34
MY phone is not broken. I have called it from the shop several times a day for the past few days. You’re not off the grid. You are here in New York, living, writing, and tweeting:
Is there anything more romantic than new snow at night? #stillness #love
There is no logical or technological or romantic reason for the fact that you have not called me or e-mailed me since returning from LC. It’s been twenty-three minutes and thirteen days since Peach left the picture. The wound on my face is stubborn but there is progress and I’m less of a monster every day. And that’s just another reminder that precious time is passing. I can’t figure you out, Beck. You’re not e-mailing with any new guys and you’re not e-mailing your friends about anything romantic but you’re writing about guys. The last story you wrote was about a girl (you, duh, they’re always you) who goes to the doctor and learns that she has a penis stuck inside of her. She calls every guy she’s ever been with to see if he’s still got his penis. The list of dudes is gross long (an exaggeration, it has to be) and they all still have dicks. Finally, she admits there’s one dude she didn’t call because he’s married with children. She doesn’t want to give him his dick; she wants him to leave his wife and come and get it. As Blythe said in her e-mail critique, “There’s no real ending, no climax, no point. I’m not presuming that this is based on something real in your life, but if so, maybe think of putting this story in a drawer and revisiting it once you’ve got some distance from your emotions.”
And naturally, I am concerned. You’ve been seeing this Dr. Nicky twice a week since you got back. And then you write this thinly veiled story about fucking a married guy. Of course I called to schedule an appointment with him. How else can I make sure that he’s not taking advantage of you? And it’s not like I’m the only one concerned.
Chana: You just went to therapy. WTF? How do you even afford this?
You: New priorities. No boozing, no shopping, just writing, journaling, growing.
Chana: Okay, Beck. But remember Dr. Nicky is . . . Dr. Nicky.
But today is a good day because the elevator has just hit the twelfth floor and I step into the hallway and find the door to the waiting room open, as Dr. Nicky said it would be. I’m a little early for my appointment, which is good, because I have time to review my new identity.
Name: Dan Fox (son of Paula Fox and Dan Brown!)
Occupation: Coffee shop manager
Disorder: OCD. I know a shit ton about OCD from reading.
I feel good already and I like this waiting room, the baby-blue walls and this baby-blue sofa. And the building happens to be in my favorite neighborhood, the Upper West Side. Elliot saw a shrink in Hannah and who knows? Maybe there’s nothing going on between you and Dr. Nicky. Maybe he’s just really good at what he does. It’s possible. In just two weeks, you’ve figured out a lot about yourself.
I know because Nicky gives you homework. You have to write a letter to yourself every day. And you do:
Dear Beck, You only know how to push or pull when it comes to guys. Admit it. Own it. Fix it. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, You reel in men and you lose interest when you have them. You don’t wear a bra so that guys will look at your nipples. Wear a bra. Nicky sees what you’re doing. This is good. Be seen. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, Intimacy terrifies you. Why are you so afraid? You can only get off when you’re role-playing. Why can’t you be yourself? Nicky knows you and accepts you. So will others. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, You think you can’t have love until you’ve outgrown your daddy issues. But maybe you won’t outgrow your daddy issues until you let yourself fall in love. Nicky is right. You grow through love. You don’t postpone love until you stop growing. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, It’s not your fault that you were born on an island. Of course you identify as an island. But, dear girl, you’re not an island. Be populated. Be welcoming of love. Love, Beck.
Dear Beck, It’s okay to resent your mom. She does envy you. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, Don’t be your own worst enemy and chase after guys who don’t want you. Be your own best friend and learn how to love guys that do want you. And remember, nobody is perfect. Love, Beck
These e-mails have really helped me get through this dry spell. Now I know that you didn’t bail on me because of the sex. You bailed on me because you have problems. So maybe in a month or so, when I’m knee-deep in therapy, and I’ve written letters to myself, maybe I’ll be in bed with you on a late Sunday morning. Maybe by then, I’ll understand myself better and we’ll share our therapy letters in bed.
The door to the office swings open and the air smells of cucumbers and Dr. Nicky is not what I expected.
“Dan Fox?” he says.
I manage to say hello and shake his hand. I follow him into the brutally beige office and sit down on the couch but holy shit, Beck. Dr. Nicky Angevine is young. I assumed he’d be in his fifties but he’s for sure in his early forties. The walls are covered with framed classic rock albums—the Rolling Stones and Bread, Led Zeppelin and Van Morrison. He futzes around with his computer and apologizes for needing another minute and I say it’s okay. He’s wearing Vans, clinging to his youth. He’s a picture of restraint with his thick, wavy hair gelled into submission and encroaching blue eyes that look chock-full of tears. I can’t tell if he’s Jewish or Italian and he finishes up with his computer and sits in the leather chair. He picks up a glass pitcher of water. There are cucumbers in the water, thus the smell.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he says and once again, this is not what I expected.
“Sure,” I say and I take the water and holy shit, Beck. This shit is heaven.
“I should let you know right off the bat,” he says. “I keep a notebook but I don’t take a lot of notes. I prefer to keep everything up here.”
He points to his head and grins and he could be a serial killer or the nicest guy in the world, but there is no middle ground for this dude. No wonder he went into psychology. He had to find some way to stop himself from acting on twisted, perverse thoughts of his own. When he smiles, his chemically whitened teeth pop out, entirely out of place on his drawn, sad face.
“Well, Dan Fox,” he says. “Let’s figure out what the fuck is wrong with you, shall we?”
I have to say, he’s really easy to talk to. I expected a doctor’s office, but this is like hanging out in a middle-aged dude’s college dorm room. And if we were in college, he’d leave and go to class and then I could hack into his computer and dig up all the files about you. But that’s not happening; we’re adults and he has a job to do. He wants to know who beat me up and I tell him about the accident on my way to a ski trip (the LC crash) and I tell him about getting mugged after closing up the coffee shop (Curtis and his homeboys). And then he starts to get a little more personal and asks, “Do you have a girlfriend, Dan?”
