by Ric Klass
“I think the coffee and milk are in the kitchen outside the door and to the left,” suggests Jack trying to be helpful.
“Never mind. Never mind. I can go without,” Vitriol replies a little too testily for a friendly gathering. He plops himself down near Dan. “So you’re going to be a doctor, is that it?”
“Well. . . .”
Not waiting for an answer, “I’ve been a trader for almost forty years on Wall Street, very successfully too, I might add. I left my firm a month ago. I’m Rob Vitriol. They asked me to stay of course, but for what I ask you?”
“I think. . . .”
“I can just as well trade at home now with the internet. And my time’s my own.” Points a meaningful finger at Dan. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Yes, you only bore yourself now,” cracks Morty, garnering guffaws all around.
Jack regains control. “Thanks, Rob. Let’s finish the introductions and, before I forget, remember we’re meeting here Wednesday at the same time.” The group completes the informal formality of the intros, then Jack orchestrates the band of temple brothers. “Well, what should we discuss first?”
“Can we confer on staying relevant in our retirement?” suggests Harry, who left his CPA firm less than a year ago.
“Jesus, Hershel. We’ve talked that to death. Can we discuss something else for a change?” Rob interjects uncomfortably.
“Of course. What would you like to talk about?” Jack quietly replies.
“I don’t care. Anything. Listen, I’m not trying to control the conversation or anything. It’s just that we’ve been over the retirement thing a million times. OK, it’s not easy not being the main guy anymore. We all know that by now. End of story. So let’s move on. Let’s talk about anything, I don’t care.” Rob shifts in his seat, avoiding eye contact with the others.
Trying to lighten up the meeting, “OK. Let’s huddle on our main nemesis, our children,” chuckles David.
Rob – now more agitated, “Dave, please. You’re not one to talk. Everything’s perfect in your life. Don’t get me started talking about my child, Chucky. He’s so infantile. Now I can’t speak to him or even my granddaughter, Carol, anymore. We used to get together and have, you know granddad-to-granddaughter times, but she’s clammed up now. Won’t say two words to me.”
“Well, Charles is your child, but you don’t mean he’s a real child, do you, Rob?” Glen asks.
“Yes, he is a real child. He’s my son, but he’s also a kid. He’s getting divorced I guess, but still living with Susan. It’s terrible for Carol. She’s caught between her parents. He wants to change careers but doesn’t know what and I think he’s seeing another woman. Some divorcée, I hear. He had everything going for him.”
Jack – evenly, “You can’t help.”
“No, I can’t help. He’s my son. Carol is my granddaughter. And I can’t help. I can only watch.”
An embarrassed lull in the conversation. Dan’s engrossed. Wow. And they’ve just started the meeting. Dan takes in that Jacob knows what he’s doing, leading the conversation along twisting, undetermined paths without dominating it. Danny’s in more familiar territory than he had bargained for. At first he’s glad he’s not the focus or even part of the discussion, but then grates a bit at being ignored. It’s not about him. As the evening wears on, Dan infers that, like him, this group has had a life of privilege. They’re also educated, erudite. But, unlike him, they’ve had careers – and long ones at that. And they’re accomplished men. Rob’s on the American Stock Exchange board of directors. Jack, he finds out, has published tanka Japanese poems. Sam’s computer programs helped design the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. And also unlike him, they’ve spent years catering to others – wives, ex-wives, maybe dead wives, children, grandchildren. And for all he knows, deceased in the last two categories as well. The concerns they express for these people unnerve him. He can sense the men’s urgency and their diminished powers – their helplessness and their ingrained habit of taking command.
When Jack calls the meeting to an end, Dan realizes he witnessed no idle lawn social he could easily sneer at. But that won’t necessarily stop him from trying. Dan scurries out of the library as soon as the men stand up and waits in the parking lot for Jack to come outside, although he doesn’t really have anything he wants to say.
A Greeting
in the dim light. “Are you waiting for your father, too?”
Although it isn’t completely dark out yet, even if it had been pitch black Dan’s sexual radar would intuit by pheromones the question was posed by an angelic blond with hazel eyes. His internal tracking station doesn’t fail to detect the substantial pair of parabolic reflectors filling her blouse either.
