes, irrepressible optimism, and a bad

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  back. Before looking at his first two cards, Shelly stood and adjusted the ice pack strapped around his waist. As a young man, he had toured as a tennis pro and even now, despite the pointed objections of some bulging intervertebral discs, still played almost every day.

  He picked up the two cards, one atop the other. The ace of diamonds! Not bad. Slowly he slid the second card into view. The two of diamonds. An ace and deuce of diamonds! Perfect hole cards! Was it possible, after a run of such miserable cards? He put them down and a few seconds later couldn't resist looking at them again. Shelly didn't notice the other players watching him—that second, loving look was one of Shelly's many "tells"—tiny sloppy mannerisms that gave away his hand.

  The next two up cards were just as good: a five and then a four of diamonds. Holy Christ! A miUion-dollar hand. Shelly almost burst into a chorus of "zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay, my oh my— what a wonderful day." One, two, four, and five of diamonds—a hand to die for! Finally his luck had turned. He knew it had to happen, if he just hung in there. And God knows he had hung in.

  Three more cards coming, and all he needed for an ace-high flush was another diamond, or a three of diamonds for a straight flush— that would take the high half of the pot. Any low card—a three, six, even a seven—would take the low half of the pot. If he got both a diamond and a low card, he could win both high and low—the entire pot. This hand would make him healthier but not entirely whole; he was down twelve thou.

  Usually, on the rare occasions he had a decent hand, most of the guys folded early. Bad luck! Or was it? That was where his "tells" did him in—the players dropped in droves when they picked up his excitement, his silently counting the pot, his guarding his cards more tightly, his betting more promptly than usual, his looking away from the bettor to encourage more betting, his pathetic attempts at camouflage by pretending to be studying the high hands when, in fact, he was going low.

  But no one was folding this time! Everyone seemed fascinated with their hands (that was not unusual for the last hand—the guys loved to play so much that they characteristically drained the dregs of the last game). There should be a humungous pot.

  To build himself as big a pot as possible. Shelly started betting on the third card. On the fourth card he bet a hundred (betting was a twenty-five-dollar limit on the first round, a hundred on the next

  rounds, and two hundred on the last two) and was startled when Len raised. Len didn't show much on the table: two spades, a two and a king. The best Len could do was a king-high spade flush (the ace of spades was sitting in front of Harry).

  Keep raising, Len, Shelly prayed. Please keep raising. God grant you your king-high flush! IfII suck hind titty to my ace-high diamond flush. He raised back and all seven players called. All seven— amazing! Shelly's heart beat faster. He was going to win a goddamn fortune. God, it was good being alive! God, he loved to play poker!

  Shelly's fifth card was disappointing, a useless jack of hearts. Still, he had two more cards coming. Time to dope out this hand. Hastily he looked around the table and tried to figure the odds. Four diamonds in his hand and three more showing around the table. That meant seven of the thirteen diamonds were out. Six diamonds left. Great odds to get the flush. And then there was the low. Very few low cards on the table—plenty, plenty left in the deck, and he had two cards coming.

  Shelly's head whirled—too complicated to figure out precisely, but the odds were fabulous. Way in his favor. To hell with figuring the odds—he was going all in on this hand no matter what. With seven players in the pot, he would get three and a half dollars back for every one invested. And a good chance of winning the whole pot— a seven to one return.

  The next card was an ace of hearts. Shelly winced. A pair of aces was not much use. He started to worry. Everything rode on the last card. Still, only one diamond and only two low cards had turned up on the last round; his chances were still fabulous. He bet the max: two hundred. Len and Bill both raised. There was a three-raise limit, and Shelly raised back for the third raise. Six players called. Shelly studied the hands. Nobody showed much. Only two small pairs on the whole table. What the hell were they all betting on? Were there going to be some nasty little surprises.^ Shelly kept trying to sneak-count the pot. Gigantic! Probably over seven thou, and another big round of betting left.

  The seventh and last card was
dealt down. Shelly picked up his three down cards, shuffled them thoroughly, and then slowly squeezed them open. He had seen his father do it that way a thousand times. An ace of clubs! Shit! The worst card he could get. Starting off with four small diamonds and ending up with trip aces. They were nothing—worse than nothing because he probably couldn't

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  win and yet they were too good to fold. This hand was a fucking curse! He was trapped; he had to stay in! He checked, Len, Arnie, and Willy bet, raised, reraised, and reraised again. Ted and Harry dropped. Eight hundred to him. Should he cough it up? Five players in. No chance to win. Inconceivable that one of them wouldn't have three aces beat.

