Blues for Beginners: Stories and Obsessions by Bacon Press Books Page B

couch long enough to
forget what he looks like.
    “You could call it salt and pepper.”
    I am instantly furious.
    “That dream was about me, not you. You must
think you’re the center of my universe.”
    He just laughs.
    “I would, if I didn’t know it was only
transference.”
    After that comes one of those pauses that
feels like an afternoon. The silence is almost unbearable except
talking would be worse.
    “What aren’t you saying?”
    “Oh, nothing,” I say.
    You’d think license to talk about yourself
for an hour would be delightful but it’s not, not if he actually
listens.
    “You’re thinking of something.”
    “Nothing important.”
    Nothing is unimportant in analysis, no matter
how lame, inane or picayune. Nothing is too dumb for words.
    “I shouldn’t be smoking in here,” I say,
flashing suddenly on a recent article in the Post about the effect
of secondary cigarette smoke on nonsmokers. “I’m probably giving
you lung cancer by proxy.”
    “That last statement is an excellent example
of how you frequently make yourself feel guilty,” he says. “I’m
also touched by your concern.”
    I burst into tears.
    .
    It’s been months since I’ve looked him in the
eye. In memory now his face is an amalgamation of Walter Cronkite
and Walt Disney. This relationship is certainly meaningful but also
perverse, since it violates basic laws of social intercourse. I’m
supposed to tell him anything that comes to mind without fear or
censorship but he is not allowed to retaliate. I never attack
directly. Instead I sneer at his office furnishings.
    Why is so much of it brown? Why only National
Geographic and Time in the waiting room; is he afraid of
People?
    Sometimes I trash his profession.
    “Any English major could do you job. English
majors know all about symbolic interpretation,” I tell him.
    I am usually nasty at that certain time of
the month, the time when he bills me.
    .
    The remark is intended as disinterested
sociological observation, not reproach.
    “One pays an analyst for the same reason one
might prefer paying for sex,” I tell him.
    “You’re calling me a whore,” he replies
amiably.
    I see him in pasties, a G-string and those
awful hushpuppies and my face burns with shame.
    “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was I
like paying because I need to feel in control.”
    “Except you hate to pay me. Look how your
hands shake! I’ll bet you got the date wrong again.”
    This time I’ve filled in the correct date,
only I wrote the check out payable to myself.
    “It’s just the amount. Writing checks this
big gets me flustered.”
    Even with Blue Cross reimbursements the
amount seems hard to justify. A month of psychoanalysis could feed
a third world village.
    “So, to return to your earlier analogy,” he
says, ‘‘We agree with the principle; now we’re just dickering about
price.”
    .
    The times we run into each other in his lobby
and share the elevator are always awkward, at least for me. I can
make elevator small talk with anyone except Dr. Freundlicht. Even
though I know he’s off-duty I expect him to know what I’m thinking
at all times. I assume he has a wife, two children, a gray Volvo
station wagon and a labrador retriever, along with season tickets
for the symphony. He could be gay, drive an Oldsmobile, and have
season tickets for the Redskins, but I’ll never know.
    As he pointed out early on, if he wanted to
talk about himself he’d be obliged to pay me.
    .
    It turns out Dr. Freundlicht used to be a
smoker. He lets this slip out when I tell him about my blind date
from the City Paper classifieds.
    “We’re sitting at an outdoor cafe and he
takes my cigarettes off the table. I wanted to smack him. He had
this patronizing smile like he was doing me a big favor. Quitting
smoking means giving in to those sort of people.”
    “The surprising thing for me when I quit was
how no one noticed anything different,” Dr. Freundlicht says.
    .
    I stare at the smiling