“Yep. Sure am . . . um. . . .”
“Laura,” she says putting down her white writing pad.
“Laura. One of my favorite movies. Gene Tierney was very nearly as captivating as you.”
Skillfully ignoring the compliment, “I don’t think we’ve ever met. Who’s your dad?”
“It’s . . . him,” pointing to Bernstein now coming out the main entrance of the temple. Under no circumstances will he volunteer why he’s really there.
“Gee. I’ve always wanted to meet Dr. Bernstein’s son.”
“And now you have, lucky you and luckier me,” he smiles widely, flashing the perfect teeth his parents paid so much moolah for. The sobering effect of the meeting has vanished – back to Mr. Charming in a nanosecond.
Bernstein approaches them while the other men pile out of the building, conversing with each other and heading for their cars. “Hello, sweetheart.” Then, “Daniel, have you met my daughter, Laura?”
A year passes during Dan’s three-second pause, “I’ve had that pleasure, thank you, Dr. Bernstein,” pronouncing his shrink’s name correctly. There’s nothing more to say. I’m dead meat.
Bernstein nearly does a double take when called his formal name by this most difficult patient. And so politely, too. Maybe we’re getting somewhere. But when he sees that Danny’s surveying his little girl as might a lion prowling for a tasty gazelle, he hurries to his car, riding gunshot. “Let’s go, sweetie. I need to get home right away. See you tomorrow, Daniel.”
Laura Cheshire Cat grins at Dan with an ever-so-blameless soupçon of ridicule, slinks behind the wheel of the not very late model Chevy, purrs, “TTFN, Daniel,” and speeds away without turning back.
“Can’t get a break,” Dan complains to the now starry sky.
Why Can’t I Bring It Up?
David Ansterman asks himself, lost in thought on his way home as he leaves the Temple B’nai Israel parking lot. He pulls onto Lakeville Road, the main drag in Great Neck, then to the highway access lane, and finally onto the Long Island Expressway. Diane would be furious if she knew I did. Maybe they have some suggestions. These men are my comrades, after all. She and I used to go dancing. See a movie. She won the women’s temple bridge championship a few years ago. And now she won’t leave the house or speak to her sister. Won’t see Jack, though he’s like family. Hates it when I go. Sits in her room reading with the door closed. That’s where she’ll be when I get home and won’t talk to me for hours.
Too deep in thought, the adman lost his bearings. It isn’t until twenty-five minutes later, when his cinnamon-colored vintage 1967 Mercury Cougar pulls up in front of the toll-booth at the Queens Midtown Tunnel, that he realizes he drove the wrong way on the LIE. Can’t turn around, and through the crowded tunnel the reddish-brown cat crawls. Congested traffic jam at the 34th Street portal the opposite way. Broken down car. David finally arrives home three-and-a-half hours later.
No lights on in the house. No response to calls of “Diane.” He finds the four pastel-painted bedrooms of the conventional but large raised-ranch house vacant. Down four steps to the foyer landing and four more to the shag-carpeted rec room with wet bar. The new 42-inch HDTV has been tuned to channel one but muted so that he can’t hear the pointillist static
he’s seeing on the screen. Anger and anxiety keep exchanging places in David’s brain. Half-a-dozen phone calls. Not in any nearby hospital. Policemen arrive 30 minutes later. Perfect home, one says. Nice galley kitchen. Must be nearly two acres. Wish I had one like it. No sign of a break-in. Search the house. In the hall closet – the one with the walnut hard-core paneled door and ivory handle, behind the hanging winter clothes cased in sheets of dry cleaner plastic. Sitting on a rattan chair – one from the redecorated breakfast room. Facing the wall. Eyes wide open. Diane begins to sob.
Time for the Play Date
the following day, and Ally’s so happy to see her new pool companion she forgets to take off her glasses. “Dan. Everybody’s talking about you. Somebody said you’re in group therapy with other old people and tried to kill yourself again. Did you?” She’s practically breathless with excitement and nearly screams the welcome.
