By Scarlet Cohen

“It had been a lovely evening up until the main course.  She’d picked a very elegant restaurant, and the food was excellent. We’d each had a shrimp cocktail and two glasses of wine-” 
 “But Ronald, you’re not supposed to be drinking at all with the Valium you’re taking.  Alcohol interacts with it.  You could get very sick; you mustn’t take such chances; it’s very self-destructive,” clinical psychologist, Art Silverman, interrupts his patient.

Ronald waves his hand in dismissal of his therapist’s concern and settles back onto the burgundy leather sofa over which Dr. Silverman’s diplomas are displayed, “Oh it was only wine, and I had had only 30 mg that day instead of my usual 50.  Also, I had skipped my Prozac.  Now can I continue with my story?” he asks, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Dr. Silverman nods permission.  “So she tells me she met a man the night before.  He’s a psychologist, too, and they’re madly in love so she won’t be seeing me again, ever!  When she says this I begin choking on my pate and I’m choking and coughing and the maitre de is about to perform the Heimlich maneuver when I recover.  And I’m so pissed off I tell her she better split the fucking check.  Just as the words leave my mouth, the waiter brings her two pound lobster, and she screams that I can go fuck myself, picks up her lobster, plate and all and runs out of the restaurant.  I end up being charged for the shrimp cocktails, two lobsters, a bottle of French wine, and her plate.”

“That must have been very difficult for you to deal with,” Dr. Silverman says studying Ronald.  A few nights ago he and his wife had gone to a Woody Allen festival in the city.  It had been a marathon; the movies had played from noon ‘til midnight, but by the time they had seen Stardust Memories, Annie Hall, Manhattan, and The Purple Rose of Cairo, as well as consuming two large tubs of popcorn with butter and diet cokes to make themselves feel better about all the calories and fat in the popcorn, Art and his wife, Jennifer, were ready to leave.  Studying Ronald, Dr. Silverman realizes there is a strong resemblance between Woody Allen and his patient.  Both are stereotypical whiny New York Jews, both have quite the receding hairline, glasses, faces fixed in a perpetual frown, and seem to spend half their lives in therapy.  As well, they both are completely delusional narcissists, seeing themselves as hot young studs resulting in the endless pursuit of younger women.  However, while Woody can afford such a lifestyle, Ronald can’t even pay his therapy bills.

“Difficult?” Ronald says in a mocking tone, “That’s putting it mildly. Yes, it was difficult!  That’s the last time I call the Professional Jewish hotline.  I mean I can’t believe she won’t see me anymore.  I had been hoping if things didn’t work out romantically she could at least be give me discount therapy but now she won’t even take my calls!  But don’t worry I got even with that crazy bitch.”

“Oh?” Dr. Silverman asks, internally cringing.  Please tell me he hasn’t kidnapped this woman and isn’t holding her hostage.  I really don’t want to have to call the police, again, as I had to with Mr. Harrison last week.  Dr. Silverman found the duty to warn law complicated matters of confidentiality but he liked to avoid malpractice suits whenever possible.  While patients were upset about a breach in confidentiality, it was better to do so and prevent a death and lawsuit.  Much more cost effective.

“Oh yeah, I showed her!  I called her house all that night, and the next day, but I kept getting her daughter.  I think the kid’s around Daniel’s age, eleven or so.  Anyway, I told her that her mother’s a dinner whore!”  Ronald sits up in triumph.

“Ronald,” Dr. Silverman chastises, “You’re acting out again. Wasn’t it only last session that we were discussing you calling up your ex-fiancée and telling her you wanted to come over and ‘nail her to the wall’”?

“Well yes but she-”

“And what about the two women you’ve impregnated?  What’s going on with them?”

Ronald clears his throat and fidgets with a pillow.  “Well, the florist has agreed to get an abortion, and I had to lay out $350 bucks for it.  The other one, the stewardess, well she’s Catholic and refusing to get rid of it, but I’m not convinced it’s mine.  I mean, she travels to a different city like every night.  God only knows how many men she’s fucked!  She wants me to pay child support, but I want to see a DNA test before I give her a cent.”

“Will it be difficult to make child support payments to two different women?” Dr. Silverman inquires, “You do have your son, Daniel, to consider.”  And my bill to pay!  How else am I going to put my son through his last year at Cornell?  Damn this patient, if he isn’t blowing all his money on phone hotlines or knocking women up, he’s gambling it away in casinos.  I can’t believe how many years I’ve been putting up with this.