“Yeah.” I could easily have one so it’s fine. I tell him I’m not here because of my girlfriend; she’s terrific. I tell him I want help with my OCD.
“What’s your obsession?” he says.
I know all about mirroring, Beck. One of the best ways to get someone to trust you is to focus on what you have in common. “It’s actually kind of funny,” I say. “All the albums you got here. I don’t know how or why, but I’ve become psychotically obsessed with this random video by the Honeydrippers.”
“I love the Honeydrippers,” he says. “Tell me it’s not ‘Sea of Love.’ ”
“You know it,” I say and he’s my new best friend. And I’m good at this, I think. I tell him I can’t stop watching the video (you) and thinking about the video (you) and wishing I could go live inside of the video (you). I tell him I’ve lost interest in everything because of this video (you) and I need to get some control.
“Is your lady friend losing patience with you?”
“No,” I say, because if I had a lady friend, she would be too happy to be with me to lose patience. “I’m the one losing patience, Doc.”
“Doctor nothing, kid.” And he shakes his head no. “I’m not a doctor. I just have a master’s.”
I want to ask him why you call him Dr. Nicky if he’s not an actual doctor but I can’t do that and he says it’s only fair that he tell me a bit about his own life. “What you see is what you get, Danny. I’m a forty-five-year-old pothead slash failed bass player with a master’s in psych,” he tells me. “I love rock ’n’ roll and I got into this field originally because I’m a natural bullshit artist. But then I realized I actually like helping people, so here we are today.”
“That’s cool, Nicky.” And the first time I say his name it sounds funny coming out of my mouth, a new word in my vocabulary. Nicky.
I tell him it sounds good and we talk about growing up—he’s from Queens and I’m from Bed-Stuy. It turns out therapy is just talking and maybe you really are just trying to grow. Maybe someday I’ll even be a shrink. I could do this. I could frame my favorite books on a wall in a beige room and talk to people like me, like you.
Nicky says it’s time to wrap things up and make a plan. Is it lame that I’m excited for homework?
“Danny, we’re gonna do a lot of work in here. For starters, you’re gonna learn that you live in a house.”
I have never lived in a house, only apartments. But I nod.
“And there’s a mouse in your house,” he says. “The video. And the good news is that it’s just a mouse.”
And now you’re a mouse, Beck.
“It’s not strong like you, Danny.” He’s very serious now. “That mouse is tiny. You’ve got arms, hands. You have dexterity.”
You only have a pussy and I agree with him.
“You can reach the doorknob, Dan. You can lay down traps.”
Traps.
“You know, Danny, life’s a bitch and sometimes it gets dark in your house.”
He points to his head and I nod. It does get pretty dark in here.
“And that’s when the mice come.”
You came into my store and started this thing, us.
“Sometimes it gets so dark that all you can do is listen to that fucking mouse scramble around and eat your food and shit on your floor and it’s so dark that you can’t see the doorknob,” he goes on. “You forget there is a doorknob and what we do in here is we turn on the lights, Danny.”
“Right.”
“We set the traps, Danny.”
“Right,” I say, louder than before.
“And we open the door and we get the broom and we shoo that mouse out of there,” he says and he punches the air. “And sometimes, we don’t even need to do that because sometimes, we kill that mouse.”
Not this time.
“And it doesn’t happen in a heartbeat. I’m not gonna lie, Danny. But it’s doable.”
“You ever work in construction?” I ask. Most guys in our neighborhood did, at some point, and I like the idea of Nicky and I having stuff in common, being equals.
“Couple of summers back in the day,” he answers, and I was right. “You?”
“Couple of summers back in the day,” I say, too eager. What a loser and a copycat but Nicky smiles and I think of the past few weeks and the nights I spend on the floor against the wall with your panties in my hands, staring at the hole in the wall that I made because of you and covered because of you. “Yeah, Doctor . . .”
He shakes his head and I laugh. “I mean, Nicky. I need to find the doorknob.”
“You’re gonna find it. And if the house/mouse concept doesn’t work for you, you can also think of the video as a zit. You can pop it and it’s gone. Forever, no scars, if you take care of your skin.”
You are not a zit, you are a mouse, and I speak. “I thought you weren’t supposed to pop zits.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says and he looks at the clock. “So. Do you like Thursdays?”
AFTERWARD, when I walk down the street, I feel like a changed person, Beck. Fifty minutes with Nicky and it’s like I have a new set of eyes. The world looks different to me, like I put on 3-D glasses or smoked a joint or fucked the shit out of you. I feel high but straight and I head for the park where I watch the “Sea of Love” video for the first time in a long time. The girl in the video is kind of cute with the Bowie blond hair and therapy is working out already. I mean, watching this offbeat, trippy video makes me happy and I haven’t been happy in a while. And the best part is, that I’m not afraid anymore. You’re not sleeping with Nicky. You’re just experiencing transference. I know about it from The Prince of Tides. It happens. Nicky has a master’s and Nicky is the man and he’d never break the doctor-patient dynamic. It applies, even though he’s not a real doctor.
I walk to the subway and then walk down the stairs. I like life, Beck. I feel all this new patience. I can wait for you to call me. I am strong enough to give you time. I forgot to check your e-mail and your phone is heavier than it was this morning. I write to myself even though he didn’t tell me to:
Dear Joe, You have a mouse in your house and when she’s ready, you will kiss her and she will turn into the girl of your dreams. Be patient. Be open. Best, Dan Fox
I haven’t felt this close to you in two weeks. I love therapy, I do.