Is that thing running?
Did you just turn it on, just now? Because I’m just now noticing it.
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You know, life is funny, isn’t it? Well anyway life is funny. I mean, I suppose you’re the one who should be asking the questions. But as soon as you say let’s get started, I ask the first question.
Right. So who’s asking the questions here? I guess I’d rather be the one doing the asking.
No offense. I appreciate that you’ve taken some time to chat a bit before we get down to business. Trying to put me at ease, I suppose. And it’s worked, at least a bit. I’m not as nervous as I was when I sat down here. Still nervous, though; I won’t lie about that.
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I don’t know, exactly. Well to be honest it’s not just nerves. It’s that, for sure. But...
Look, can I just ask about the ground rules? I don’t want to be a pain. I know you don’t have all day— the meter is running, and everything— but the thing is that I… I guess I need some reassurance. That’s the thing, really.
David Burke— You know him, right? Of course you do, probably better than I do. He told me that I could trust you, and I trust David Burke. So that’s not the problem. Don’t get me wrong about that. It’s not so much that I’m worried about you. It’s nothing personal; you seem like a nice enough guy. It’s just, well…
Look, why don’t I just say it right out. Might as well be honest, right— so we start out on the right foot, or whatever? I don’t want to be here. You know that. I mean, I’m only here because I wasn’t given a choice.
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Well, some choice, I suppose; not much. Name your poison. And I chose you, on David’s recommendation. But I’m not going to pretend that I’m perfectly okay with the whole thing. I’m not. The truth is I’m not at all happy about it. Not at all. I think it’s crazy. I’m not comfortable being here. I don’t think I should have to be here. I don’t think you should have to put up with me. It’s not about you. It’s about the fact that I was sent here.
Yeah, I get it. You know the story already— that part of the story, anyway. Maybe not my side of the story. But you can see why I’m not okay with the whole thing? Good. I appreciate that. I suppose a lot of people aren’t feeling comfortable when they walk in here; that’s not unusual for you, right?
Anyway, before we get going, can you tell me what I’m in for? I mean, what can I expect here?
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OK, fair enough. Thanks. That helps.
You know— can I just blurt it out again, and get it off my chest? Good. OK, part of my problem is that I don’t know anything. I mean, people are making decisions about me— about my life— and I don’t know what they’re thinking, why they’re making those decisions. I can only guess. Well, it’s not quite guessing; I mean, I have a pretty good idea. But I don’t want to jump to conclusions.
But they do! They jump to conclusions, I mean. That’s the thing! I don’t get to talk to them, to tell them my side of the story. They sent me to you. Well, they didn’t say you specifically, but the point is that they sent me to talk to somebody else— not to them. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, you know: when people are making decisions about your life, and not telling you about them, not even talking to you about them.
OK, I’ve said my piece now. I don’t mean to take that out on you, though. It’s not your fault.
So, an hour Tuesdays and Thursdays. I can manage that. The schedule is no problem, anyway. It’s great that you’re right here, practically down the street from me. Easy to get here and back.
Actually for a while I thought I was going to have to go downtown, to that office on Franklin Street. You know the one I mean? There were a couple of people there that they recommended. I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad. There’s a nice quiet little chapel downstairs, and I figured I could make a visit there, and then pop in to Filene’s Basement and look for a sale on socks or underwear or whatever. But I wasn’t looking forward to the trip back and forth. I guess it wouldn’t be bad, really: just hop on the train and walk up from South Station. But then you’re at the mercy of the train schedule. And forget about driving and finding parking in Downtown Crossing. This is a whole lot easier. And then when Father Burke recommended you, that closed the deal.
Still I’m not gonna pretend that I’m looking forward to it. I honestly don’t see what I get out of it— I mean, apart from getting them off my back. Frankly I don’t think you’re gonna get much out of it, either. You know what I mean? You’re going to be bored silly.
And you say you don’t know how long this will take? That doesn’t exactly help. Should I be putting you on my calendar every Tuesday and Thursday for the rest of the year?