  And yet. . . and yet. . . there were no high hands showing. Maybe, just maybe. Shelly thought, all the other four players were going for low! Len had a pair of threes showing; maybe he was trying to push through two pair or trip threes. He was known for that. No! Wake up, dreamer! Save the eight hundred. No chance to win with trip aces—there had to be hidden flushes or straights. Had to be. What the hell could they be betting on? How much was the pot? At least twelve thou, maybe more. He could go home to Norma a winner.

  And to fold his hand now—and to learn that his trip aces would have won—Christ, he'd never forgive himself that failure of nerve. He'd never recover. Goddammit! Goddammit! He had no fucking choice. He was too deep into this pot to go back. Shelly coughed up the eight hundred.

  The denouement was quick and merciful. Len turned over a king-high flush, and Shelly's trip aces were dead in the water. And even Len's flush didn't win: Arnie had a full house, completely hidden— that meant he drew it on the last card. Shit! Shelly saw that even if he had drawn his diamond flush, he would have lost. And even if he had gotten his three or four, he still would have lost for low—Bill turned a perfect "nuts" low: five, four, three two, ace. For an instant Shelly felt like crying, but instead he flashed his great smile and said, "Tell me that wasn't two thousand dollars' worth of fun!"

  Everyone counted his chips and cashed in with Len. The game rotated from home to home, every two weeks. The host acted as banker and settled all accounts at the end of the evening. Shelly was down fourteen thou, three hundred. He wrote a check and apologetically explained that he was postdating it a few days. Taking out an enormous wad of hundred-dollar bills, Len said, "Forget it. Shelly, I'll cover it. Bring the check to the next game." That was the way this game was. The trust ran so deep that the guys often said that in case of a flood or an earthquake, they could play poker by telephone.

  "Naw, no problem," Shelly replied nonchalantly. "I brought the wrong checks and just have to transfer funds into this account."

  But Shelly did have a problem. A very big problem. Four thousand dollars in his bank account and he owed fourteen thousand dollars. And if Norma found out about his losses, his marriage would be over. This just might be his last poker game. On his way out he took a nostalgic stroll around Len's home. Maybe his last walk around Len's home, or any of the guys' homes. Tears came to his eyes as he looked at the antique carousel horses on the stairwell landings, and the gloss of the enormous polished koa wood dining room table, the six-foot-square slab of sandstone teeming with impressions of prehistoric fish frozen for all time.

  Seven hours ago, the evening had started at that table with a feast of hot corned beef, tongue, and pastrami sandwiches, which Len sliced and piled high and surrounded with half green pickles and slaw and sour cream potato salad—all specially flown in earlier that day from the Carnegie Deli in New York. Len ate hugely and entertained hugely. And then he exercised it off, most of it, on the Stair-master and treadmill in his well-equipped gym.

  Shelly walked into the salon and joined the rest of the guys as they stood admiring an old painting Len had just bought at auction in London. Not recognizing the artist, and afraid of showing his ignorance. Shelly remained silent. Art was only one of the topics from which Shelly felt excluded; there were others: wine (several of his poker mates had restaurant-sized cellars and often traveled together to wine auctions), opera, ballet, cruise ships, three-star Parisian restaurants, casino betting limits. All too rich for Shelly's blood.

  He took a good look at each of the players, as though to impress each indelibly into his memory. He knew these were the good old days, and sometime in the future—maybe after a stroke, while sitting on the lawn of a nursing home some autumn day, dried leaves tumbling in the wind, faded plaid blanket in his lap—he wanted to be able to conjure up each smiling face.

  There was Jim, the Iron Duke or Rock of Gibraltar, as he was often called. Jim had gigantic hands and a mighty jaw. God, he was tough. No one had bluffed Jim out of a hand, ever.

