Dating Your Mom

by Ian Frazier

  Just for a moment, Dr. Smith relaxes. He unbuttons his coat, turns on the coffee machine, leans back in his chair. Frequently charming and gregarious, Dr. Smith is nonetheless the kind of man who prefers the company of his own thoughts. He will always seem a bit alone no matter where he is, whether at a crowded cocktail party or in a darkened laboratory long after his colleagues have gone home. His mind, trained since youth in a discipline few men master, has developed the habit of solitude. At an age when most men are barely ankle-deep in the waters of their chosen careers, Dr. Smith has attained to such a position of eminence in his field that a quick glance at the degrees listed after his name in a medical directory does not begin to tell the story. More than merely a professional, more, even, than a highly skilled specialist, Dr. Smith is also a teacher, a counselor, a healer, a bearer of the greatest hopes and darkest fears that dwell deep inside us all.

  With a sudden gesture, like a man awaking from a reverie, Dr. Smith tosses off the last of his coffee. From a desk drawer he takes a tall stack of patient files. He searches the stack for a moment, finds the file he wants, and bends over it at his desk with a concentration that seems to shut out the rest of the world. Another workday has begun for Dr. Morris Smith, practicing clinical sexologist.

  My own acquaintance with Dr. Smith dates from over a year ago, when I heard about his pioneering treatise on harem pants. A lifelong fascination with the human sciences prompted me to call him and request an interview. He readily agreed (asking only that I change all identifying names, in the interest of his patients’ privacy; “Morris Smith” is, of course, a pseudonym). A few days later, we met in the parking garage of the major urban hospital where he practices. As he led me into an elevator and down a series of corridors toward the building’s new fifty-million-dollar sexology wing, I asked him what it was like to live inside the mythic image that surrounds his profession.

  “It can be difficult, certainly,” Dr. Smith said. “People see the sexologist as a man set apart, because of the godlike power he wields. But you must remember that there are many different kinds of sexologists. There are child sexologists, and adolescent sexologists, and sexogerontologists (sexologists who treat the elderly); some sexologists have large private practices, others operate mobile clinics in rural areas, and still others choose not to practice at all but, rather, devote their lives to a study of the vast literature of sexology.”

  An orderly wheeling a patient on a stretcher hurries across our path, and Dr. Smith stops short. Overhead, the hospital’s public-address system urges its ceaseless petitions: “Paging Dr. J … Dr. J, please report to Surgery at once … Dr. Severinsen … Dr. Severinsen, report to Emergency … Doc Severinsen to Emergency … Dr. No … Dr. No, please call your office …” Nurses, interns, and hospital staff fill the halls with their purposeful bustle.

  “So, you see, it’s awfully hard to generalize about the profession as a whole,” Dr. Smith continues. “The best you can do is to say that all sexologists are human beings, and I think it’s important not only for the public but also for the sexologists themselves to try and keep that in mind. We’re people, too. We put our pants on one leg at a time—and, of course, I should add that some of the greatest sexologists in history have been women.”

  A white-coated colleague waves a greeting as he passes, and Dr. Smith stops to introduce us. Then they begin to chat. I can pick out only the words “Spanish fly,” “beautician,” and “tilt-cup brassiere” before the conversation becomes too technical to follow.

  Hours spent in office consultation with patients are what provide Dr. Smith with the raw data so important to his research and product-testing. He devotes four afternoons a week to these sessions, which he conducts in an atmosphere that is friendly, relaxed, and informal. Today, I will be observing him at work, and he takes a moment to brief me on his first patient. “This is a case which has so far resisted diagnosis,” he says. “According to her history, her name is Andi, she’s nineteen and a half years old, she’s a Libra, she enjoys sketching, skiing, and sailing, she loves making love in the out-of-doors next to a babbling brook or on a windswept beach, she also loves to wear frilly underthings that her man can rip in bed, she can’t stand smog, red meat, L.A. traffic, or pushy people, her favorite foreign movie is Das Boot, and she hopes someday for a career herself in movies. Her waist, hip, and bust readings are all better than normal for a girl her age, and to the untrained eye she would appear to be a picture of perfect sexual health. But in our previous sessions I have become convinced that something is deeply wrong—what, I don’t know yet. Oh, one other note: Andi is basically a shy girl, but the camera turns her on. Unfortunately, I don’t happen to have a camera with me today, so she’s apt to be a bit withdrawn.”

