The Reluctant Healer

by Andrew D. Himmel

  Acceptance is the repository of all the stages that came before, the place where all of the prior stages catch up to each other and then mature, rot, and fester. Acceptance then confronts the gathered mess and cleanses, making room for the purity of panic and nausea.

  I vomited. The crowd nearby retreated in a reverse lunge, synchronized in an athletic choreography of revulsion. But this was helpful. A path opened up, and I ran through, chased by the kiosk owner for a few blocks as I had not paid for the magazine. But he could not match my stamina, my commitment. I raced down Fifth Avenue until I reached Washington Square Park, where I found a vacant stone bench near NYU Law School. I made a mental note to myself that I would return someday to the kiosk and make amends. My fingers were stained from the black ink of the cover photo. I thumbed rapidly through the pages until I found the cover story.

  The Future of Fraud

  By Jessica Bryant

  I have seen the Future of Fraud, but you haven’t. Not yet, anyway. In fact, you probably won’t see him coming. And when he is upon you, you will invite him into your heart and soul, and you will offer him comfort, because you will not recognize any of the traditional maneuvers used by con artists.

  I have seen the Future of Fraud, and he is sophisticated—so sophisticated, in fact, that the clever charlatans who brought us credit default swaps and identify theft will bow in awe.

  I have seen the Future of Fraud, currently housed in the bodies of people like Will Alexander, but this fact will not remain stagnant. The great engine of our economic growth and spiritual decline has always found protection in this principle: You cannot copyright a fraudulent business model.

  You don’t know Will Alexander. Not yet. He is a mild-mannered attorney on leave of absence from the up-and-coming firm of Canaan & Cassidy. He has found a new avenue for his talents. He will heal you. And he will not charge you anything. And therein lies the sophistication. Therein lies the simplicity. Therein lies the fraud.

  How will you hear about him? Not through marketing, the Internet, or social media. Will Alexander is refreshingly old school. And he is patient. You will hear about him, if for no other reason than that identified by the great judge and legal scholar Learned Hand, who told us that not even a sparrow falls to earth unheeded. A few tortured souls find solace in his presence, and like the transmission of avian flu, word will spread in the crowded and morally unsanitary milieu that is New York.

  And so you will find yourself in his darkened, wood-paneled office, because you are troubled in some manner. But you are also suspicious of those who promise salvation. So what’s an upscale one-percenter afflicted by the traumas of a meaningless life to do? You will be on guard for the offer, for the promise, and mostly, for the exchange. What will it cost? What is the catch?

  And that is why you’ll never see it coming. Because Alexander offers nothing, promises nothing, and charges nothing.

  Or perhaps that is unfair. Alexander promises hope by earnestly telling you that he guarantees nothing. He is alive with disclaimers, and those disclaimers will disarm you, make you believe, make you hope. And you will pay him, especially if you fall into the demographic where Alexander peddles his wares. You cannot accept a service for nothing. You are conditioned to find this behavior reprehensible. Alexander knows this. You are upscale or aspire to be; you are educated, defeated by cynicism, yet pulsating with the low throb of hope. This buried part of you will be activated. And you will pay.

  This business model will not work for everyone. Will Alexander knows this. You will not find him peddling his trade in Scranton, Pennsylvania, or Gary, Indiana. His clientele must be possessed of the kind of arrogance that only disproportionate wealth can bestow. And why is that? Because if the rules of fairness and economic justice do not apply to you, is it really such a stretch to imagine that the rules of medicine and evidence don’t apply either? You are already the beneficiary of a gamed system, and you will game the rules of science as well. Will Alexander will be your conduit, your bridge, even as he earnestly insists that he is no such thing.

  You may bemoan the loss of humility in our culture, even as you bingewatch the twerkers and self-promoters and reality contestants who dominate our media. But your conflicted status is the bread and butter of Will Alexander’s trade. You will be struck by the dichotomy of Will’s humility and the unbreathed promise of a transformational cure. And you will feel at home.

