The Funny Man by John Warner

Author:John Warner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2011-07-09T16:00:00+00:00

17

WITH OUR STRATEGY change now officially accepted by the court, and a little time granted for the prosecution to recalibrate anything they deem necessary, I have nowhere to go except to my therapist. I feel light and free as I breeze past the ever-smiling Jill into the office. I’m not sure what there is left to talk about, having achieved very little progress over the years. Sure, he has seen me through my phases, I suppose, escorting through the superfluousness, helping keep a lid on the flee-floating rage, but now, supposedly, we have “loss of perspective,” and, particularly when looked at from his perspective—a movement from one unsatisfactory state to another—it’s hard to see how our time together can be called “progress” on any level.

We have mutually agreed that Bonnie and the White Hot Center are off limits, “not a productive area,” according to him. His goal, it seems, is to bring me back to firmer ground, space and time we can agree upon, which means he wants to talk about my childhood.

Like all therapists, mine is obsessed with this, despite my insistence that there is nothing there. I did not devour an unborn twin in the womb. There was no greasy uncle in a stained tank top with wandering hands, or a babysitter that locked me in a closet. I was not left behind in a department store. I did not walk in on my parents doing it doggy-style. I wasn’t even spanked, my father always preferring the rational road to problem-solving as opposed to blunt force. My therapist says at the roots of any problem there is also some fear, something that sticks, a “psychic stain.”

I settle into the couch, sitting upright because it is poorly padded and uncomfortable, though stylish. I suppose its lack of comfort serves a function as well, no one really wanting to spend more than fifty minutes on it.

He, as always, leads with the gesture, his encouragement for me to set the terms of our conversation. I asked once why he couldn’t even inquire into my general health, or even just how my day was going and he said that if he did so, we’d start talking about my general health, or how the day was going, and he had no idea if that’s what we should be talking about.

“What should we be talking about?” I ask.

“Whatever you want.”

“So right now, we’re talking about what I might want to talk about.”

“That’s right.”

“How do we know if that’s what I want to talk about?”

“Because you brought it up,” he replies.

Because I know we’ll sit and stare at each other for a near hour, I tell him about how from ages five to seven I slept on one side of my single bed, my back always turned to the window.

“Why did you do that?” he says.

“I was afraid of the monsters.”

“What monsters?”

“The ones with giant heads and big teeth that would come through the window.”

“Why were the monsters after you?”

“They wanted to eat me.”

“And how

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