“Oh no, Ally. The word’s out. Killing yourself isn’t cool anymore,” thinking, that’s just great. Maybe they should erect an LED signboard so this entire circus can keep up with the news on me.
“It isn’t?”
“No, it isn’t. How could we sit here together and rag on the other inmates here if we were dead?”
“I never thought about it that way,” Ally suddenly realizes he is seeing her with the specs on. She yanks them off. Defensively, “I don’t really need them.”
“Put them back on. I like women in glasses. It makes them look intelligent.”
Women? She’s just been elevated non-stop to heaven. Well, if that’s what my boyfriend wants, she reflects and puts them back on.
“Good. Just perfect.”
A lull – then, “Dan, you know the other day when you didn’t come here I thought that maybe you didn’t like me anymore or that I really pissed you off when I said you’re old. You’re not really all that old and even if you were my dad is older and Finster is nine years old and that’s seventy-two years old in dog years and I still love him so you being the age you are is OK cause it wouldn’t mean that I don’t love you.” Turning crimson, “Not that I do love you cause we hardly know each other and we haven’t even gone out on a date – yet. Anyhow, if I thought we couldn’t be friends or something anymore I would kill myself I really mean it.”
Ally’s intensity finally wakes Dan up to her feelings. He’s panicked by the deep water he’s in. Holy shit. What the hell did I get into? Now grabbing her arms, “Listen, Ally, don’t you ever ever again even think about killing yourself. Do you hear me?” Dan’s frightened at the terrible thought of her killing herself and now aghast that he gives a rat’s ass about some little girl he knows zilch about.
Ally shakes free. “Hey, take your mitts off me. You might be my boyfriend but my mom says if another man ever hits her again she’ll shoot his fucking brains out for him and I should do the same.”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Ally. I’d never hurt you, but you really scared me.” Also concluding, Whoa, Helen Clausen and this girl must have been sailors together somewhere.
Crying now. Anxious that she might frighten him away. “Dan, don’t leave me. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
Not getting it. “We’ll always be friends, Ally.”
For all his prowess with women, Dan has missed the mark by a gazillion miles with the young girl. Fluttering her eyelashes at him as she thinks movie stars do. “Oh, we’re much more than friends, Daniel,” coos Ally.
Daniel? The lightning bolt finally makes its way through his leaden egocentric head. He’s headed for an immediate meltdown of his own when. . . .
Saved by the Bell
Dan gratefully thanks God as, “Mr. Daniel Topler, please report to Dr. Bernstein’s office. Repeat. Mr. Daniel Topler, please report to Dr. Bernstein’s office for today’s psychiatric treatment,” booms across Long Island.
“I’m going to find that woman on the loudspeaker, thank her, and then strangle her with my bare hands,” he thinks he’s said to himself.
“Would you really kill her? And thank her for what?” Ally inquires.
“Just kidding. Catch you later.”
“Why won’t they ever leave us alone?” exclaims Ally pressing her forearm to her forehead.
A fine Garbo imitation. That girl’s got a movie career ahead of her – if she stays out of bathtubs. Can’t be late for Dr. Brain-Nuker, Dan ruminates while he makes his way to his daily psychiatric appointment.
The mini-blinds have been let down and adjusted so that minimal daylight creeps through the narrow slats. The dimmer switch has set the recessed lighting low. Dan takes it all in. He deduces Bernstein thinks he’s the spider and I’m the fly. The doctor points to a comfy, deep purple wing chair for Dan to be seated, which he does but in so doing wiggles his derrière ostentatiously in the descent for a bit of comic relief. They both sit silently for a few seconds. Although Dan has never played this particular Freudian parlor pastime, he thinks he gets the point. Whoever talks first loses – verbal zugzwang. Danny likes conversational gamesmanship.
A moment later, “I don’t like games, Daniel.” The utterance zinging him so soon rattles Dan in his tufted leather perch. “I don’t care who talks first, I just want to help you,” Bernstein says without a trace of irony.
“OK. Since you talked first, I’ll talk second. What’s your daughter’s telephone number?”