  Perhaps Sondra Whitfield felt at home. Or others who, like her, had a precious child of eight dying of cancer. Sondra needed not so much a guarantee as the certainty of knowing that everything had been tried. Will Alexander is your go-to source for having tried everything, the last stop on a pitiable train of desperation.

  One quibble, though. Your child will die, as Josh Whitfield did. Your ailments will persist. Still, you won’t blame Will Alexander. But you will compensate him all the same.

  The article then turned its focus to other fraudsters in New York and described the same modus operandi of Jessica posing as a beleaguered soul anxious to receive some degree of relief from her distress. The last half of the article abruptly discarded its thin veneer of sarcasm and launched into a scolding diatribe, interspersed with many details of Jessica’s sessions with me and other healers. I could not help observing that the distance of irony that marked the first half collided with the overt moralism of the remainder, as if two very different authors took turns, the first literary and snarky, the second didactic and hectoring.

  I formed an immediate goal: to confront Jessica. Coming to grips with the punishing humiliation, the raw exposure to the public . . . all of that was coming, but all of that could wait. Must confront Jessica. As I ran toward the offices of New York magazine, I formed no plan. I had no speech. I’m not even sure that I was powered by a sense of indignation or rage. I just wanted confirmation in person. To say, “Really?” Although the answer was by now obvious; I think I wanted nothing more than for her to look at me directly and say, “Yes.” And if she stood her ground, shamelessly withstanding my presence, I really believed that I would have walked away. I would have accepted both the treachery and the reality that such treachery was possible. I would have bowed to her audacity. I would not have asked, “How could you?” because she would have shown me who she was and, in so doing, provide the answer.

  I ran down Sullivan Street to the offices of the magazine on 75 Varick, elbowing aside the throngs of Eurotrash and NYU students who clogged Greenwich Village. By the time I reached the building, I had calmed down sufficiently to formulate a better plan. Wait. Be patient. Jessica was patient. She was in this for the long run. No rushing out after the first session to file her story. A superficial reading would have it that she tricked me. But I could do better than that. Jessica nursed me, even sustained me, carefully, methodically. I know I sometimes give too much credit to talent. Through the years, I should have spent more time being outraged at the obnoxious lawyer in a deposition or the slippery counsel in court, but sometimes I was just awed by the craft and would, for an instant, find myself in the role of spectator. That thin slice of time was often all it took for the advantage to be seized.

  As I walked back to Erica’s apartment, I replayed our sessions, and all I could think about was the skill involved, the performance rendered. Raw talent, fueled by commitment.

  That’s what was elusive in my first ruminations. Commitment. Jessica wasn’t sleazy. She was committed and earnest. She had a goal. At my apartment, I googled her and read her articles, a number of which appeared in New York magazine, a few in the New Yorker, and quite a few in the New York Post. No cover stories—my exposé was her first. I could see that a broad theme ran through her articles: the hollow choices made in the name of spiritual convenience. I devoured her stories and found myself in the midst of an unremitting disdain for those who discarded organized religion in favor of self-styled salvation.

  In one excerpt from an article entitled “The Perfidy of Convenience,” Jessica wrote:

 
; Make no mistake. Catholicism is hard work. This may sound prosaic when measured against the loftier goals of fulfillment and purpose, and we can return to those themes, for they are surely important. But let’s talk first about the hard work of organized religion. I select Catholicism, for this is my background, but these points apply equally to the great Western religions of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Tested by time and challenge, and all the stronger for their persevering relevance over the ages, these great religions require study, commitment, and a selflessness that continually ratifies their honor and vitality. We can scoff at the rituals, but what are we really laughing at, in the final analysis? We are laughing, uncomfortably I would submit, at the engagement with an identified power that is higher than ourselves, greater than ourselves, more important than ourselves. This is too raw an endeavor for the ironic class.