  Dr. Smith’s prediction proves accurate. The patient responds only with monosyllables to his inquiries, until, late in the session, she says that he doesn’t understand, that she’s “not like other girls.” Encouraged by this breakthrough, Dr. Smith pursues the point: How, exactly, is she different? “Well, you see …” she begins. A hot flush of shame colors her cheeks. “I’ve never … I’ve never been even slightly attracted to a man with a good sense of humor. In fact, that kind of man repels me!”

  Dr. Smith’s face betrays no shock at this disclosure. I think, How much he must have seen over the years! In a soothing voice, he assures the patient that a dysfunction like hers, although rare, is not beyond treatment. She leaves his office with a lighter step.

  He wastes no time on self-congratulation. Instead, I am surprised to see a sudden, uncharacteristic frown cloud his features. “My next patient is in for some rather bad news, I’m afraid,” he says, reading the question in my eyes. “It doesn’t matter how many sessions like this I go through, I never quite seem to get used to them.” He sighs, shakes his head, and then presses the button on his intercom.

  The patient, Mr. G., is a nondescript man wearing glasses and crepe-soled shoes. Sweat beads his forehead, and his right hand toys with the paperweight on the desk as he and Dr. Smith exchange small talk. Finally, there comes a pause, and Mr. G. fixes Dr. Smith with an intense stare. “O.K., Doc, give it to me straight,” he says. “How much longer have I got?”

  Unblinking, Dr. Smith returns his gaze. “Without oral sex?” he says. “Possibly six months, possibly a year.”

  Another pause. Mr. G. swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and then expels it slowly. “Well …” he says, “I guess knowing is better than not knowing. Right, Doc?”

  When Mr. G. rises to leave, Dr. Smith is struck with a thought. Reaching into a drawer, he finds a lingerie catalogue from a department-store chain. “Mr. G., I want you to take this with you,” he says. “If the pain becomes too severe, come back and I’ll give you something stronger.”

  Outside the office windows, the spring sun shines down on the hospital courtyard, which is blooming with trees and shrubs in new leaf. Dr. Smith walks to a window and opens it. “Sometimes you can do so little,” he says. “It’s hard …” His voice trails off. Distant sounds—the twittering of birds, the high-pitched whine of a surgical saw, faint shouts of “Not that leg, you idiot!”—drift across the courtyard on the balmy air. The room begins to fill with the fragrance of new-mown grass and dogwood petals, and Dr. Smith breathes deeply. When he turns from the window, it is with the expression of a man whose peace of mind has been restored.

  Marital counseling brings out the full spectrum of Dr. Smith’s skills, and today his final appointment is with a couple who seem particularly troubled. The man, John, is in his mid-thirties, and wears a gray Glen-plaid suit. The woman, Barbara, is younger, dressed in a brown skirt and an orange smock. They are hardly in the door before the woman begins to protest that she must talk to Dr. Smith right away. Deftly, Dr. Smith takes control of the session: both partners will first tell their stories without interruption, he instructs, and then there will be time for discussion and evaluation. Again Barbara protests; she is silenced by an admonitory finger. “John, pleas
e begin,” Dr. Smith says.

  JOHN’S STORY: “When Barbara and I met at a gallery opening in ‘71, it was a case of instant chemical attraction. We talked, we had a few glasses of wine, and then we took a taxi to my midtown apartment for a night of uninhibited lovemaking. The next morning we exchanged phone numbers, but, frankly, I never expected to see her again. I was very surprised and pleased several days later when I picked up the phone and heard her voice. This time, we met at her place for an encore, which, if anything, outdid our debut. We began to see each other regularly; after a few months, we moved in together, and in ’74 we were married. Lawful domesticity did nothing to dampen our ardor —in fact, our performance in bed, like fine wine, only improved with age. Recently, however, there has been a change. Barbara has become cold and distant. Sometimes she ignores me for weeks, even months, at a time. She has a way of looking right through me that chills my blood. Perhaps the amount of time we both devote to our jobs is to blame; perhaps I am shutting her out of my life, just as she is shutting me out of hers, in a way that I can’t see. All I know for sure is that I miss the magic we used to share, and I want, desperately, to get it back again.”

