Grimoire Diabolique

Barrows needed a drink. Bad. Phlegm-eater, he thought. There it was, a single, simple term. “But you also called it…what?”

“Dritiphily—from the Middle English noun drit, meaning something akin to human filth. You see how obscure the base word is? It doesn’t even actively exist in our language any more. But obsessive-compulsive symptomologies do indeed exist within a broad range of clinical verges. Utterly minor to the utterly outre. Your regrettable affliction—your dritiphily—is the most extreme manifestation of the poor soul who must count to ten every time they see a red truck, or must step on every third crack in the sidewalk.”

Even Barrows, in his overall shock, had to take exception. “Paying rummies and sick street whores to spit in my mouth isn’t exactly stepping on sidewalk cracks.”

“Outwardly, no. But inwardly, it’s all rooted in the same inception,” the staid woman replied. “We simply have to identify that inception—in your particular case, Mr. Barrows—and then we’ll disclose the proper avenue of your—”

“My cure?” Barrows said hopefully.

“Yes.”

She turned her hand, raised her rice-paper wrist to cast a glance at her watch. “We still have plenty of time. I think we should go on.”

“All right,” Barrows agreed. “Please.”

“So what have we done thus far? We’ve identified the more intricate manifestations of your dritiphily. We’ve established, through your own self-revelation, that you are habituated to eating phlegm, and that this ingestion is the only thing that permits you to achieve sexual arousal. Yes?”

Barrows didn’t like the sound of that, but he kept reminding himself what he was here for. Hence, his reply: “Yes.”

“Normal childhood, normal upbringing,” she said more to herself. “Not at all uncommon. The bad childhoods, the abnormal upbringings—those are the environmental breeding grounds for the Henry Lee Lucases, the John Wayne Gacys, the Jeffrey Dahmers. But you’re a successful investment financier, not a psychopath, not a serial-killer.”

Thanks, Barrows thought.

“Instead, your anomaly is rooted in between those notions. It’s hidden. It’s secreted away somewhere. Think of a well-crafted clock, but with the tooth of one solitary gear broken. We will find that cog, Mr. Barrows, and we will fix it.”

“You make it sound easy,” his voice grated.

“It may be. How badly to do want to be cured?”

He looked up quickly. “I’ll do anything. Pay…anything.”

“You’re accustomed to throwing money at your problems,” she acknowledged. “But that may not suffice here. Your mind is not a carburetor simply in need of a new gasket. But as your current psychiatrist, I’d be negligent in not informing you of some potential ‘quick fixes.’ There are, for instance, some rather radical treatments not endorsed by the APA, available in South America. Cariothiazine infusions which alter the chemistry of your brain, acupuncture, various aroma- and thermal-therapies. Narco-synthesis and bio-feedback cycles. I’ll admit, sometimes they work, but I can’t recommend them.”

Barrows sat closer to the edge of his seat, wringing his hands. “I’ll try anything, and…I’ll pay. I’ll pay a lot.”

“So you’ve said. One thing I can recommend a bit more than the latter would be an aversion-therapy clinic in Koping, Sweden. Believe me, they’ll cure you of anything—the hard way.”

“I’ll do it!” Barrows nearly shouted at her.

“I don’t suppose that the $30,000-per-month in-patient fee would bother you. But I’ll be honest in informing you that all too often these rather Pavlovian aversion techniques only eradicate one disorder to expeditiously replace it with another.”

“Great. I go from eating phlegm to eating shit? No thanks,” Barrows gruffed. He sat back, hands held out uselessly. “What then?”

“Your best chance for a successful recovery?”

“Tell me!”

Her long fingers idly rolled the cigarette then crushed it out. “Your best chance for a successful recovery stands with what you’ve previously frowned at. Maintained—and expensive—psychotherapy,” she said. “Certainly, I’m aware now that you’re a man of considerable income, and, especially due to the nature of your profession, you may think that I’m merely recommending the option that would most benefit my own financial interest. Therefore, to reduce any such trepidations, I’d be happy to give you a list of other psychiatrists who would be happy to render a second opinion.”

To hell with it, Barrows thought. Her staunch demeanor and cool locution told him enough: She’s it. Where else can I go? Fuckin’ Sweden? Goddamn South America? Besides, at the very least, she was attractive; Barrows, in fact, caught a quick fantasy in his mind: Sucking down a big green loogie and fucking her right there on the desk. Maybe if he put a gun to her head, she’d spit in his mouth. “That won’t be necessary. I want you to treat me. Please.”

“Fine,” she said crisply and leaned forward. She began writing on a small tablet. “For the first month, our sessions will be five days a week, seven if necessary. You’ve told me that you typically embark upon your…need… when you leave work, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So I’ll schedule you for, say, six p.m.? Will that suffice?”

 “Yes,” Barrows agreed.

“Instead of stalking down James Street every day after work, you’ll be coming here.” She finished writing, handed him a small slip of paper. “Here’s a prescription for a drug called Hydroxyzine. Ten milligrams four times a day. It will help ease the physical aspects of your dependency. In the meantime, I’ll schedule you at Harborview for a physical: blood tests, histamine counts, and the like, and also your first atropine injection, which helps take the edge off too. Then we’ll set you up for a written battery—MMPIs, TATs and TEDs, the Baley Scales and the Rorschachs—these are tests which might seem frivolous to you, but their conclusions will help me get a better fix on the more systematized aspects of your psychological make-up.”

“I’ll do it,” Barrows said without pause.

“Try to control your urges. You’ll probably fail for now, and that’s all right.”

He took the prescription, looked at it as if gazing upon something dear. For a moment, he wanted to cry.

After all these years, he’d found someone who would help him.

Time to start going back to church, he thought.

Dr. Untermann’s regal face appraised him, and she smiled. “Have no fear, Mr. Barrows. You’ve made the first, most crucial step. You’ve come for help. And I’ll help you. So many other never do that. We’ll see this thing through…and fix it.”

Barrows felt choked up as he stood. “Thank you…” His gaze drifted from her face to the wall behind her, which was covered with degrees and certificates. “You must be…pretty good.”

“Not to sound pretentious, Mr. Barrows, but as for treating cases such as yours, I’m probably the best in the country. Go home now. Think about what we’ve discussed, and envision the end of your affliction.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow at six, then?”

“Yes…”

“And get that prescription filled tonight.”

“I will.”

She lit another long slim cigarette: long and slim and refined like herself. “Goodnight, Mr. Barrows.”

Misty-eyed, Barrows left the office. Part of his psyche, of course, urged him to head right back down to his hunting grounds and search for the strange, tender morsels of his need.

But not tonight.

Because as he made his exit from the frosty, handsome woman’s office, he realized he was leaving with