The Schopenhauer Cure(6)

Whoa, don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Why would Philip continue for three years if he had gotten nothing? Why would he continue to spend all that money for nothing? And God knows Philip hated to spend money. Maybe those sessions had changed Philip. Maybe he was a late bloomer—one of those patients who needed time to digest the nourishment given by the therapist, one of those who stored up some of the therapist’s good stuff, took it home, like a bone, to gnaw on later, in private. Julius had known patients so competitive that they hid their improvement just because they didn’t want to give the therapist the satisfaction (and the power) of having helped them.

Now that Philip Slate entered his mind, Julius could not get him out. He had burrowed in and taken root. Just like the melanoma. His failure with Philip became a symbol embodying all his failures in therapy. There was something peculiar about the case of Philip Slate. From where had it drawn all that power? Julius opened his chart and read his first note written twenty-five years before.

PHILIP SLATE—Dec. 11, 1980

26 yr old single white male chemist working for DuPont—develops new pesticides—strikingly handsome, carelessly dressed but has a regal air, formal, sits stiffly with little movement, no expression of feelings, serious, absence of any humor, not a smile or grin, strictly business, no social skills whatsoever. Referred by his internist, Dr. Wood.



CHIEF COMPLAINT: “I am driven against my will by sexual impulses.”

Why now? “Last straw” episode a week ago which he described as though by rote.

I arrived by plane in Chicago for a professional meeting, got off the plane, and charged to the nearest phone and went down my list of women in Chicago looking for a sexual liaison that evening. No luck! They were all busy. Of course they were busy: it was a Friday evening. I knew I was coming to Chicago; I could have phoned them days, even weeks earlier. Then, after calling the last number in my book, I hung up the phone and said to myself, “Thank God, now I can read and get a good night’s sleep, which is what I really wanted to do all along.”

Patient says that phrase, that paradox—“which is what I really wanted to do all along”—haunted him all week and is the specific impetus for seeking therapy. “That’s what I want to focus on in therapy,” he says. “If that is what I want—to read and to get a good night’s sleep—Dr. Hertzfeld, tell me—why can’t I, why don’t I, do it?”



Slowly more details of his work with Philip Slate coasted into mind. Philip had intellectually intrigued him. At the time of their first meeting he had been working on a paper on psychotherapy and the will, and Philip’s question—why can’t I do what I truly want to do?—was a fascinating beginning for the article. And, most of all, he recalled Philip’s extraordinary immutability: after three years he seemed entirely untouched and unchanged—and as sexually driven as ever.

Whatever became of Philip Slate? Not one word from him since he abruptly bailed out of therapy twenty-two years ago. Again Julius wondered whether, without knowing it, he had been helpful to Philip. Suddenly, he had to know; it seemed a matter of life and death. He reached for the phone and dialed 411.





2




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Ecstasy in the act of copulation. That is it! That is the true essence and core of all things, the goal and purpose of all existence.



* * *





“Hello, is this Philip Slate?”

“Yes, Philip Slate, here.”

“Dr. Hertzfeld here. Julius Hertzfeld.”

“Julius Hertzfeld?”

“A voice from your past.”

“The deep past. The Pleistocene past. Julius Hertzfeld. I can’t believe it—it must be what?…at least twenty years. And why this call?”

“Well, Philip, I’m calling about your bill. I don’t believe you paid in full for our last session.”

“What? The last session? But I’m sure…”

“Just kidding, Philip. Sorry, some things never change—the old man is still jaunty and irrepressible. I’ll be serious. Here, in a nutshell, is why I’m calling. I’m having some health problems, and I’m contemplating retirement. In the course of making this decision I’ve developed an irresistible urge to meet with some of my ex-patients—just to do some follow-ups, to satisfy my own curiosity. I’ll explain more later if you wish. Soooo—here’s my question to you: would you be willing to meet with me? Have a talk for an hour? Review our therapy together and fill me in on what’s happened to you? It’ll be interesting and enlightening for me. Who knows?—maybe for you as well.”

“Um…an hour. Sure. Why not? I assume there’s no fee?”

“Not unless you want to charge me, Philip—I’m asking for your time. How about later this week? Say, Friday afternoon?”

“Friday? Fine. That’s satisfactory. I’ll give you an hour at one o’clock. I shan’t request payment for my services, but this time let’s meet in my office—I’m on Union Street—four-thirty-one Union. Near Franklin. Look for my office number on the building directory—I’ll be listed as Dr. Slate. I am now also a therapist.”



Julius shivered as he hung up the phone. He swiveled his chair around and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge. After that call he needed to see something beautiful. And feel something warm in his hands. He filled up his meerschaum pipe with Balkan Sobranie, lit the match, and sucked.