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Great. For sure? At the most? That’s a bit of a relief, I guess. Still there’s a lot of time between now and December, and I’d be a lot happier if I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I feel like I’m taking a test, but I don’t actually know what it’s about. Know what I mean? Like I’m going to be taking the College Boards— one of the afternoon tests, the achievement tests— but they won’t tell me the subject. And then I don’t know how many questions are on the test, and how long it’s going take. I didn’t enjoy the College Boards much, either. But at least when I took them, I knew it would be over, for better or worse, in three hours.
To be honest— you say you want me to be honest— I’d rather not do this at all. But…
Wait a minute. I’m sorry, but it’s distracting me. Is that thing running? I saw you turn it on— that’s why I asked about it— but it wasn’t moving just now while you were talking. Now it is again.
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Voice activated? And it uses those little cassettes? That’s kinda cool, actually, you know? I guess I knew there were gizmos like that. I’ve just never seen one. Cool!
And you just turned it on after we’d gone through the hi-how-are-you-let’s-get-acquainted bit? I didn’t notice.
I get it. You don’t really need to have a record of what I think about the weather, and all that. I suppose if I’m so crazy that it comes across when we’re just getting acquainted, then your job is pretty easy.
But now— sorry if I sound paranoid— what happens to the tapes? Who’s going to listen to them? I said that I’m ready to trust you, but frankly that’s about as far as I can go right now. At this point there aren’t a whole lot of other people I’m willing to trust. There are a bunch of guys that I’ve realized I can’t trust— including some that I really should be able to. I’ve put my life in the hands of people who don’t seem to play by normal rules. That’s not a comfortable feeling. I wouldn’t be here if the people at Lake Street were honest and straightforward and— just even plain old rational.
I’m sorry. Getting ahead of myself now. I guess I get to talking fast when I’m excited. You can stop me when I start going on a jag like that; you don’t have to just sit there chewing your pen. I won’t mind. But I do want to know who’s going to listen to the tapes.
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Nobody else; really? Nobody at all? You don’t even have them transcribed?
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Do you keep all the tapes, though?
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Yeah, I suppose otherwise you’d be spending a small fortune on the cassettes. So when we’re done here— whenever that is— you listen to all the tapes, write up a report, and then erase them all so that you’re ready for your next happy customer?
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Just one more question— sorry to harp on this— if this thing is going to be sitting beside me whirring away all the time.
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No, the noise doesn’t bother me at all, really. I barely hear it; the air conditioner is louder. Right now it’s a distraction because… Well, I made it a distraction, didn’t I, by asking about it? I’ll get used to it. Let’s not worry about that.
But just that one last question, and I’ll drop the subject. Why record just my side of the conversation? Don’t you want to hear your own questions?
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Hah! Good for you! And you figure the patient is going to do all the talking anyway, right? That’s what these sessions are supposed to be about? If the patient ever stops asking his own questions, I mean.
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Client, patient, customer: Does it matter what you call me? Or what I call myself? Defendant, maybe?
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Sorry, but that’s kinda how I see things. You can call it what you want, but in the end you’re going to write up your report, and that’s going to have a lot to do with what happens to me— that, and whatever the people at Lake Street decide to make of it. I suppose you could say I’m as healthy as apple pie, or something, and they might still want to put me under wraps.
Still I suppose my best bet is to convince you that I’m perfectly normal, right? If I can? Maybe not perfectly; I suppose everybody has problems. How’s that song go? “Who’s got troubles? We’ve got troubles. How much troubles? Lots of troubles.” Something like that. From Casablanca, I think. My father used to sing it to us when we were kids, when we were complaining about something.
Yeah, I suppose I’ve got troubles. Doesn’t everybody? And I don’t doubt you’re going to figure out about mine— at least some of them. That’s what you do. That part doesn’t worry me at all.
David Burke has been a great help to me. I talk to him on a regular basis, about the state of my soul. I try to be honest with him, and he’s honest with me, and it’s very good for me. I’ll try to be honest with you, too— about the state of my psyche, not the state of my soul; I’m not going to treat this as a confessional, right? I don’t doubt that you can be helpful to me, too. What bothers me is the idea that it’s necessary.
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No, it’s not because I’m being extra careful. I’m not. At least not consciously. You saw how I just let loose to complain. I was talking a lot faster then, too, wasn’t I? Hmmm. That wasn’t being careful.