  Now, let’s turn to the “spiritual but not religious” movements. They require no work or commitment. Indeed, their overpowering appeal lies in the absence of true commitment. There is no giving over; there is simply self-selection, and selfselection by definition is easy. But I dance around the true subject, so let me state it plainly here. The great unifying appeal of these made-to-order belief systems is convenience. Lay out before yourself the modern smorgasbord of spirituality, then relax, take your time, and most importantly, pick and choose, but pick and choose wisely, and spare yourself the onus of genuine reflection. The range is limitless, ranging from the dull edges of an unencumbered belief in a “higher power” to the more ambitious doctrines of magical thinking. They all share this: an absence of a true path. They are simply there. They are available. They are convenient.

  I saw it then. Her articles practically wrote themselves, and they had a formula. First, pluck some anecdote from the news demonstrating an absence of morality, maybe an incident of bullying or an act of juvenile violence. Tease out the facts, slowly expand the scope beyond the geographic contours, and then, when no one is looking, morph the article into a disquisition on the decline of organized religion. Tie up the loose ends by showing how the great tenets of the great faiths would have gone a long way toward preventing the bullying or violence or act of greed.

  The purity of it all. The hatred, really, for disdain didn’t quite capture it. I understood now. She felt no hesitation, no last-second feelings of remorse before pressing the Send button to her editors. She was on a mission, and her mission was noble.

  “I want to meet her.” I hadn’t noticed Erica coming in. She was casually but sharply dressed in a way that accentuated her figure, with snug jeans and a coordinated top. I hadn’t seen her dressed like that in a long time. She was focused and clear and brimming with energy, the Erica I had almost forgotten. I was about to respond, but she cut me off. “I don’t have any illusions,” she said. “We won’t convince her. But it has to do with energy, with justice. We just have to . . . meet this outrage and then let the universe sort things out.”

  Her phone rang. “It hasn’t stopped,” she said. I nodded, then checked my cell phone. I had forgotten that I had turned the ringer off. Twentyseven messages. I turned the phone off.

  I turned toward Erica and clasped her hands. “Tomorrow,” I said. “She works at New York magazine. There’s a strip of land across the street from the entrance that provides a perfect view. There are two doors leading into the lobby. If we are spaced apart, one of us is certain to spot her.”

  “We should wait until she comes out for lunch,” Erica said. “Wait until she is alone. I won’t need much time, but I don’t want any security guards around.”

  “She may not leave for lunch,” I said. “Reporters often work all the way through. And she may not even be at her offices. She could be . . . on assignment.” I looked up at Erica. “Like she was with me.”

  “Then, we’ll go there every day, and wait all day, until we get our chance.”

  We talked out our strategy for a while longer, and in those ensuing moments, we recaptured a great deal. We could make love, converse; we could even share interests, like healing or literature. But nothing before, and nothing since, could match the towering intimacy of our latest collective endeavor. The communal stalk.

  39

  Above the Rim

  We slept well. The following morning, we established our positions outside the offices of New York magazine, like solemn sentries, scrutinizing the pedestrians entering the building. Erica was positioned at the entrance to the building, and I stood across the street on the corner of Grand and Varick. The web contained a few recent photographs of Jessica, who over the past few years had achieved a B-list celebrity status as an oddball freelance editorialist who railed against modern excess and adhered tenaciously to her faith, weaving both themes into her writings. We arrived at our posts relatively early, but we did not see Jessica enter the building. We would wait, and if she did not appear today, we would come back tomorrow. Beyond this, I’m not sure we thought out any strategy. We were there just to confront.

  I came equipped with a hoodie, which I closed snugly around my head, obscuring my vision. Erica was dressed to pursue in jeans, with a comfortable sweater and running shoes.

