beautiful act in the world and we use it that way.' Sickly smile. 'Scroll back and edit: I'm dysfunctional. Now you're supposed to ask in what way.'
'In what way?'
'Isn't your job finding out?'
'Yup,' I said.
'Good deal, your job,' he said, looking around the office. 'No need for any equipment, just your psyche and the patient's encountering each other in the great affective void, hoping for a collision of insight.' The briefest smile. 'As you can see, I've had intro psych.'
'Did you enjoy it?'
'Nice relief from the cold, cruel world of supply and demand. One thing did bother me, though. You people put so much emphasis upon function and dysfunction but pay no attention to guilt and expiation.'
'Too value-free for you?' I said.
'Too incomplete. Guilt's a virtue-maybe the cardinal virtue. Think about it: what else is going to motivate us bipeds to behave with proper restraint? What else prevents society from sinking into mass, entropic fuckupedness?'
His left leg crossed over his right and his shoulders loosened. Using big words relaxed him. I imagined his first, precocious utterances, met with astonishment, then cheers. Achievements piling up, expectations exceeded.
I said, 'Guilt as a virtue.'
'What other virtue is there? What else keeps us civilized? Assuming we are civilized. Highly open to debate.'
'There are degrees of civilization,' I said.
He smiled. 'You probably believe in altruism for its own sake. Good deeds carried out for the intrinsic satisfaction. I think life's essentially an avoidance paradigm: people do things to avoid being punished.'
'Does that come from personal experience?'
He shifted back in the chair. 'Well, well, well. Isn't that a bit directive, considering I've been here all of five minutes and it's not exactly a voluntary transaction?'
I said nothing.
He said, 'Get too pushy and I could revert to the treatment I gave my father when he chanced upon my meditation spot.'
'Which is?'
'Total freeze-out-what you guys call elective mutism.'
'At least it's 'elective.''
He stared at me. 'Meaning?'
'Meaning you're in control,' I said.
'Am I? Is there really any such thing as volition?'
'Without volition, why the need for guilt, Eric?'
He frowned for less than a second. Wiped away consternation with a smile. 'Aha!' Fingering a button of his wrinkled shirt. 'A philosopher. Probably an Ivy League guy-let's take a look at those diplomas… Oh. Sorry, the U. Native son?'
' Midwesterner.'
'Corn and cows and yet you're philosophical-this could start sounding like My Dinner with Andre.'
'Favorite movie of yours?' I said.
'I liked it, considering the chattiness level. Lethal Weapon's more to my taste.'
'Oh?'
'The comfort of simplicity.'
'Because life's complicated.'
He began to reply, checked himself, scanned my diplomas again, resumed studying the carpet. Neither of us spoke for a minute or so, then he looked up. 'Waiting me out? Technique Number Thirty-six B?'
'It's your time,' I said.
'Your job requires patience. I'd be lousy at it. I've been told I don't suffer fools well.'
'Told by whom?'
'Everyone. Dad. He meant it as a compliment. He's rather proud of me and displays it with ostentatious shows of support-there's a case of constructive guilt for you.'
'What's your father guilty about?' I said.
'Losing control. Raising his kiddies by himself when all three of us know what he'd really rather be doing is flying all over the country amassing real estate.'
'It's not as if it was his decision.'
'Well'-the curling lips twisted upward-'Dad's not always rational. But then, who is? To understand the root of his guilt, you'd need to know something about his background-do you?'
'Why don't you fill me in.'
'He's your basic self-made man, the cream of immigrant stock. His father's Greek, his mother's Sicilian. They ran a grocery in Bayonne, New Jersey, can't you just smell the Kalamata olives? In that world, family means mama, papa, kiddies, grape leaves, farting after too much soup, the usual Mediterranean accoutrements. But poor Dad's stuck with no mama in his family-he didn't save his wife.'
'Was that within his power?'
His face flushed and his hands rolled into fists. 'How the fuck should I know? Why even ask that kind of question when it's structurally unanswerable'} Why should I have to answer any of your questions?'
He looked at the door, as if considering escape, muttered, 'What's the use?' and slumped lower.
'The question bothered you,' I said. 'Have you been asked it by someone else?'
'No,' he said. 'And why would I give a fuck about anyone else? Why the fuck would I give a fuck about the fucking past, period? It's what's happening now that's… Forget it, there's clearly no point discussing this. Don't start feeling all triumphant because the first time I meet you I exhibit emotion. If you knew me, you'd know that's no big deal. I'm Mr. Emotion. I think it, I say it, in the brain, out the mouth. I'll emote to a fucking stranger if the mood strikes me, so this isn't progress.'
More sotto voce swearing.
'The only reason I let Dad get me into this is…'
Silence.
'Is what, Eric?'
'He caught me in a weak moment. The moon was full and I was full of shit. Believe me, it won't happen again. First item of business: back to Palo Alto tonight. Second item: get a new roommate who won't rat me out if I decide to deviate from routine. This is bullshit, understand? I know it, Dr. Manitow knows it and if you earned all that paper on the wall, you should know it.'
'Much ado about nothing,' I said.
'It sure isn't A Midsummer Night's Dream-no comedy in my life, dottore, I'm a po', po' child of tragedy. My mother came to a horrible end, I'm entitled to be obnoxious, right? Her death bought me leeway.' His hands pressed together prayerfully. 'Thank you, Mom, for miles of leeway.'
He slid down so that he was nearly lying in the chair. Smiled. 'Okay then, let's talk about something a bit cheerier-how about them Dodgers?'
I said, 'Seeing as you're going back to Stanford and I'll probably never talk to you again, I'm going to incur your wrath by suggesting you find someone there to talk to- Hear me out, Eric. I'm not saying you're dysfunctional. But you have been through something terrible and-'
'You are so full of shit,' he broke in. Discomfortingly mild tone. 'How can you sit there and judge my experience?'
'I'm not judging, I'm empathizing. I was older than you when my father died, but not much older. He brought on his own death, too. I was a good deal older when my mother died, but the loss was more profound because I was closer to her and now I was an orphan. There's something about that-the aloneness. My father's death was a big blow to my sense of trust. The fact that something so important can be taken away from you, just like that. The powerlessness. You view the world differently. I think that's worth talking about to someone who'll really listen.'