“Daniel will be okay.  I can support everyone through my poker playing.  In fact,  as soon as I’m done here I’m leaving for Atlantic City.  Boy have I pulled one over on my dad; he thinks I’m going to a convention in Pittsburgh.  I’ve invited a young lady whom I met on the Physically Challenged Hotline to meet me down there.  She’s in a wheelchair, but not to fear she’s capable, if you know what I mean.  I sent her money to take an ambulette down there.”

“She’s in a wheelchair?”

“Why should that matter?  The way I see it, one shouldn’t discriminate when choosing partners.  I don’t care about race, religion, physical or mental disabilities, if they’re married, if I’m married.  The way I see it, you should fuck them all!  You know Dr. Silverman, I know you’re married, but I know a nice Jewish lady I can set you up with.  I met her on the Jewish Athlete’s Hotline.  She’s a tennis player!”

“Um no thank you Ronald, that will be quite all right.  I’ll see you next week.  And I’d like to discuss something more productive like your constant sexual fantasies about your mother.”

*     *    *

The following week, when Dr. Silverman opens the door to his office after spending a session trying to help a man mend his marriage, he finds the man’s wife on the waiting room couch in Ronald’s arms.  Her shirt is off and he is frantically groping at her large breasts.  The two are so involved they don’t realize they are being watched until her husband makes his presence known by calling her a whore.

She pulls away from Ronald.  “Herb!  This isn’t what it looks like!”

“Don’t you even start with that line of bullshit, again.  Screw therapy, screw trying to make this work.  You’re nothing but a dirty little slut, and I’m filing for divorce!”

Herb promptly turns and stomps out of the office with his soon to be ex-wife at his heels, simultaneously trying to explain and button up her blouse.

Ronald grins sheepishly.  “Sorry about that.”

“Ronald, I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior in my office.  I never want another incident like this,” Dr. Silverman castigates his disheveled patient.

Ronald rises to his feet and follows Dr. Silverman into the office.  He takes his place on the couch.  “Well shall we begin?”

Begin, Dr. Silverman thinks with disgust.  This schmuck just cost me three sessions, one with the husband, one with the wife, and their joint session.  If it weren’t for

Steve’s college payments, I’d kick him out right now.

Dr. Silverman clears his throat.  “So at the end of last week’s session you mentioned you were off to Atlantic City.  How did that go?”

Ronald groans.  “Not good, Dr. Silverman.”

“Tell me more,” his therapist encourages.

“Well first off the paraplegic never showed up!  She pocketed the money I gave her for the amulette and I haven’t heard from her since.  She won’t return my calls and when I try calling her, I always get her voice mail.”  Ronald lets out a sigh, “But never fear things got worse.  I’m uh I’m going to need a little more time to pay you.  I’ll get the money real soon I promise.” Ronald sounds like a tenant who can’t pay his rent pleading with his landlord not to evict him, Dr. Silverman thinks.  And he used to be such a good tenant, paying every week in cash, the full amount even when his health insurance ran out.  If this pattern kept up, he would have to seriously consider eviction.

“What happened to your money, Ronald?” the doctor asks, closing his eyes and doing his best to remain calm.  Those Cornell payments were due!

“I lost it at the poker tables.  It was so unfair; I had won a bundle; I was doing great.  Then the next thing I knew, it was gone.”  Ronald opens his hands, which are indeed empty.  “The game has to have been rigged.”

“Ronald, I have been concerned about your gambling problem for quite some time.  Gambling occasionally for fun is all well and good, but with you it’s a compulsion.  You can’t control yourself; the same way an alcoholic can’t have just one drink.  An important step for you in getting your life back on track would be to abstain from gambling.”  Dr. Silverman scrawls something on a piece of paper, which he hands to Ronald.  “This is the number for Gamblers’ Anonymous.  They can tell when and where meetings are held.  I’d like you to start going, Ronald.”

“I’ll think about it.  It’s just I don’t think I can give up Atlantic City.  It’s so exciting!” Ronald’s eyes take on a far-off look.  One can practically hear the ringing of the slot machines.

“Come on Ronald, haven’t we had enough of that place?”

“What do you mean?” Ronald asks innocently.

“Well have you forgotten when you cheated on your wife by getting engaged to another woman in Atlantic City?  And have you forgotten the present you got her for her forty-ninth birthday?  That Latino couple you found in the Village Voice and invited from the Bronx for a foursome?”

“Oh that,” Ronald shrugs, “It’s not like anything happened.  I was doing so well at the poker tables I completely forgot about Carlos and Isabella.”

“Do you still about Carolyn and how abruptly the engagement ended?”

“Oh all the time.  I mean I only left her and moved back home because my dad promised me $200,000 if I did but it’s been months now and I haven’t seen a dime!”

