“Grim?” Even in the dim light of the limo, I could see a flicker of irritation on Stick’s face. “I don’t think it’s grim. More like a playroom, isn’t it? Or summer camp?”
“They’re not playing,” I said firmly, but without emphasis, as if it had no importance to me. “They’re fighting for survival.”
“For survival?” He chuckled. “Aren’t you exaggerating just a little?”
Adopting a casual and pompous tone, I delivered a monologue chock-full of popular psychology jargon. I talked about limits and the need for authority. I talked about structure: rewards and punishments; incentives and security. I talked about how loyalty to a consistent parent figure or an appropriate substitute, such as a corporation, can empower and build self-esteem. I said his young employees all had the same base psychological profile. (Stick didn’t question how I could know that.) They are emotionally retarded, I said, fearful to ask for what they want, or worse, walled off from their emotions, suffocated by their mothers, rejected or squashed by their fathers as inadequate Oedipal competition — an outright contradiction, by the way, but the sort of all-encompassing generalization that is commonly made by popular psychologists. My rambling speech continued while we entered II Cantinori, an expensive restaurant on Tenth Street off University Place. We had both ordered and consumed ziti with mussels, sun-dried tomatoes and yellow peppers by the time I finished my Dr. Joyce Brothers imitation.
“How do you think Andy is doing?” Stick asked. “What’s your impression of his management skills?”
“Okay,” I said, lowering my eyes and my voice.
“You know,” he leaned forward, caressing a glass of white wine in both hands. “We’ve got a lot riding on our people. Andy’s in a position to help himself and the company. He’s also in a position to hurt himself and the company.”
I nodded. But offered nothing.
“What’s your opinion of his state of mind?”
“I spent less than an hour with him. Can’t really say.”
Copley leaned back and sipped his wine reflectively. He returned the glass lazily, sliding it onto the table. He cocked his head, locking his fingers together. “This afternoon I was thinking about you and Gene. He was doing very well, for himself and for us, up until about a year, year and a half ago. That’s when he stopped seeing you, right?”
I nodded.
Copley flexed the fingers outward, cracking them. “Don’t be shy, Doctor. Tell me your opinion of Andy’s state of mind.”
I paused and stared off thoughtfully for a moment. “Andy’s a prodigy, right? I mean, even for a computer whiz, he’s a prodigy?”
“Bachelor degree at seventeen. Graduate degree, age twenty. Could’ve had his pick of jobs. Apple, IBM. Microsoft, for that matter. I think he’s as good at programming as engineering. Tell you the truth, he’s something of an underachiever. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he said yes to our offer.”
“I understand him choosing a young company, an underdog, if you don’t mind my calling Minotaur an underdog.”
“Not at all. We are underdogs. We try harder.”
“Well, that would appeal to Andy. Prodigies are lone wolves. They’re usually resented by other children while growing up, and often resented by adults, too. It’s hard to deal with, the spectacle of a child doing something better than most of us could ever hope to. Hostility toward prodigies is understandable and easy to dismiss as envy if you have a sound ego and some life experience. But that hostility is directed at a child, who, also naturally enough, expects praise and love for his abilities. So prodigies learn to work alone, or at least as outsiders. Often they also learn to hide what they can do, to underachieve, as you call it. Unfortunately, this can sometimes lead to self-sabotage.”
“Self-sabotage?”
“Yes, self-sabotage. As opposed to self-destructiveness. The distinction might seem academic, but it’s significant to me. Self-sabotage isn’t an act of self-punishment. Rather, it’s an act of self-protection.”
“You mean, they unconsciously fail so people won’t resent them?”
“Very good.” I raised my wine glass and toasted him. “I shouldn’t be surprised. A man who runs a large successful company must have a delicate feel for psychology.” Copley shook his head, about to shrug off my compliment. I prevented him by continuing, “I don’t know enough about the structure of Andy’s family relations. For example, his Oedipal dynamic. Was Gene a substitute father figure? If so, defeating him, taking Gene’s job, might be very troubling, especially since Andy’s victory is the Oepidal nightmare: Gene died.” I stared up at II Cantinori’s excellent restoration of an elaborate tin ceiling and mused, almost mumbling, “Perhaps there is an element of self-destructiveness. Andy might be unconsciously punishing himself for his triumph.”
“Punishing himself how, Doctor?”
I returned my attention to him, with a startled look, as if woken from a reverie. “Please, call me Rafe. I feel uncomfortable being addressed as Doctor.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, Rafe, but I have to insist you be more specific. I’ve got a fiduciary responsibility to Minotaur stockholders. If Andy is psychologically unstable it could fuck up a lot more than just his life.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that serious.” I smiled at him, a forced artificial smile, and looked at my watch. “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving early in the morning. I should be getting to bed. And you have a long ride home. Luckily, you don’t have to drop me off. I’m staying six blocks from here, so I won’t need a ride.” I twisted in my chair to look for our waiter. He saw me, I made a writing motion, and he nodded.
Turning back, I found Copley’s dark eyes on me. “They have great desserts here,” he said in an ominous tone.
“I’m full.”
“Well, we’re always full, aren’t we?” Copley slapped his nonexistent belly as though he were pounding an enormous bass drum. “That’s no reason to stop eating.”
“Were you overweight as a child?” I asked. The question was absurdly posed: presumptuous, pompous, and grave. It should have gotten a laugh.
Instead, Copley stared at me. He cocked his head after a moment and drawled, “Yeah. I was a fat kid.”
I nodded as if that were obvious. “Not for long, I bet.”
“Soon as I hit puberty, I made sure to get rid of it.”
“Exceptional,” I commented in a schoolteacher’s tone.
He grinned. “Exceptional?”
“Very rare for that cycle to be broken in adolescence. Shows enormous strength of character.”
“You believe in concepts like strength of character?”
The waiter appeared. “No dessert?”
“We’ll have two decaffeinated cappuccinos,” Copley said and added to me, “Okay?”
“Sure,” I agreed. The waiter left.
“You believe in innate qualities?” he asked. “Genetically encoded personality traits?”
“Of course. It’s just that it’s impossible to know exactly where heredity leaves off and environment begins. Or, for that matter, how much one distorts or influences the other. That’s why we often treat the whole family unit, especially in child psychology.”
“Hmmm,” Copley considered this carefully. He smoothed his hair down and commented, “A company is like a family.”
“Yes!” I leaned toward him, excited. “That’s just what I was thinking when Andy showed me your labs. This is a family. That was the flaw with how I treated Gene—” I caught myself. I covered my mouth, embarrassed. “Please,” I said, “don’t blame Andy for showing me around.”