  And Vince: enormous. Or sometimes enormous. Sometimes he was not. Vince had a yo-yo relationship with the Pritikin health and weight-loss centers: always either going to one (a couple of times his wake-up call had been settling into a chair at one of the games only to break it) or coming from one, slim and sleek—and bringing diet

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  peach sodas, fresh apples, and fat-free fudge cookies. Most of the time he put out lavish buffets when the game was at his house—his wife made great Italian food—but for the first couple of months after leaving a Pritikin center, the guys dreaded the food he served: baked tortilla chips, raw carrots and mushrooms, Chinese chicken salad without the sesame oil. Most of the guys ate before they came. They liked heavy food—the richer the better.

  Next Shelly thought about Dave, a balding, bearded shrink, who had bad vision and would go ballistic when the host didn't provide jumbo index poker cards. He'd run out of the house and roar away in his bright red, dented Honda Civic to the nearest variety store— not an easy feat since some of the homes were in deep, deep suburbia. Dave's insistence on the proper cards was a source of great merriment. He was such a bad player, spewing "tells" all over the table, that most of the guys thought he was better off when he didn't see his cards. And the most comical thing was that Dave actually thought he was a good poker player! Funny thing was, Dave usually ended up ahead. That was the great mystery of the Tuesday game: Why in hell didn't Dave lose his ass in this game?

  It was an endless source of amusement that a shrink should be much more out of touch with himself than anyone else at the table was. Or at least had been more out of touch. Dave was coming around. No more haughty intellectual holier-than-thou shit. No more ten-syllable words. What were they? "Penultimate hand" or "duplicitous strategy." Or instead of a "stroke" he'd say "cerebrovascular accident. "And the food he used to serve—sushi, melon kabobs, cold fruit soup, pickled zucchini. Worse than Vince's. Nobody touched a bite, but still it took Dave a year to get the point—and then only after he started getting anonymous faxes of brisket, brownie, and cheesecake recipes.

  He's so much better now. Shelly thought, acts like a real person. We should have billed him for our services. Several guys took him in hand. Arnie sold him a five percent interest in one of his race horses, took him to workouts and races, taught him how to read the racing form and how to dope out horses from watching their workouts. Harry introduced Dave to pro basketball. When they first met, Dave didn't know a point guard from a free safety or a shortstop. Where had he spent his first forty years? Now Dave drives a burgundy Alfa, shares season basketball tickets with Ted and hockey tickets with Len, lays down his bets with the rest of the guys with Arnie's Vegas

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  bookie, and almost forked out a thousand bucks to go to Streisand's Vegas concert with Vince and Harry.

  Shelly watched Arnie walk out the door wearing his idiotic Sherlock Holmes hat. He always wore a hat during the game and, if he won, continued wearing the same hat until its luck wore out. Then he went out and bought a new one. That goddamn Sherlock Holmes hat had made him about forty thou. Arnie drove his custom-made Porsche two and a half hours to the game. A couple of years ago he moved to L.A. for a year to manage his cellular phone company and flew up regularly to see hi
s dentist and play in the game. Just as a gesture, the guys took out his airfare from the first couple of pots. Sometimes his dentist. Jack, played, too—until he lost too much. Jack was a terrible player but a terrific dresser. One time Len took a great fancy to Jack's Western metallic-stitched shirt and made a side bet on a hand: two hundred dollars against the shirt. Jack lost: a "queens over" boat to Len's straight flush. Len let him wear the shirt home but came to collect it the next morning. That was Jack's last game. And every game for about the next year Len came dressed in Jack's shirt.

  Even during his best times. Shelly had by far the least money of the group. By a factor of ten. Or more. And now, with the Silicon Valley slump, was not one of the best times; he had been out of work since Digilog Microsystems had gone belly up five months ago. At first he hounded the headhunters and scoured the classified ads every day. Norma billed two hundred fifty an hour for her legal services. That was great for family finances but made Shelly ashamed to accept a job paying twenty or twenty-five an hour. He set his demands so high that the headhunters ultimately dropped him, and he gradually became acclimated to the idea of being supported by his wife.

  No, Shelly was not gifted at making money. And it ran in the family. His father had worked and scratched for years to save two stakes when Shelly was young. And blew them both. He sank the first in a Japanese restaurant in Washington, D.C., which opened two weeks before Pearl Harbor. The second, ten years later, he used to buy an Edsel dealership.

  Shelly kept up the family tradition. He was an all-American college tennis player but won only three matches in three years on the pro satellite tour. He was handsome, he'd play brilliantly, the crowds loved him, he'd always get the first service break—but he