Dr. Silverman bites his lip so that a sigh might not escape.  He changes the subject, “So have you had any more of those fantasies involving your mother?”

“Oh sure.  Just this morning at breakfast.  Do you any idea how erotic it can be to watch someone cut a bagel?  I just wanted to reach over and untie her kimono.  I know most people wouldn’t agree but trust me ninety-year-old women can be extremely erotic.  It’s nearly impossible to control myself.  I fantasize about getting her alone.”

“How do you control yourself?”

“My father, sister, and niece always seem to be around.  They just want to stand in the way of my happiness,” Ronald pouts, like a child denied dessert.

“Tell me more,” Dr. Silverman prods.

“Well it’s like I’m cursed.  Nothing ever works out for me.  My wife divorced and bankrupted me.  She took the house, our Yorkshire Terrier, Apricot, and hardly ever lets me see my son.  Then my fiancée left me.  I have all these medical problems.  Did I tell you I’m scheduled for another endoscopy this week?  The doctor insists it isn’t necessary, but what does he know?  Even business isn’t going well.  What the hell did I do to deserve all this?” Ronald’s head slumps forward to rest on his hand, making his bald spot all the more prominent, the shine refracting from the overhead light.

“I think you should be concentrating on business, Ronald and your health.  You should get into a routine and cut down on your compulsive dating and gambling.  You need to take good care of yourself, get exercise and eat properly.” Dr. Silverman feels not unlike a parakeet as he repeats the words of wisdom he has uttered hundreds if not thousands of times before.

Ronald takes his cue.  Looks up with admiration he says, “You’re so right.  What would I do without you, Dr. Silverman?”

*     *      *

“My mother has given me AIDS!”

“Who is this?” Dr. Silverman groggily says into the receiver, having been awakened in the middle of the night by his answering service, which will only put a call through if it’s a life or death situation.  He takes the cordless phone into the other room.

“It’s me, Ronald!”

“Ronald?”

“Dr. Silverman, it’s an emergency!  My mother has given me AIDS!  I don’t know what to do!”

“Where are you?”

“At a payphone on a street corner in Brooklyn,” Ronald gasps.

Dr. Silverman goes scourging for the bottle of Manichewitz left over from Passover.  When he gets the cap off, he downs the remains.  Cherry was always his favorite flavor, but blackberry would have to do.

“Ronald, I just saw you this afternoon, whatever could have happened in the interim?” Dr. Silverman lies down on the sofa and waits for the alcohol to kick in.

“Well I met this woman on a role-playing hotline. She agreed to role-play my mother.  I thought you would approve; I thought it would be therapeutic!” Ronald sounds close to tears.  “Oh God!”

“Ronald, I want you to take some deep breaths.  Come on; you need to calm down.  Now breathe.”

“I don’t need to breathe; I can just take more Valium.”

Dr. Silverman rolls his eyes.  “Why don’t you continue telling me what’s happened.  Why do you think you have AIDS?”

“Well, this woman, she was so convincing.  I got so into it; I guess I lost my head.”  As if you ever had it, Dr. Silverman thinks.  “And as we were about to have sex, I pulled out a condom, but she said, ‘No, condoms are bad.  Trust me on this; Mother knows best.’  I tried to protest, but after all she was my mother, and I had to obey her.  Oh Dr. Silverman, this woman was just my type – blonde, full-figured and busty—and you know how my real mother didn’t breast feed me.  You’re the one who told me I am still searching for what I was deprived of as an infant.”

“Ronald, it is the middle of the night.  I want you to go home to your parents, your real parents, your biological parents.  I can fit you in for an emergency session tomorrow at five.”

Ronald sighs but acquiesces.

After they have said good-bye, Dr. Silverman finds he is unable to fall back asleep.  Back in his bedroom, the ceiling fan whirls above his head, and he watches until he feels dizzy.  Closing his eyes he tries to conjure up a herd of sheep and allows them to fly over fences in his imagination.  Still he isn’t drowsy, and he finds himself wishing for some of Ronald’s Valium.  I should’ve gone to Med. School; then I could just write myself a prescription, he thinks.  Dr. Silverman turns over with a sigh that goes undetected by his slumbering wife.  Ronald.   Ronald, Ronald, Ronald.  He couldn’t believe how many years he had been putting up with this lunatic.  Screw being P.C!  Ronald had to be one of the craziest patients he had ever seen.  Thirteen years this fall, Dr. Silverman lets out a groan.

