“I want to be honest,” Erica said. “I wanted to meet you, but I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do. With you.”
“That’s a threat, isn’t it?”
“I have options, some of which are unpleasant, all of which are under consideration.” I was trying to recall whether we had ever discussed these options.
“You have no right . . .”
“It’s a terrible feeling, knowing that your private life is subject to disclosure, at a time, place, and manner beyond your control.”
“So you admit it, then. Somehow, you hacked into my files.”
“I’m more puzzled than you are,” Erica said. “Here’s what I can’t fathom. I’ve read your articles. You have a biblical view of the world, perhaps in part spiritual, but you never stray too far from textual sources, right?”
“I’m not here to debate . . .”
“This biblical view is literal, and I am not being judgmental. In fact, I trust your sense of internal sincerity. But here’s what confuses me. You’ve never done anything like this before. You’ve been critical, scathing of others in the public domain. Actually, I admire much of what you have to say. But this is new terrain for you.”
“Your friend here is a charlatan. Duping weak people with no values . . .”
“So here’s what I can’t understand. With your grounding in biblical doctrine, how could you imagine that you could write this article with impunity?”
Jessica fell silent.
“Did you think that you could just do this, and then, the universe would sit still? That you could just attack with full freedom and complete faith that you would be protected? Wasn’t there a moment’s thought that this could end badly for you?”
“You have no right . . .”
“Everything you write about, or at least the sources you find sacred, talk about consequences. Justice. Even retribution. Yet you went ahead with this horrific, false exposé, all but inviting every force you believe in to visit upon you some measure of . . . equalization.”
“I have a right to inquire, to expose, and that’s what I did, and I’d do it again.”
“Would you like to get to know us? To know Will?”
“I know everything I need to know.”
“Because here is what would happen. It’s true that you would not change your views on universal energy. Your preexisting faith would be unshaken. If anything, your faith might even be strengthened. And you would not benefit in any manner from getting to know Will. But isn’t it possible that you would conclude that Will is sincere, that those of us who believe in the harnessing of energy are well meaning? Wouldn’t this have had an impact on the tone of your story?”
“I find no sincerity in this kind of nonsense.” Jessica’s hand shook as she placed her now-empty glass on the coffee table.
“This was your chance, wasn’t it?” Erica said. “This was your breakthrough moment.” Erica stood and stepped toward Jessica, who pushed herself deeper into the cushions of the sofa. “You couldn’t believe your luck. This idiot, you thought, revealing everything to you, baring his fucking soul to you . . .”
Erica stopped and breathed in sharply.
“I get it now,” she said. “You do believe in his sincerity. You think he is a fool. You believe he is weak. You have contempt for him, but your contempt is only possible, because you recognize his sincerity. In fact, his sincerity really is the story.”
Erica sat back down on the couch, this time a few inches from Jessica. “If you believed he was a charlatan, you would have a grudging respect for him, the respect for the accomplished scoundrel. But you immediately recognized his integrity, and that frightened you. His faith was shaky, but he had some degree of it. Whereas you . . .”
Jessica stood up and back-walked to the door, shaking her finger at Erica, who stood up and followed her. They looked like separated tango dancers, still in unison.
“This is your path to God,” Erica said. “Not through true devotion, because you’re losing that capacity. I’m sure I’ve read something about that in your written material. The horror you’re experiencing as you grapple with your loss of faith, a loss you don’t want to experience, but a loss whose progress you can’t control.”
I recalled this excerpt as well, possibly from Jessica’s Dropbox folders, a diary entry meant for no audience. I was appalled by Erica’s comment, this frank admission of our criminality. But Erica had gathered momentum.
“That absence scares you, so you’ve created a path to devotion, and that path consists of the ridicule of others. Without that, you’re lost.”
Something in the panicked glint that flashed from Jessica’s eyes confirmed that Erica had found her mark. And I identified what had been unsettling me since this whole episode commenced. Jessica had always accepted my sincerity, but I needed to be punished so that Jessica could save herself.
“Here’s what will happen,” I said, startling Jessica and Erica both. “I intend to embark on a new venture, here, in New York. I would have preferred to remain hidden, but you’ve taken my solitude away.”
Erica backed away from Jessica and sat on the sofa. Jessica remained standing with her back to the door, but I had her attention. Both of them were interested in what I was about to say.
“I am going to expand my practice,” I said. Erica and Jessica found communion in their identical reactions. Shock, evidenced by widened eyes.
“I am . . . for want of a better phrase . . . going public. And I’m able to do this through your efforts, Jessica. I haven’t quite worked out the details. Maybe we’ll rent out a large conference room.”
“No, a larger venue,” Erica said. “Like a theater or large audience hall.”
“We’ll work out the details,” I said. I sat down next to Erica, and we both faced Jessica.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said. “You’re tortured enough as it is. But even in your damaged state, you can cause a lot of mischief. So I ask only one thing of you. And that is to remain on the sidelines. There are still matters that I discussed with you which you haven’t revealed yet. Maybe you were planning to do so in future articles.”
“You can’t control me,” Jessica said. She had straightened her back and leaned forward toward me.
