worrisome. «We`ll need a biopsy.» And though that biopsy had been negative, it caught
Julius`s attention because that very week he had gone to Al`s funeral, his old cigarette–smoking tennis buddy, who died of lung cancer. And it didn`t help then that he was in the
midst of readingFreud, Living and Dying, by Max Schur, Freud`s doctor—a graphic
account of how Freud`s cigar–spawned cancer gradually devoured his palate, his jaw,
and, finally, his life. Schur promised Freud to help him die when the time came, and
when Freud finally told him that the pain was so great that it no longer made sense to
continue, Schur proved a man of his word and injected a fatal dose of morphine. Nowthat
was a doctor. Where do you find a Dr. Schur nowadays?
Over twenty years of no tobacco, and also no eggs or cheese or animal fats.
Healthy and happily abstinent. Until that God–dammed physical exam. Now everything
was permitted: smoking, ice cream, spare ribs, eggs, cheese...everything. What
difference did any of that matter any longer? What difference did anything make?—in
another year Julius Hertzfeld would be leeched into the soil, his molecules scattered,
awaiting their next assignment. And sooner or later, in another few million years, the
whole solar system would lie in ruins.
Feeling the curtain of despair descending, Julius quickly distracted himself by
turning his attention back to his phone call with Philip Slate. Philip a therapist? How was
that possible? He remembered Philip as cold, uncaring, oblivious of others, and, judging
from that phone call, he was still much the same. Julius drew on his pipe and shook his
head in silent wonder as he opened Philip`s chart and continued reading his dictated note
of their first session.
PRESENT ILLNESS—Sexually driven since thirteen—compulsive masturbation
throughout adolescence continuing till present day—sometimes four, five times daily—
obsessed with sex continually, masturbates to give himself peace. Huge hunk of life spent
on obsessing about sex—he says «the time I`ve wasted chasing women—I could have
gotten Ph.D.s in philosophy, Mandarin Chinese, and astrophysics.»
RELATIONSHIPS: A loner. Lives with his dog in a small flat. No male friends. Zero. Nor
any contacts with acquaintances from past—from high school, college, grad school.
Extraordinarily isolated. Never had a long–term relationship with a woman—consciously
avoids ongoing relationships—prefers one–night stands—occasionally sees a woman as
long as a month—usually woman breaks it off—either she wants more from him, or she
gets angry at being used or gets upset about his seeing other women. Desires novelty—
wants the sexual chase—but never satiated—sometimes when he travels he picks up a
woman, has sex, gets rid of her, and an hour later leaves his hotel room on the prowl
again. Keeps a record of partners, a score sheet, and in past twelve months has had sex
with ninety different women. Tells all this with flat affect—no shame, no boasting. Feels
anxious if he is alone for an evening. Usually sex acts like Valium. Once he has sex, he
feels peaceful for the rest of the evening and can read comfortably. No homosexual
activities or fantasies.
HIS PERFECT EVENING? Out early, picks up woman in bar, gets laid (preferably
before dinner), dumps woman as quickly as possible, preferably without having to buy
her dinner but usually ends up having to feed her. Important to have as much evening
time as possible for reading before going to bed. No TV, no movies, no social life, no
sports. Only recreation is reading and classical music. Voracious reader of classics,
history, and philosophy—no fiction, nothing current. Wanted to talk about Zeno and
Aristarchus, his current interests.
PAST HISTORY: Grew up in Connecticut, only child, upper middle class. Father
investment banker who committed suicide when Philip was thirteen. He knows nothing
about circumstances or reasons behind father`s suicide, some vague ideas that it was
aggravated by mother`s continual criticism. Blanket childhood amnesia—remembers
little of his first several years and nothing about his father`s funeral. Mother remarried
when he was 24. A loner in school, fanatically immersed in studies, never had close
friends, and since starting Yale at 17, has cut himself off from family. Phone contact with
mother once or twice a year. Has never met stepfather.
WORK: Successful chemist—develops new hormonal–based pesticides for DuPont.
Strictly an eight–to–five job, no passion about field, recently growing bored with his work.
Keeps current with the research in field but never during his off hours. High income plus
valuable stock options. A hoarder: enjoys tabulating his assets and managing his
investments and spends every lunch hour alone, studying stock market research.
IMPRESSION: Schizoid, sexually compulsive—very distant—refused to look at me—not
once did he meet my gaze—no sense of anything personal between us—clueless about
interpersonal relations, responded to my here–and–now question about his first
impressions of me with a look of bewilderment—as though I were speaking Catalan or
Swahili. He seemed edgy, and I felt uncomfortable with him. Absolutely no humor. Zero.
Highly intelligent, articulate but stingy with words—makes me work hard. Tenaciously
concerned about therapy cost (though he can easily afford it). Requested fee reduction,
which I refused. Seemed unhappy about my starting a couple minutes late and did not
hesitate to inquire whether we`d make up this time at end of session to get full value.
Questioned me twice about precisely how much advance notice he needed to give to
cancel a session and avoid being charged.
Closing the chart, Julius thought:Now, twenty–five years later, Philip is a therapist.
Could there be a more unsuitable person in the world for that job? He seems very much
the same: still no sense of humor, still hung up about money (maybe I shouldn`t have
made that crack about his bill). A therapist without a sense of humor? And so cold. And
that edgy request to meet at hisoffice. Julius shivered again.
3
_________________________
Lifeis a miserable thing. I
have decided to spend my life
thinking about it.
_________________________
Union Street was sunny and festive. The clatter of silverware and the buzz of animated
luncheon conversation streamed from the packed sidewalk tables at Prego, Beetlenut,
Exotic Pizza, and Perry`s. Aqua–marine and magenta balloons tethered to parking meters
advertised a weekend sidewalk sale. But as Julius strolled toward Philip`s office he barely
glanced at the diners or the outdoor stalls heaped with the leftover designer clothes from
the summer season. Nor did he linger at any of his favorite shop windows, not at Morita`s
antique Japanese furniture shop, the Tibetan shop, or even Asian Treasures with the gaily
colored eighteenth–century roof tile of a fantastical woman warrior that he rarely passed
without admiring.
Nor was dying in his mind. The riddles connected with Philip Slate offered
diversion from those disquieting thoughts. First there was the riddle of memory and why
he could so easily conjure up Philip`s image with such eerie clarity. Where had Philip`s
face, name, story been lurking all these years? Hard to get his mind around the fact that
the memory of his whole experience with Philip was contained neurochemically
somewhere in the cortex of his brain. Most likely Philip dwelled in an intricate «Philip»
network of connected neurons that, when triggered by the right neurotransmitters, would