Bernstein coolly resists the temptation for an argument.
We’re going nowhere fast on that traffic lane, Dan concludes. Now uncharacteristically serious, “I met a girl here at LFOD, Alicia, who says you’re her doctor. What’s her story?”
“I’m aware you’re not telling the truth to me since Ally ran up to me earlier in the day asking about you. I know you know I’m not her physician anymore. She’s very taken with you, it seems.”
“OK, you got me. You’re not her doctor. But what’s with her? She’s a sweet kid. Why’s she here?”
“Why are you here? You can’t adjust to life’s realities. I can’t discuss my former patients, but how much harder would it be for a 13-year-old child to live in a highly dysfunctional family than for a 24-year-old? Some people aren’t wired to cope without a little help. Be careful, Daniel. She’s fragile and not a championship games player like you.” Changing the subject at hand, “Tell me your impressions of last night.”
Dan takes his time to analyze the board before making the next move. He decides retreat is in order, and maybe some bonding will pave the way to the answers of his questions. Embrace the enemy. “Rob is having real difficulty dealing with his loss of influence and control over his son’s life. Your bringing him to say so aloud was undoubtedly therapeutic.” A dramatic hesitation, then in a staccato tempo echoing a TV medical drama, “Good work, doctor. I’d pat you on the back, but I fear it might go to your head.” Continuing while assuming a Central Casting physician’s demeanor, “He needs to let his granddaughter know it’s OK if they just sit together quietly or see a movie without speaking. She’ll come around when she’s ready. Tell the whole family to take two aspirin and call me in the morning.”
“Amusing. Still, you prove you have the intelligence to be a top-notch psychiatrist, Daniel. But intellect isn’t enough.”
“Who said I want to be a shrink? Or any kind of MD?”
“I know for a fact you were a joint psychology and biology major at Yale and got into your first choice of medical schools. What happened?”
“What happened? I didn’t want to be one of those idiots going to a trade school for fixing mental faucets. I’d rather be a real plumber. Speaking of plumbers, did you hear the one about. . . . ”
“Please stop. I don’t believe you. You don’t have to defend yourself. I’m not attacking. You possess superior verbal abilities. But they’re not helping you. You use language as a weapon and a shield. But your only war is inside of you where words can’t help.”
Feeling cornered, “I’m surprised at you. Don’t you know that therapy is supposed to take months,
years, maybe forever? Laying it all on the table so soon isn’t in the psychiatric playbook is it?”
“This is no game, and I’m not playing with your life. The next time you jump off a bridge or mix drugs and alcohol you might succeed in preventing a brilliant career, a wife, children. Death is forever; it can wait its turn.”
Dan waits impatiently for the session to end. He considers tapping his toe loudly to rudely demonstrate he’s about done with this nonsense – but doesn’t. He can’t laugh Bernstein off.
“Tell me about your depression.”
“What are you? Some kind of mind reader? First I’m a lost lamb headshrinker. Now I’m a depressed nutso.”
Bernstein says nothing.
“What do I have to be depressed about anyhow? I’ve got a trust fund. Accessories to my crimes of non-stop partying. A beautiful home away from home here in zombieville. This is the life.”
“What kind of life is it? Try to stick to our regimen, if you possibly can. You’ll start to feel better. Then you can pull your life back together again.”
“Yeah. Sure.” but Dan’s only pretending not to listen carefully.
“Why do you attempt suicide, Dan?”
“Why not? I was top of my class at prep school and valedictorian at Yale despite my habit. But then I needed more of the stuff – and more often. I was too zonked the first few weeks of med school to even get out of bed and dropped out. What should I do now, Doc? Spend my life whoring half the time and asleep the other half while my former classmates actually live a life?” Dan takes a deep breath. There, I said it, he thinks with uncustomary relief. Where the fuck did that come from? he wonders as he brushes away a tear.
Bernstein says nothing. A beat while Dan waits for more of the homily. It’s not forthcoming.
“See you tomorrow.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. For now.”
“Can’t we analyze why I dress in kangaroo suits only on J. Edgar Hoover’s birthday?”