“You’re quite right,” I said. “I can’t control you. I can only provide you with incentives, and ultimately, you’ll make your choices.” I sat back and found the first moment of peace since the story ran. “I intend to expand my practice. And you will remain silent. And if you don’t, I will release certain materials to the press. These releases will not be malicious. They will be . . . proportionate. In this way, you will have some measure of control over the exposure of your life. You’re not helpless, Jessica. You’re in control.”
“I will not remain silent.”
“That’s your choice, then. You should leave now,” I said.
Erica walked to the entrance of her apartment and opened the door. Jessica grappled with the burden of unfinished business, made all the more intolerable by her recognition that she had helped bring Erica and me to a resolution.
“I will not remain silent,” she repeated, then walked out, looking downward as she passed Erica. The door closed sharply. Erica looked up at me.
“We have work to do,” she said.
I agreed.
41
The Divide
The ensuing days were filled with the tedium of planning and research. We started with general principles and worked our way toward the details. The broad concepts were simple enough: rent an appropriate venue, invite people to come, perform a service for which a fee would be charged. The consideration of these details diverted my attention from identifying the true motivation behind my new venture. But even at the time, I knew that I was not suddenly seized with the belief that I could help others. Defiance, instead, played the primary role. The galvanizing forces could be captured in a few simple mantras: I won’t be shamed into obscurity. I won’t hide. I will see
your disapproval and raise the ante exponentially. Hiding in the darkened environs of an obscure office, healing at the miserly pace of one individual at a time? Think again. I will exclaim my virtues and promote my services. Do you find my “pay what you wish” fee structure manipulative? Let’s be done with that model, then. You will pay me, and you will pay me in advance, or you won’t get in the door. And if you find me preposterous, then don’t come. If you find me preposterous and wish to witness the nonsense with your own eyes, that’s okay as well. But first you will pay.
The details, though, were considerable. What kind of venue would we rent? A conference room at a hotel? A ballroom? A large theater? A Learning Annex auditorium? And how often would I provide my services? Perhaps this would be a one-off. Alternatively, depending on the success of the maiden voyage, we might schedule weekly or monthly group healings.
Equally devilish was the consideration of marketing. The cover story and follow-up reaction created a fair amount of interest and publicity, but what process would I use to notify the public about the time and place of my appearance? I was not inclined to discuss my background or identify the nature of my services. I wanted a vehicle of notification that would provide the minimal details of time and place, with no room left over for further explication. Twitter was tailor-made for this approach. I opened up an account, and within a few days, I had hundreds of followers. Once all of the other details had fallen into place, I would tweet the details of the “seminar” and leave it to the forces of the universe and the power of the retweet to sort matters out.
Closely linked to the consideration of the venue was the question of price. Erica and I both leaned toward the higher end of the scale, although we had different reasons. Erica was convinced of the worth of my services and found it offensive to charge anything less than true value. For my part, I wished to court disaster. I was not invested in the success of the venture. In fact, I realized that I had no patience with the details of slowly nurturing a new business toward profitability. Instead, I wanted instant failure or success, and either outcome would have been acceptable. I was convinced that I would have found some measure of relief in the absence of interest, as this would signify a settling down of turbulent forces. A total failure would constitute a strike back against the horrendous invasion of my solitude, for then there would be no point in any further intrusion of my privacy. He came. He flared. He’s gone now. I could live with that. Maybe I even preferred such an outcome.
Three hundred dollars per person in a room that could seat two hundred people. I liked these numbers. Of primary importance, the price was ridiculous. I imagined that the amount was sufficiently high to dissuade hecklers and noisy skeptics from attending. And such a fee would go a long way toward clarifying the conclusion of success or failure. No one could mistake the amount as indicative of some subtle form of monetary extraction, as Jessica had accused. Quite the opposite—pay this fee, or don’t come, but let’s not have any illusions about one of my goals. I want, and I will take, your money. So much for misdirection.
How long would the session be, and what would I do exactly? I left the choreography to Erica, who constructed a simple procedure. We would rent one of the rooms in the Hotel Pennsylvania, the same venue where Vanja held his New York Great Harmonic Alignment. We would use a conference room that could seat 225 people comfortably. The hotel provided the mechanics of selling tickets at the door, on a first-come, first-served basis. After the congregants assembled, the doors would close. Erica would then briefly address the attendees, while I would wait out-of-view in an adjoining room. She would ask everyone to write down on the provided pieces of paper any ailment or concern that they would like to have addressed and to place these pages in a large urn. No need to sign the paper or otherwise provide any identifying information. I would then come into the room, where I might make a few comments. Then, we would simply lead the audience in a joint meditation, with Erica providing suggestions for breathing and contemplation. We would complete the session in thirty minutes. I would then exit the room, and Erica would make concluding remarks.
We rented the Globetrotter Ballroom at the Hotel Pennsylvania, paying $2,000 for a half day, which was the minimum allotment of time. Then we composed a tweet: “Will Alexander will conduct a 30 minute healing session at the Hotel Pennsylvania, NYC on 4/11, 2 p.m. $300 per person, pay at door.” One hundred thirty-two characters, including spaces. I stared at the message before sending the tweet. I was comforted by the spare language, but I was cognizant that the message, in its simplicity, teetered between audacity and nonsense.
