City Psychoanalysis.
I went east across Manhattan, up over the Queensborough Bridge and down onto the island in the East River where the State Hospital is located. The ancient buildings appeared bleak and macabre. Some looked abandoned. Three new buildings, built of cheerful yellow brick and pleasant, shiny bars, make hospital appear, together with the older horror houses, like a Hollywood movie set in which two movies, `My Mother Went Insane' and `Prison Riot', are being filmed simultaneously.
I went directly to the Admissions Building, one of the old, low, blackened buildings which, it was reliably reported, was held together solely by the thirty-seven layers of pale green paint on all the interior walls and ceilings: A small office was available to me there every Monday and Wednesday afternoon for my therapy sessions with select patients. The patients were select in two senses: one, I selected them, and two, they were actually receiving therapy. I normally handled two patients meeting each for about an hour twice a week.
A month before this, however, one of my two patients had attacked a hospital attendant with an eight-foot- long bench and in being subdued, had received three broken ribs, thirty-two stitches and a hernia. Since this was slightly less than he had inflicted upon the five attendants doing the subduing, no charges of hospital brutality seemed justified, and after his wounds healed, he was to be sent to a maximum-security hospital.
To replace him, Dr. Mann had recommended to me a seventeen-year-old boy admitted for incipient divinity: he showed a tendency to act as if he were Jesus Christ. Whether Dr. Mann assumed all Christs to be masochistic or that the boy would be for my spiritual health was unclear.
My other QSH patient was Arturo Toscanini Jones; a Negro lived every moment as if he were a Black Panther isolated on a half-acre island filled with white hunters armed with Howitzers. My primary difficulty in helping him was that his way of seeing the world seemed to be an eminently realistic evaluation of his life as it had been. Our sessions were usually, quiet ones: Arturo Toscanini Jones had very little to say to white hunters. Although I don't blame him, as a non-directive therapist I was a little handicapped; I needed sounds for my echo.
Jones had been an honors student at City College of New York for three years before disturbing a meeting of the Young Conservatives Club by throwing in two hand grenades. This act would normally have earned long tenure in a penitentiary, but Jones's previous history of `mental disturbance' (marijuana and LSD user, `nervous breakdown' sophomore year - he interrupted a political science class by shouting obscenities at his professor) and the failure of the two hand grenades to maim anything more valuable than a portrait of Barry Goldwater, earned him instead an indefinite stay at QSH. He had become my patient under the questionable assumption that anyone who throws hand grenades at Young Conservatives must be sadistic. That afternoon I decided to let myself go a bit and see if I couldn't provoke a dialogue.
`Mr. Jones,' I began (fifteen minutes had already passed in total silence), `what makes you think that I can't or won't help you?'
Sitting sideways to me in a straight wooden chair, he turned his eyes at me with serene disdain: `Experience,' he said.
'That nineteen consecutive white men have kicked you in the balls doesn't necessarily mean the twentieth will.'
True,' he said, `but the brother whom came up to that next Charlie with his hands not protecting his crotch would be one big stupid bastard.'
'True, but he could still talk.'
`No sub! We Niggahs gotta use our hands when we talk. Yessuh! We're physical, we are.'
`You didn't use your hands then when you spoke.'
`I'm white, man, didn't you know that? I'm with the CIA investigating the NAACP to see if there's any secret black influence on that organization.'
His teeth and eyes glittered at me, in play or hatred I didn't know.
'Ah-then,' I said, `you can appreciate my disguise: `I'm black, man, didn't you know that? I'm with-'
`You're not black, Rhinehart,' he interrupted sharply. `If you we'd both know it and only one of us would be here.'
'Still, black or white, I'd like to help you.'
'Black they wouldn't let you help me; white, you can't.'
'Suit yourself.'
`That'll be the day.'
When I lapsed into silence, he resumed his. The last fifteen minutes were spent with us both listening to the regular rhythmic shrieks from a man someplace in the Cosmold Building. After Mr. Jones left I stared out the gray window at the rain until a pretty little student nurse brought me the folder on Eric Cannon and said she'd bring the family to my office. After she left, I mused for a few seconds on what is called in the medical profession the `p' phenomenon: the tendency of starched 'purses' uniforms to make it seem as if all nurses were bountifully blessed in the bosom and thus shaped like the letter `p'. It meant that doctors surveying the field could never be sure that a nurse they were flirting with was proportioned like two grapefruit on a stick or two peas on an ironing board. Some claimed it was the very essence of the mystery and allure of the medical profession.
Eric Cannon's folder gave a rather detailed description of a latter-day sheep in wolf's clothing. Since the age of five the boy hail shown himself to be both remarkably precocious and a little simpleminded. Although the son of a Lutheran minister, he argued with his teachers, was truant from school, disobedient to teachers and parents, and a runaway from home on six mate occasions since the age of nine, the last episode occurring only six months before, when he disappeared for eight weeks before turning up in Cuba. At the age of twelve he began a career of priest baiting, which culminated in the boy's refusal to enter a church again. He also refused to go to school. He was caught possessing marijuana. He was stopped in what appeared to be the act of trying to immolate himself in front of the Central Brooklyn Selective Services Induction Centre.
Pastor Cannon, his father, seemed to be a good man - in the traditional sense of the word: a conservative, restrained derider of the way things are. But his son had kept rebelling, had refused to be treated by a private psychiatrist; refused to work. Refused to live at home except when it suited him. His father had thus decided to send him to QSH, with the under standing that he would receive therapy with me.
'Dr. Rhinehart,' the pretty little student nurse was saying suddenly at my elbow. `This is Pastor Cannon and Mrs. Cannon.'
`How do you do,' I said automatically and found myself grasping the chubby hand of a sweet-faced man with thick
graying hair. He smiled fully as he shook my hand.
`Glad to meet you, Doctor. Dr. Mann has told me a tot about you.'
`How do you do, Doctor,' a woman's musical voice said, and I turned to Mrs. Cannon. Small and trim she was standing
behind the left shoulder of her husband and smiling horribly her eyes kept flickering off to a line of female hags who
were oozing noisily through the hallway outside our door. The patients were dressed with such indescribable ugliness
they looked like character actors who had been rejected for Marat-Sade for being overdone.
Behind her was the son, Eric. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but his long long hair, rimless glasses and sparkle in the
eyes which was either idiotic or divine made him look anything but middle-class suburbanite.
`That's him,' said Pastor Cannon with what honestly looked like a jovial smile.
I nodded politely and motioned them all toward the chairs. The pastor and his wife pushed past me to sit down, but
Eric was staring out at the last of the women passing in the hall. One of them, an ugly, toothless woman with dish-mop
hair, had stopped and was smiling coyly at him.
`Hi ya, cutie,' she said. `Come down and see me some time.'
The boy stared a second, smiled and said, `I will.'
Laughing, he darted a bright-eyed look at me and went to take a chair. A juvenile idiot.
I plumped my big bulk informally on the desk opposite the Cannons and tried my `gee-it's-wonderful-to-be- able-to #161;
