“Yeah. Ya payin’ ya dues,” Little Gat added. “Ya keep on payin’ so ya don’t really get clobbered from Mr. Big up dere.” He jerked his middle finger towards the ceiling.
“And now that you know the reason,” Dr. Baariasol told Job smugly, “yon won’t have to punish yourself anymore. Now that it's out in the open you can look at it realistically and banish your guilt and stop punishing yourself. You can change your self-image.”
“I know that’s the theory,” Job said, “but I can’t help having lingering doubts about its really working. You see, I keep thinking of my brother.”
“Your brother?” Iceberg picked it up.
“Yes. My poor, dead brother. ‘Runt’; that’s what we called him. That was his problem too. You see, he was abnormally small. His size affected his self-image. As far back as I can remember, he always had this terribly low opinion of himself.”
“He needed psychological help,” Fat Tits interjected. “Yes. And he got it finally. He went to this rational therapist and told him his problem.”
“Was the rational therapist able to help him?” Dr. Baariasol inquired.
“That depends on how you look at it. First my brother told him how he felt inadequate because of his abnormally small size. He confessed that he felt unmanly, unable to compete in the world of men, childishly inept. Well, after he got through sobbing all this out, the rational therapist went to work. The power of positive shrinking, you know. Headshrinking, I mean. Obviously my brother didn’t need any other kind of shrinking. He was already preshrunk.”
“The rational therapist was supportive?” Fat Tits asked.
“Yes. He set about rebuilding my brother’s ego. He pointed out that Steinmetz was a dwarf, but that he hadn’t let that interfere with his genius, with his contributions to the world. He brought up Napoleon, the most famous runt in history, and reminded my brother that size hadn’t hampered him in his conquests. He even dredged up that movie actor, Alan Ladd, and how he’d been so short he’d been forced to play all his love scenes standing on a box. Then he worked on my brother’s self-esteem directly. He convinced him that his small size could be an asset in the world of men, that if it was true that initially people underrated him because of his size, in the long run this could work to his advantage because his accomplishments would seem greater. He instilled in my brother a sense of pride in being small. He made him feel it was a positive quality. And when my brother left the therapist’s office, his chin was up, his chest was out, and he felt like he was walking eight feet tall. He was proud of himself. He was proud of his size. He was proud! Proud! Proud!”
“And then what happened?” Archer asked when Job failed to continue.
“He left the analyst’s office, walked down the street, and a cat jumped out of a garbage can and ate him.”
“Therapy can only accomplish so much,” Dr. Baariasol sighed. “The rest is up to the patient.”
Job’s problem was discussed at length. Despite his brother’s experience, he was made to see the relationship between his guilt over his childhood barf and the way he brought about his own continual self-punishment. It was Sunday evening before the focus switched from Job to the redhead.
Dr. Baariasol set the direction. “Your problems — compulsive rhyming and compulsive promiscuity -- are interrelated,” he told the redhead. “And the key to their solution, I feel sure, lies with what you told us about short-circuiting your father’s sex life. Now try thinking back to that time. How did you feel after your prank brought all that misery down on your father?”
“I felt just great!
“He'd earned his fate!”
“And yet you emulate him. First you condemn him and punish him, and then you do the same things yourself. Face it. The truth is you envied him.”
“When I was a kid,
“I guess that I did.”
“You still do. The syndrome is beginning to become clear now. On the one hand, you’re trying to prove you’re as accomplished sexually as your father was. On the other hand, aware of how you scuttled him, you set up rules for yourself and as long as you stay within them, you feel safe; you feel you’ll avoid his fate. And one of the rules is talking in verse. Your father didn’t talk in verse, did he?”
“His prose
"Was strictly ’dese-dem-dose.’ ”
“That figures. And so you’ve gone to the opposite extreme. It’s your way of continuing to put him down.” Dr Baariasol thought a moment. “Do you enjoy sex?” he asked finally.
“I like it all right
“—Until tonight!”
The redhead glared at Job.
“Well, that could be progress. You do admit that you didn’t enjoy it tonight?”
"That crybaby fag
“Made it a drag!”
“Never mind the reason. What’s important is that you realize that you had a sexual experience and it wasn’t pleasurable. If you understand that—understand it at the deepest level—then from here on you'll be able to be much more selective when it comes to sex. Your promiscuity will wane.”
“Is that really so?
“Well, what do you know?”
“She’s still rhyming,” Job pointed out. “What about that?”
“That will pass in time,” Dr. Baariasol opined. “What’s important is that she won’t be driven from bed to bed now that she’s aware of the motivation and of the fact that sex can be disappointing as well as rewarding.” He looked at his watch. “This encounter will be coming to an end soon,” he observed. “Let’s try to evaluate it. Your problem was last, so you go first,” he told the redhead.
“It cured my hex
"Regarding sex.
“I know this sounds corny,
“But I’m not so . . . lustful!”
“I’ll be damned! She didn’t rhyme!” Job noticed. “As for myself,” he continued, “this has been a very valuable experience. When I leave here it's going to be with the feeling that I’m in control of my life. I can see how in the past a lot of my bad luck has been self-inflicted. In the future, understanding myself better the way I do, I’m sure my luck’s going to change.”
“I know watcha mean. I feel better about t’ings too,” Little Gat said. He shot Fat Tits a grateful look. “I ain’t so bugged by da godfather ’cause I see now it ain’t so important how big da gat is. It’s how good ya use it dat counts. Dis here encounter makes me remember how I’m a pro an’ I feel like dere’s no job I can’t handle even wit’ a undersized piece.”
“Fat is beautiful.” Fat Tits beamed at Little Gat. “That’s what I learned from this weekend. I feel good about myself. What more can I say?”
“I wish I could feel the way the rest of you do,” Iceberg sighed. “But I can’t. It’s been interesting, but I can’t say I’ve been helped.”
“Ditto for me,” Archer said. “All I'm leaving here with is a problem I didn’t have before.”
“I hope you two will come back. You need help,” Dr. Baariasol told Archer and Iceberg as he opened the door for the group to depart. “Goodbye now.”
Archer went out into the hall to catch the elevator which would take him back down to the ground floor of the institute. As he walked toward the bank of elevators, he saw Iceberg standing there. An elevator stopped, but she didn’t board it. It departed and she turned to smile at Archer as he walked toward her.