This is just the way I talk normally: slowly. Very slowly. I know it can be painful to listen. It will be painful for you, I’m afraid, if I’m doing all the talking, and you’ve got to do the listening for a whole hour. I don’t usually do that. I keep my sermons short.
Some people think I talk slowly because I’m thinking about every word. Not necessarily. But they’re not far off. You see my father’s a lawyer, and he drilled it into us as kids. “Think before you speak. When you speak before you think, that’s when you get in trouble.” He’d stop us, when we started shooting our mouths off, and make us take a breath and start again slowly. “Have you thought about what you’re about to say?” he’d ask us.
That, and he tried to get us to speak in complete sentences. As we got older, he’d interrupt us sometimes when we were telling a story or something, and tell us to start again and talk in sentences. That was good training, actually. Annoying, frustrating, but good training. And actually not always that annoying. He made it into a sort of game. I never got all that good at it. Peter did. That’s really good training for a lawyer. Or a politician, I suppose. Which is a scary thought.
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Yeah, OK, sorry. I don’t mean to filibuster. You’d like to get to work. OK. Look: I know I have my issues. I know them better than anybody else; I’m the one who has to live inside this head, you know. But I’m pretty sure they’re just the usual sort of issues, like everybody else has. Up until about a year ago, nobody ever thought I was unusual.
They did a background check, you know, before they let me into the seminary. That evaluation has got to be on file somewhere, and it obviously came out OK. Not perfect, maybe, but at least OK. And you can ask my teachers, my classmates, my coaches; they’ll all tell you that I’m not the sort of guy they worry about. Hell, I’m not even the sort of guy they notice.
There’s nothing that stands out about me— other than my height, I mean. Nothing else that makes people notice me, nothing extraordinary. You want to talk to someone extraordinary? I can introduce you to my brother. He stands out; if you meet him, you remember him. But me? No. Not extraordinary.
Let me put it this way: this is something that just hit me as I was driving in today. What’s the difference between the Gettysburg battlefield and Yasgar’s farm?
You know, Yasgar’s farm? Where they held Woodstock? Yeah, I think it’s in New York, actually. Maybe you’re right; it could have been Vermont. It’s the sort of thing you expect in Vermont, isn’t it? Whatever.
Anyway, Yasgar’s farm and the Gettysburg battlefield are both beautiful places: rolling hills, nice views, the works. Both very quiet places, too, except that they saw a whole lot drama for a few days. And a whole lot of loud noise. The difference is, at Gettysburg something important was decided. It wasn’t just, you know— what’s the line?—“sound and fury, signifying nothing.” At Woodstock, nothing was decided. Lots of drama— because the people there made the drama by themselves— but no real history. That’s what I think is happening with me right now. A bit of drama, some noise, but no real story.
Then when I was thinking about this, making this comparison, as I was on my way here, it hit me that Yasgar’s farm got completely trashed during the Woodstock festival. And the same thing could happen to me.
That’s probably a dumb comparison. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. But yeah, I’m worried. I’m worried about what this big fuss could do to me, to my work as a priest, to my future. And it’s all totally unnecessary. That’s why I’m so jumpy here. I’m not usually this jumpy. A little, maybe, but not this much.
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Now look, I know, for sure, some extraordinary things have happened to me recently. But you know what? We say that we believe in the possibility that extraordinary things can happen— that they do happen, all the time, when you think about it, in our line of work. I believe that. So if sometimes the extraordinary things are right out in the open, where everyone can see them, I don’t find that so very surprising. Unusual, sure, but just not that surprising. You know what I mean? It’s unusual for someone to be hit by lightning, right? Very unusual. But it does happen. If you’re the guy who’s hit by lightning, it’s not because there’s something unusual about you. You just happened to be in the wrong place during a storm.
What surprises me, actually, is that so many people who claim that they believe the same things that I believe can’t accept the possibility that these things might happen. It makes no sense to me. That’s why I don’t think I should even be here. You see?
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“And on that note…” OK. Sorry; I guess we’ve spent the whole session talking about why this whole thing worries me. But it does. Next time I promise I’ll let you ask the questions, and you can get to work.
See you Thursday.