Except for his unhappiness, it seemed that Adamson and I had quite a lot in common. We were both intelligent. Both loners, both somewhat cynical. We even shared a certain defensive attitude toward the world. Despite myself, I ended up half liking the man, which was a good thing, because we spent six days cooped up together. Six grueling sessions. Each morning, my parents would drive me across town and drop me off in front of Adamson’s office. “Go get ’em,” my dad would say, and my mother would reach out and brush down my hair.
Always the same routine. As soon as I walked in, Adamson would take a look at his wristwatch and rub his eyes and gaze out at the shiny dome on the state capitol building. “So, then,” he’d say, “how’s my pal William?” Then he’d wag his head and start complaining. It was his favorite pastime. There were times when I wanted to bang him on the head, or shake him up somehow, but instead I tried finesse, using little incidents out of my own life as a way of putting things in perspective. When he mentioned insomnia, for instance, I recommended solitaire and hot baths. At another point, when he brought up the subject of nightmares, I told him about some of my own experiences in that area, the nuclear stuff, the sirens and pigeons and fires, the incredible reality of it all. I discussed the Cuban missile crisis and tried to get across that sense of quiet fear, nothing desperate, just a wired-up tightness.
“It’s not mental,” I said. “Kennedy and Khrushchev—I didn’t make those guys up out of thin air. I just get worried sometimes.”
For at least two full sessions we talked about how volatile and dangerous the world is, fragile as glass, no margin for error, and we agreed that the best strategy was to put a premium on avoiding unnecessary risks: stay alert, never take chances. I explained that my basic philosophy of life was to seal myself off from potentially threatening situations. Locked doors were essential. Solid walls and a solid roof—shelter.
“You can quibble all you want,” I told him, “but it boils down to common sense. A matter of safety.”
Adamson bobbed his head.
“I’m with you,” he said. “Safety.”
“That’s right. And the same thing goes for how you deal with people. That Chuck-the-Woodchuck stuff, you have to be careful about it. Don’t give away too much.”
Adamson thought about it for a few seconds.
“Makes sense,” he finally said. Then he hesitated and made an indefinite, sweeping gesture with his arm. “But doesn’t it get a little lonely? A guy like you—you must have a million friends. You don’t shut them out?”
“Well, no,” I said. “I use the phone a lot. Safer that way.”
“Safer?”
“Sure it is. No complications. Very clean.”
Adamson’s eyes thickened. “Lucky guy,” he said. “Personally, I don’t even have friends. Nobody to call up.”
“Nobody?”
“Zero.”
I crossed my legs and settled back. Once again, briefly, I wondered if he was putting me on. I wanted to trust him but I had to keep my bases covered.
“No friends?” I said, and for the next hour or so we combed through the man’s balled-up social life, every sad detail.
In the evenings, after supper, my mother and father and I would usually kill time by strolling around the city, checking out shop-windows, trying to put a happy face on things. Except in the most general terms, they never asked about my meetings with Chuck Adamson, but still I knew they were going through a rough period. Late at night I’d wake up and hear them talking in the adjoining room, soft hospital voices, hush-hush and serious. It was painful. I wanted to rap on the wall and tell them to stop worrying. “Take it easy,” I wanted to say, “I’ll make it.” But they wouldn’t have listened. When your parents think you’ve gone haywire, it’s impossible to talk them out of it. So I’d lie there listening to those wee-hour motel sounds. Pacing footsteps, doors opening, doors closing, a television set blaring out The Star-Spangled Banner. My mother crying. My dad consoling her. “Relax,” I wanted to say.
I was feeling terrific. The headaches were gone, and I slept well, and on the fourth or fifth day, right before my morning consultation, I squeezed out one of the sweetest movements in the annals of toiletry. Later, in Adamson’s office, I couldn’t resist bragging. “Well,” I said, “it happened.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
He took a couple of guesses, way off the mark, so finally I blurted out the news. It didn’t impress him. He turned away and shuffled through some papers.
I stopped him cold.
“Hey, listen,” I said, “I’m cured. You’re a doctor—say something.”
Adamson frowned.
“Nice going,” he mumbled, “good job,” but he wasn’t even listening.
Obviously the man wasn’t cut out for that line of work. Later that morning, as subtly as possible, I suggested that he take some time off to reevaluate his career objectives. “You don’t put out any effort,” I told him. “You don’t pay attention, you don’t listen, you don’t do anything. It’s all me me me.” I could see sweat stains at the armpits of his shirt, but I had to lay it out for him. I was crisp and clinical. “For openers,” I said, “you’re definitely the most depressing human being I ever met. How can you expect to help people? Even if you wanted to, which you don’t, how could you cheer anybody up? I mean, those eyes of yours.”
He touched his forehead. “Lay off, William. My eyes are fine.”
“They’re not fine,” I said. “Look in the mirror, for Christ sake. Those sad, miserable little eyeballs. Think how your patients must feel. And it’s dangerous. Sadness. It can actually kill people.”
“Kill?”
“That’s right. Kill.”
I moved to his desk and picked up a wooden ruler and slapped it against the palm of my hand.
“I’m no expert,” I told him, “but the first thing is to take a good look at yourself. Stop covering up. Stop pretending.” I waved the ruler at him. “You might not believe me, but I’ve had some experience with this sadness stuff, and there’s one thing I know for sure. Self-deception, that’s the killer. You can’t get well if you don’t admit you’re sick. You have to open up the gates. Cut out the complaining. Have some fun, for crying out loud. Find yourself a hobby.”
Then I filled him in on the virtues of rock collecting. I told him how stable it was, how rocks never deserted you or let you down.
“Safety?” he said.
“There it is. Safety.”
Adamson made a crisp, decisive motion with his jaw. “I get the message. Locked doors and rocks.”
“For sure,” I said. “The main thing, though, is to find something you’re good at, something you enjoy. Just trying to help.”
He nearly smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “and I appreciate it, William.”
“Rocks.”
“Rocks. Thank you.”
I shrugged and pretended to tie my shoe.
“No sweat,” I said, “that’s what friends are for.”
Basically, that was the end of my therapy.
On the last day we got involved in a rambling, pointless conversation about the end of the world. Ridiculous, I thought, but for some reason Adamson was all fired up about the subject. It started out very innocently. I was giving him pointers on how to get set up in the rock-collecting business, listing the various tools he’d need, and then, out of nowhere, Adamson brought up the fact that he used to own a toy telescope back when he was a kid. I couldn’t shut him off. He kept chattering on and on about how much he’d loved that telescope. “Astronomy,” he said, “now there’s a magical hobby—astronomy.” He gave the word a cushioned sound, as if it were somehow breakable, and that’s when I made the mistake of asking a couple of questions. I did it to pep him up. To prove I cared. Right away, he was off and running, giving me the entire in-depth lecture on stars and galaxies and the chemical composition of Halley’s Comet. I’d never seen him so excited. Almost smiling, almost happy. “Astronomy, that’s terrific,” I finally said, “but if you’re so hepped about it, why not take some action? Buy yourself a new telescope.”