  Dr. Smith looks up from his notepad. “Now Barbara,” he says.

  BARBARA’S STORY: “Doctor, I have never seen this man before in my life. I haven’t the faintest idea who he is, or why he has been bothering me all day. Not only are we not married, I don’t even know the guy. The only way he knows my name is he read it off my name tag. You must recognize me, Doctor. I’m a waitress at the steak-and-ale place across the street. I haven’t been able to get a thing done with him always following me around, trying to talk to me. He said he was a patient of yours. Would you tell this man, whoever he is, that I’m not his wife, I’m not his friend, I’ve never met him, I have no desire to meet him, and will he please just leave me the hell alone!”

  For a moment, Dr. Smith stares off into the distance, the tips of his fingers touching. Then he says, “I’ve often thought that marriage is rather like a tent. It provides us with warmth and shelter, and yet the only reason it stands at all is the many forces—the poles and ropes and stakes—which pull it in different directions. When these forces are out of balance, when one partner’s push overpowers the other partner’s pull, or vice versa, that’s when the tent of marriage begins to collapse.”

  “Doctor, I am not married to him or anybody else!” Barbara says, holding up her left hand. “See? No ring!”

  “Yes, Barbara, so you’ve stated. According to you, you are not married; according to John, you and he have been married for ten years. Isn’t it reasonable to assume that the truth must lie somewhere in between?”

  “No! It isn’t! Are you out of your mind? This man has been harassing me!”

  “Oh, Barbara, Barbara,” John says.

  In a rage, she turns on him. “Listen, if you come within fifty feet of me again, I’m calling the police! Understand? My God, you are all insane!” She leaves the office at a run, slamming the door behind her.

  We sit in silence for perhaps half a minute. “Go to her, John. Find her. Talk to her,” Dr. Smith says softly.

  “When I married Morris, I didn’t just marry a man, I married a career,” Mrs. Smith says, passing me the silver gravy boat. I am sitting at the family’s dinner table in their comfortable split-level home. Across the table sit the Smiths’ two sons, aged nine and thirteen, and on my right is the Smiths’ attractive sixteen-year-old daughter.

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be working in my parents’ shop in Times Square,” Dr. Smith says, smiling back at his wife over the candlelight.

  Hesitantly, with an affecting shyness, Dr. Smith has allowed me greater and greater glimpses of the private man, glimpses that confirm what I had long suspected: his success has never lacked for support from a remarkable and understanding family.

  “He’s a pretty great dad, really,” says the younger son.

  “Yeah, he always brings us neat stuff from his office. Anatomically correct dolls and stuff,” the older one puts in.

  “He’s not an old bluenose with hidebound views of sexual morality, like some of my boyfriends’ dads,” the daughter adds.

  Embarrassed by this praise, Dr. Smith smiles down at the slice of roast on his plate.

  “When your husband is in a demanding, high-risk job, you learn to love him when you can,” Mrs. Smith says. “And you learn how to let go. If he didn’t live for that big, shiny clinic of his, he wouldn’t be Morris, and if he weren’t Morris I guess I wouldn’t love him.”

  “It’s been hard for you, I know,” Dr. Smith murmurs.

  “Every time he walks in that door, I say a little prayer. And every time he walks out I pray that he’ll walk back in again. Every time that phone rings, I think it’s the hospital calling to tell me that something’s happened to Morris, that something’s gone wrong with one of his experiments, that Morris has been—” Her brave smile has begun to tremble around the edges.

  “Now, dear, you know I take every precaution.”

  “I know, but when I think of that colleague of yours in Sweden, that horrible accident with the vibrating chair …” She blinks at the tears as her voice catches.