*     *      *

The next day at five sharp Ronald comes in for his session.  When Dr. Silverman opens the door to the waiting room, he is struck by just how thin his patient is, emaciated really.  His clothes positively hang on his frame, and when he makes facial expressions his skin stretches from the effort, as if any minute his chin will jut straight through and bone will be revealed, like a rabbit in a magic trick.  In fact, Ronald is looking so bad these days, Dr. Silverman wonders how he is even attracting women to get into trouble with.  Maybe he’s paying them instead of me?

Ronald steps into the office and slumps down on the couch.  He is extremely mellow and Dr. Silverman wonders just how much Valium his patient has taken today.  “Well,” Ronald begins, “I went to a health clinic this morning.  I had to fill out some forms.  One question asked if my sexual preference was male, female, or other, so I checked other and wrote in sheep.”

Dr. Silverman clears his throat.  “Have you had any involvement with barnyard animals, Ronald?”

“It was a joke, Doc, don’t lose your hairpiece.”

Asshole, Dr. Silverman thinks, but says, “Tell me what happened at the health clinic.” Is there any hope they’ll perform a lobotomy?

“Oh they took some blood.  The test results will be back in a week; then I will have to be tested again in three months to find out if the lady who role-played my mother gave me AIDS,” Ronald’s lids are practically closing, and his speech is as languid as a line at the DMV.

“Ronald, you need to make a stronger effort not to engage in such self-destructive behavior in the future.  Your acting out sexually is just another way of not feeling your feelings.  You need to face things and stop running away.”  He goes over to his desk and scribbles something on a piece of paper, which he gives to his patient.  “Now this is the number for SLA.  Sex and love addicts anonymous.  Have you attended a GA meeting, yet?”

“No,” Ronald admits.

“Ronald, you need to give these 12 step programs a try.  They really do work,” Dr. Silverman encourages.

“Well maybe I’ll go to a sex meeting.  Who knows, I could meet a woman there!”

*     *      *

Ronald is ebullient when he comes in for his next and what will be his last session with Dr. Art Silverman.  “Dr. Silverman,” he prattles “I have so much to tell you!  I attended three different meetings this week- GA, SLA, and AA!”

“But Ronald, you’re not an alcoholic,” Dr. Silverman’s forehead furrows in confusion matching the wrinkles of his face, the way a hat might complement a scarf.

“Well I know that!  Don’t worry there’s a method to my madness.  You see, at each of these support groups I get a sponsor, someone I can call at any hour.  So now I don’t have to run up my parents’ phone bill calling 900 numbers to talk to women!” After his great announcement, Ronald sits back awaiting praise, as if he were a fifth grader who has just presented a report card of straight As.  When Dr. Silverman does not say anything, Ronald is confused.  “Well?” he asks.

“That’s uh very nice Ronald.  I’m glad you’re finding healthier outlets for your compulsions.”

“Thank you,” Ronald beams.

“Now Ronald, there’s something we have to discuss.”  Dr. Silverman shifts in his seat, crosses then uncrosses his legs, removes his glasses from his face and wipes the lenses with a handkerchief from his trouser pocket.  His face feels flushed, and he dabs at his forehead with the same handkerchief.  Perhaps he is coming down with something.  “Ronald, you’ve been coming to see me for thirteen years now.  That’s a long time.  I’m not a young man anymore.”  Why is this so difficult? he wonders, it was so easy with my other patients.  “Ronald, I’d like…” No, that didn’t sound right, he wasn’t asking permission for Christ’s sake!  “Ronald, I’m retiring.”  There, he’d said it.  As soon as the words left his lips, he felt lighter and tanner.  The last Cornell payments had been made and he felt free as if he had already been transported from his office to a Ft. Lauderdale golf course.

“Retiring?  No!  You can’t do that!  You can’t just leave me!  Who’s going to take care of me now?”

Dr. Silverman tosses a box of Kleenex to Ronald.  “Ronald, it’s all right.  It’s going to be okay.  I’m not going to leave you hanging.  I have a wonderful referral, in fact, the next best thing to me.  My daughter is going to be taking over my practice.  She’s a wonderful doctor, and I strongly believe you will find her very helpful.”

“Your daughter?”

“That’s right,” Dr. Silverman confirms.  Let Tammy deal with this lunatic!

“Oh God!”

“Ronald, what’s wrong?”

“It’s just, how can I be a hot young stud if your daughter is old enough to be a doctor?”  He points to a framed photo of Tamar at her batmitzvah, flat-chested with braces, and frizzy hair.

“Everyone grows old, Ronald.  It’s natural it’s a part of life, you can’t stop it from happening.  Besides, growing old isn’t the hard part; it’s growing up that’s so difficult.”