In the two weeks leading up to the session, I was consumed by apathy. There were stretches of hours, maybe even at times days, when I was unmindful of the impending occasion. Erica had resumed a fair degree of her practice, and I was frequently alone. I took motorcycle rides on now-familiar routes and found this repetitive. I had always been exhilarated whisking through the tight turns in Harriman Park and sweeping northward on the Palisades Parkway, with its views of the Hudson. But I found myself exerting an effort to extract joy and meaning from the rides, whereas before the same routes, on the same motorcycle, transported me to a state of calm and solitude.
Every night, we ate at a different restaurant, saw movies, took in Broadway shows. On weekend evenings, we went to jazz clubs featuring eclectic musicians. On weekend days, we walked through Central Park, where normally it would only be a matter of time before I would see some spectacle or performance raw, unplanned and original. Now, it seemed that we came across the same jugglers and clowns and musicians and pamphleteers.
I began pinching myself, literally, to see whether the maximum degree of exertion could draw blood. On a few occasions, I drank heavily, but my body’s safety valve kicked in, and after one or two shots, I became weary and fell asleep. I even tried making myself nervous about the session I was about to conduct, but I failed. It would be nice to imagine that I was cool as a cucumber, but in fact, I was dead as a rock.
On the day before the event, the air hung drearily over the city, and I barely contemplated how it would all play out. Erica would provide the structure. She would function as the bridge. I would just appear, sit, close my eyes, walk away. Who cared anyway? I shielded myself with the “worst case scenario” defense. What was, in fact, the worst case scenario? That I would face ridicule and public exposure and condemnation? Done already. I was inoculated and drained. I did not fear the outcome. I was bored.
On the morning of the event, we took a cab to the Hotel Pennsylvania. I looked out onto the choked streets, and occasionally, I would establish eye contact with pedestrians or drivers. They stared at me with vacant eyes, and I welcomed their lack of interest. What were the odds that any one of these individuals would attend the session? In these fleeting connections, did they sense my singularity? If we could crawl at a glacial pace for a few moments, would this extra time open up possibilities? I wondered whether I could save the homeless man we passed on Fifth Avenue, leaning on the stone wall bordering the park, sitting next to a large piece of cardboard on which was scrawled in thick crayon markings, “Hi. My Name is Gus.” I saw a child of perhaps eight or nine, running frantically down a curved path leading into Central Park near the Plaza Hotel, and wondered whether the child was seized with panic or glee. Erica held my hand, and the vibrations of the scarred pavement drove me into a deep slumber. I prayed for traffic, for anything that would prolong the sanctified emptiness.
The end of the journey at the entrance of the hotel was jarring. Leaving the cab was like being dragged out of the womb, and I thought about asking the driver to circle the block a few more times. I had so ably cut myself off from all sensations that the onrush of this rude city was unforgiveable. I was pissed off. We walked into the hotel, and I searched for someone, something, to rail at, but the clever universe removed all targets, and all that lay before me was a bare, hard stairway leading up to the anteroom to the hall we had rented. I checked my watch. One thirty p.m. We had thir
ty minutes to prepare, but there was nothing to do, nothing that I was supposed to do in any event. Had we walked by throngs of supplicants waiting to pay $300 to bask in my presence? Or was the hotel empty, no participants, no guests even, no one, just an absence howling in laughter?
Erica was engaged but untroubled. As I reflect on this stretch of time leading up to the session, I realized that Erica smoothly guided me to this moment. She asked no questions and made no suggestions. She sensed that if she had expressed any enthusiasm or hope, I would have balked at the whole enterprise and canceled the session. I can’t determine whether she was clever or intuitive, or both, but the fact is she created a bubble of monotony, so that I would alight at the designated time and place.
And here we were, with minutes remaining, and I heard doors opening to the rented adjoining room. I heard chairs scuffling and the muted background of voices with the occasional spoken word discernable and identifiable, like a snapping fish leaping into the air, only to be quickly reclaimed by the sea. I don’t believe I became nervous at this point, but I felt my interest piqued in the way a clinician would be anxious to see the results of a controlled experiment. I wanted to crack the door open and take a peek, as if this would provide me with useful, advance information. But this would be an extravagant breach of protocol, even if I could not identify the rules.
At 2:00 p.m., Erica stood up, opened the adjoining door, and walked into the rented space. Weren’t we supposed to, I don’t know, commemorate this moment? You can’t just walk out there without some last-second bonding ritual. Maybe a huddle, like football players quickly but purposefully arranging for the intricacies of the next play, followed by a communal grunt before taking assigned places on the field. Of course, a huddle suggested a group, and when Erica left the anteroom to join the audience, it dawned on me that we had no entourage, no enablers. I was alone, and I guess it was assumed that I would listen carefully to Erica’s introduction to know when I should emerge.
The Reluctant Healer Page 26