  As we waited, I had my first opportunity since the previous day to think through the implications of the cover story. I was felled by the raw disclosure, but I had calmed down. This was New York. The story was compelling but also one celebrity twerk away from being consigned to yesterday’s news. Get real, I told myself. In two weeks, maybe even one, the article would filter away into the great miasma of the metropolis. My face would be forgotten. Then, the story. My public anonymity would return after this one flashing exposure to the public consciousness.

  What about family and friends? I checked my cell phone and found that my parents, Stefan, Sondra, and a few other acquaintances had left dozens of messages. My parents. I hadn’t even called them, and I didn’t want to. Not just yet. I did, however, listen to one of their voicemails.

  “That woman is horrible,” my mother said. “I guess you know this more than anyone, but everyone else will know, too. Just wait.” She went on, pleading with me to call her.

  Stefan also called. Once. “We have been striving at the firm for celebrity status, Will, but I am not sure this comports with our strategy. But it’s all good. I will leave you with one heartening piece of information: Halter has already advised us that he could not care less about the article. So consider this, Will. Halter does not care. The firm does not care. And I do not care. You should not care either. By the way, have you checked out the blogosphere? My rough calculus is that she is getting hammered by a factor of five to one.”

  I texted my parents, telling them not to worry, that I would contact them shortly. I looked up and saw Erica walking south on Varick Street. Ten feet in front of her was Jessica, walking at a near-sprint speed, probably toward the subway station at Canal Street. The streets were crowded, and soon, I lost sight of both of them. I raced toward the subway and ran down the steps, just as the doors to an uptown #1 train were closing. I thrust my hand between the shutting doors and squeezed through, stumbling into the crowded train. I was winded from my efforts. It was 11:30 a.m. Through the outstretched arms of the straphangers, I saw Erica sitting next to Jessica at the far end of the subway car. I tightened my hoodie and pushed through toward them.

  Erica was poised and inconspicuous, looking straight ahead, absorbing data from the jittery woman seated next to her. Jessica was nervous, darting her eyes, trying to establish eye contact with every commuter on the train, everyone but Erica. The train rumbled underneath New York, heading uptown. At the Ninety-Sixth Street station, Jessica bolted upright and moved quickly to the opening doors. Erica stood up calmly and patiently made her way to the exit. The three of us walked up the steps and out onto Broadway.

  And then, we walked, the three of us joined in our odd quest. Jessica raced. Erica glided behind. And I stumbled in pursuit. Jessica walked east on Ninety-Sixth Street, entering Central Park. We continued our quicke
ned pace, Jessica frequently stumbling but appearing determined. The three of us traversed the park and headed east on Eighty-Sixth Street, ugly and charmless, past diners and pet stores and pharmacies.

  Jessica turned up Third Avenue, left on Eighty-Seventh Street, and then skipped up the steps to a small but beautiful church that I had probably walked by before but had never noticed. Jessica pushed hard on the metal door and entered swiftly. Erica slipped through the door before it shut. I waited a few seconds, then entered.

  The interior was ornate but dignified. I glanced around and saw Jessica sitting on a pew near the front. Directly behind her was Erica. I sat a few rows back, pulling my hoodie tighter around my head so that I could barely see.

  Jessica placed her handbag on the pew to her right, then knelt forward on both knees and bowed her head. Erica leaned forward and placed her forearms on the back of Jessica’s bench. With her head still bowed, Jessica reached into her handbag, retrieved her iPhone, and placed the phone in front of her eyes, presumably praying and checking her emails simultaneously. The light from the phone played across Jessica’s face, illuminating small indentations of pockmarks and wrinkles. She scanned down the screen, her thumbs tapping hard.

  A door slammed shut, and a young priest walked down the aisle toward the front. Jessica was startled and placed her phone on top of her bag. It was perched so that the slightest movement could cause it to fall to the floor. I thought of the Seinfeld episode in which George, hungry at a party in someone else’s apartment, contemplated retrieving discarded food out of the garbage container. The line separating propriety from disgust lay in the analysis of the food’s location. Was it above the rim, or was it stuffed down into the preexisting filth?