“But I don’t want to grow old,” Ronald whimpers.  He plucks a tissue from the box of Kleenex like a flower and begins picking it apart as if it were indeed a plant.  “I’m not ready for this.  It’s too soon.  It can’t be over, not now when everything is so wrong.  Oh God.”

“What are you feeling Ronald?  Don’t think, just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Scared,” he says in such a way that Dr. Silverman is reminded of his granddaughter who a few years back wouldn’t go to sleep until the entire room had been inspected for monsters.

“What are you afraid of?” the doctor leans forward and stares so long and hard that Ronald becomes blurry; he has forgotten to blink.

“It’s so embarrassing!  I never thought, never in a million years, I never thought this could happen to me!” Ronald blows his nose loudly into one of the tissues he has not dissected.  He squeezes his eyes together so fiercely Dr. Silverman finds himself wincing.

“What is it?  You can tell me, Ronald; it’s okay, you’re safe here,” Dr. Silverman continues prodding his now sobbing patient.

“Doctor, doctor,” Ronald hiccups, “Dr. Silverman, I’m not a real man anymore!”

Dr. Silverman reaches for his notepad and scribbles Oedipal Complex.

“Tell me more, Ronald.”

“Don’t you get it?” Ronald lets out another hiccup before continuing, “I can’t have sex anymore!  It isn’t working!” Ronald shrieks, “Oh god!  Oh god help me!  I’m impotent!”

“How many times have you been unable to have intercourse?”

“Well it’s happened now and then over the years.  Mr. Happy has never been happy 100% of the time, especially when I take Prozac.  But I haven’t touched the stuff in a month and now seven times in a row I’ve been unable to perform!  How will I ever go on?!”

“Ronald, there have been wonderful advances in medicine for men with this problem.  You can go see a specialist.”

“But real men don’t have problems like this,” Ronald whines.

Dr. Silverman pictures his own medicine cabinet and the bottle of blue Viagra tablets he has just refilled at the pharmacy and he opens up his mouth to speak, to tell Ronald once and for all what he thinks of him.  So what if they took his license away?  He doesn’t need it; he’s retiring!  Psychology wasn’t like the army where your discharge was either honorable or dishonorable.  But before he can begin his tirade, there is a knock on the door.

With jaw clenched tightly, Dr. Silverman says, “That must be my daughter.”

He stands up to let in a petite young woman in her mid 30s wearing black loafers, slacks, a white blouse and a navy blue pinstripe blazer.  “Hi Daddy,” she says, “I’m not interrupting am I?”

“No, we were just wrapping up.  Ronald, I’d like you to meet my daughter-” “The dinner whore!” he exclaims.

“This is Ronald?” her jaw drops open with such exaggeration she looks like a first year drama student.

“Oh my god Tamar,” Dr. Silverman gasps, “You were?  You two?”

“Daddy, I can explain!”

“You were eating lobster and shrimp?  That’s not kosher.  Tamar, how could you?” Dr. Silverman is shocked.

“Oh daddy, I stopped keeping kosher when I went away to Brandeis,” she says with obvious exasperation, her eyes rolling upward.

“But I paid extra just so you’d have a kosher dining room!”

Ronald rises to his feet.  “You two are concerned about eating shellfish?  I never got paid for half that check.  Did you know they even charged me for the plate you ran out of the restaurant with!”  With his red face, clenched fists, and the sweat glistening on his forehead Ronald looks like a more than slightly underweight boxer confronting his opponent.

Tammy turns around to face her nemesis, her eyes narrowed into furious blue slits.  “And rest assured Ronald that you will never see that money.  Not get out of my office!”

“But-” he quivers.

“Out!  You get the hell out and never come back or I’ll call the cops.  You’re lucky I didn’t have you arrested for the way you harassed my daughter.  But rest assured if you ever come near me or my family again I will make you regret the day you were born.”

“Dr. Silverman?” Ronald seeks an ally.

Dr. Silverman shakes his head and averts his eyes, looking at something, anything but Ronald.  He inspects the hardwood floors, the roll top desk over by the window, the books in his shelf.  What would Freud advise?  Would Rogers or Jung have any words of wisdom?

Finally he looks at Ronald, panic-stricken, and then at his daughter whom he hasn’t seen this angry since she found out her husband was cheating on her while she was pregnant.  Ronald has still not moved and Tammy is crossing the room towards the phone.  Dr. Silverman clears his throat then speaks.  “It’s over Ronald.  You better go.”

Ronald shoulders raise.  “Where?” he asks, “Where?”