  “Really, dear, you mustn’t—”

  “Isn’t this silly of me,” she says, brushing at her eyes with her napkin. “Oh, I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  Suddenly the beeper Dr. Smith wears at his belt makes an insistent noise. The family takes no notice as he excuses himself and heads for the telephone; over the years, such interruptions have become as much a part of their mealtimes as the clink of sterling on china. When Dr. Smith returns, he is no longer the relaxed father enjoying a quiet evening at home. “That was the Governor’s personal bodyguard,” he says in a voice flat with urgency. “The Governor has become …”

  “Impotent?” Mrs. Smith asks, going white under her tan.

  “That’s the preliminary indication.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “They’re sending a chopper in ten minutes to fly me to the capital,” Dr. Smith says.

  “Quickly, children,” Mrs. Smith says. “Take flashlights and stand out on the lawn, so they can see where to land.”

  The next few minutes pass like speeded-up film as Mrs. Smith packs a lunch for her husband, finds him a warm sweater, helps him with his raincoat. The sound of rotor blades can be heard descending from above.

  “Good luck, Morris,” Mrs. Smith calls after him, holding up two sets of crossed fingers.

  Halfway through the door, he turns and comes back to her. “You know something? You’re pretty wonderful yourself,” he says, giving her a quick kiss.

  Dr. Smith runs across the lawn, bathed in landing lights, to the open helicopter door. One hand holds his hat on his head against the downwash; the other hand clutches an emergency kit of arousal aids. He pulls the door shut, the noise of the engine rises, and then the machine swings up into the night sky.

  “Good luck, Daddy! We love you!” the children cry.

  Transfixed, we all follow the lights until they vanish over the tree line on their mission of hope. Darkness and quiet return; on the lawn, the flattened blades of grass unbend. For the loved ones Dr. Smith must leave behind, the hardest part—the waiting—has begun.

  ENGLAND PICKS A POET

  In England, when people discuss poetry they’re talking business—big business. Some countries leave their poets gathering dust on the academic shelf, but here in England people like their poetry the way they like their tea: hot, fresh, and three times a day. Poetry experts estimate that in one fiscal year the English poetic community generates over 950 million pounds (almost 1.2 billion dollars) in revenue, all of which goes right back into the local economy. That works out to about twenty-six dollars apiece for every English man, woman, and child. With numbers like these, it’s no wonder that poets here demand, and receive, the highest word rate of any Western country.

  At the top of this heap sits the poet laure
ate of England. Chosen from among the best in his field, the poet laureate is a throwback to the days of the royal bard, constantly singing odes at the jeweled elbow of some pagan king. Today, the poet laureate no longer spends all his time around the palace but is permitted to live in his own style of home and furnish it as he wishes. This, combined with a salary, income from lectures and endorsements, and the unlimited use of a government vehicle, makes the job one of the most attractive in all literature. So when Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Thatcher announced earlier this year that they were looking for a new person for the post, they received so many applications that they have already been forced to pull a couple of all-nighters in an attempt to read through them. Fueled by innumerable cigarettes and cups of coffee, the Queen and the Prime Minister have checked and double-checked every poem and application, always with this dark thought at the back of their minds: What if we make a mistake?

  As students of history, they know how costly human error can be. Sometimes it has meant that the foremost living poet missed his chance to be laureate, as happened this century with W. H. Auden. After getting the necessary recommendations and breezing through a personal interview with King George VI, Auden, who had the highest Q rating of any poet in the world, looked like a certainty. But he neglected to make the important post-interview follow-up call, and then the King misplaced Auden’s folder when he went on vacation and didn’t know how to get in touch with him. The loss to literature resulting from this act of carelessness can only be imagined.

  Other poets appear to be qualified during the selection process and then, once installed, they turn into complete goldbricks. That was what William Wordsworth did. From our vantage point of years, we can see that Wordsworth’s entire career was nothing but an elaborate bait-and-switch scam: write some poetry, get yourself chosen poet laureate, and then—quittin’ time! In Wordsworth’s years as laureate, he became so bone-lazy that he would write only the meters of poems; he would do a limerick: