Chapter

11

The room was unusually quiet when Dr. Pressman stopped the tape and asked if there were any questions before calling it a day.

As expected, the crowded room was silent, save for the sound of pencils jotting down last-minute notes.

Dr. Farnsworth, however, asked for a moment to confer with his colleagues. He was the youngest of the group and had been asked to participate because of his recent conclusion regarding an unusual two-year study. The subject was fugues, and dissociative fuges, the technical term for episodes of memory losses occurring in previously healthy individuals who had suddenly disappeared and when discovered, were found to have lost their identity and all recollections of previous happenings, at least for the period of time referred to as fugue.

Dr. Farnsworth’s study was unusual in the sense that all his fugue patients for the two-year study had been deemed by the courts as criminally-insane prior to their institutionalizing—patients not unlike Charles.

During the study, Dr. Farnsworth had introduced all new, and unproven, criteria for evaluation of his patients, and although most went back to their respective state institutions, three had been found sane, credited with duping the authorities in their case. They had subsequently been tried by the courts, found guilty of their crimes and sentenced to state penitentiaries to serve out life terms.

He was presently involved in an all-new study; an evaluation of the chief psychiatrists involved in the original therapy of the dissociative fugue patients. He and his three associates had taken a break from the analyzing of thousands of pages of notes and the psychiatrist’s recordings. Their unusual task was to determine why such highly experienced doctors had been duped. Dr. Farnsworth and his colleagues were now in this room because the state had seen fit to assign them to this case as it had similar elements to consider. Dr. Pressman felt they were here because the state wanted both of these disturbed men on death row, and the wunderkind and his three associates were their best shot at making that happen.

Dr. Pressman was impatient now and approached Dr. Farnsworth who had held up the proceedings of the group for almost ten minutes while conferring in hushed tones with his colleagues.

Fortunately, Dr. Farnsworth broke up his little meeting at the same moment, whispering, “Thank you for your patience, Dr. Pressman. What I thought might be important to hear again, my colleagues have cleared up for me. We can forego a review. We’re sure they’ll repeat the pattern again. Thank you.”

Pompous ass, Dr. Pressman thought to himself as he whispered back, “You’re quite welcome, Dr. Farnsworth. It’s a pleasure to have such an insightful mind amongst us. I look forward to your revelatory sharing with the group, at a later time when the ‘pattern’ repeats itself.”

Dr. Pressman returned to the front of the room. “Sorry for the delay. I know you are all anxious to call it a day. Dr. Farnsworth now feels his concern can wait for a later time and we will adjourn until tomorrow morning at 9. Tomorrow’s session will be a little longer as we will be opening up the room for discussion at the conclusion. Have a good evening.”

Dr. Farnsworth hadn’t revealed what had given him concern. He left the room, conveniently passing Dr. Pressman with, “My money says his tapes will show “IT” will repeat itself in the next session.”

Dr. Farnsworth’s colleague, Dr. Burns, challenged him. “Unlikely. He’s too clever to trip up so soon again.”

As they disappeared down the hall, Dr. Pressman followed them out the corner of his eye as he gave salutatory handshakes to a few of his colleagues… doctors whose judgment he trusted implicitly. He didn’t take to overconfident and cocky young psychiatrists, regardless of their lucky track records. He was from the old school of believing there was no substitute for the dependability and reliability of tenure and experience, especially the kind that he and most of the men and women in the room had spent a minimum of twenty years accumulating. No ambitious, young five-year-out-of- residency upstart was going to delay or disrupt these proceedings again.

The room was empty now. He closed the door, sat down and lit his pipe. The tape recorder was right in front of him. “Repeat itself in the next session. Arrogant little shit,” he said to himself. As he exhaled the smoke across the tapes in front of him, his eyes settled on the first cassette due to be played tomorrow. He wasn''t sure if it was the tobacco or his ego that gave him the sudden rush, but he was sure his hand was unsteady as he placed tomorrow’s tape in the machine and pressed PLAY.

“My God, I said. How could you think this was going to be some kind of panacea for me?” What had started out as an agitated walk across campus had turned into a reckless run. She was having trouble keeping up with me—and my mouth. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I was pissed, and she was the nearest outlet.

“Who said anything about coming to my class was going to be a cure all? I told you it might help,” she said as she caught up and spun me around. “And it did. Look at you. Being upset and pissed is normal. That’s the first step for all those people in there, too. They’ve been laying down and playing dead for the better part of their emotional lives. When they sit around with others like themselves and they hear proven, effective and legal ways to get answers, they go bonkers too, some of them.” She laughed. “Not as bad as you, though. I’d be dead if I had to chase students like you every night.”

“I’m not a student, and what the hell’s so funny?”

“Are you calm enough to hear the answer, because I can’t chase you anymore. You must have been an All American.”

I stopped and took a needed pause. “No more jokes, okay? I’m serious.”

“That’s part of your problem, Charlie. You’re too serious. Maybe less time with that shrink and more time with me would lighten you up and let you find some answers.”

“So now you’re my self-appointed therapist?” I grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. Her body tightened up like a bowstring. There was a moment’s hesitation, then an acknowledgment that let me know she knew and understood how emotionally upset I was.

She pulled back gently, but resolutely. Her eyes showed mixed emotion, as did her words.

“I like you Charlie. I want to help, but... “

“But what? Afraid I might be violent?”

“No. I’m sorry I said what I said. I mocked your doctor and that was wrong. It was the little girl in me being selfish. I want to help, but I’m not qualified to guide you. That’s for Dr. Mathews. I just wanted you to see me and what I do so you’d know I understand a little of what you’re going through. You saw a group who’ll start to search in two weeks for something they may never find.”

I took a moment for her words to sink in. “I feel like an idiot. I really am... “

“Shh,” she said. “It’s past.” She took my hand and we walked back through the campus.

We came to her building. I looked through the window into her classroom. It was empty. Just the blackboard and the sentence she’d written at some point before I had arrived. It is better to lose an election going in the right direction than win going in the wrong direction.

 “I like what you wrote.”

“I stole it. Jesse Jackson. Those words say a lot to my students.”

I smiled. “You think everyone should find their biological parents even if they have a perfect relationship with their adopted ones, don’t you?”

“If they’re in my classroom, Charlie, they don’t have the perfect relationship. Going in the right direction for them is getting, or at least trying to get, the answers to questions that keep them from being really happy with themselves. That makes them all winners in their own election. I only inform them of the optional ways they can search. I don’t counsel. Sometimes the sadness in that room makes me wish I could do more.”

Like a school kid having found his first love, I took her in my arms and told her, “You do. You have.”

Unfortunately, the next two weeks were less productive than that night. Mathews was having trouble piercing the still dark void in my memory. The red brick building in “nowhere land” was slow, very slow in coming any clearer. Sobel’s suggested image on the tape hadn’t revealed any further enlightenment. I was still a rich man, maybe the richest man around, without a clue to where all the wealth was. Just a name with mysterious bank accounts in Europe and God knows where else.

Both Mathews and I waited, hoping Sobel would call back so we could pursue that avenue, but it was as if it wasn’t meant to be. Whoever had given her instructions on my behalf was now apparently silent and I hadn’t any reason to hear from her.

The P.O. box was my constant hope. Every day at 2:30 I was there. But in spite of the ever-increasing load of paper that found its way to 1736 Lincoln Blvd., nothing other than the newsletter with its Pennsylvania address—an address that turned out to be a

P.O. box as well—carried the name of Sobel. It was a bigger mystery than it had been two weeks earlier when I first discovered it.

Then there was my small group of acquaintances and friends, actually Charlie’s group of acquaintances and friends. My mixed-up identity prevented me from really feeling like I knew them. They were just blurry elements I could talk to and question. Ivan, Finch, Larry, and even old Jacob sure wanted to help, but I was someone that had for the most part, only represented small talk that may have been exchanged back when I was whoever I was. Sounds like a riddle as I reconsider this. I can’t find a better way to put it. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m new at this and it’s okay to stumble. I do get down on myself, though, especially at times with these recordings. I’ve re-listened to the journal several times. It seems to be going nowhere. I’ve shared parts of it with Mathews. Parts with Sara. Both of them keep encouraging me to keep it up. Mathews thinks it’s good therapy.  He’s such a logical by-the-book man. I’ve grown to like him more, though.  Once in a while he gets on my nerves.  I don’t know if it’s his physical presence that makes me uncomfortable or his whispering. It’s spooky sometimes. He really gets involved, but he’s the Doc. I have to trust he knows what he’s doing.

Sara is a different kind of comfort. Ever since that night at her class, we’ve been able to reveal more of our vulnerabilities to each other. The honesty makes us feel safe in each other’s company. She worries sometimes, though. That jerk 4MYDICK keeps calling for a reconciliatory meeting. We laugh about it. I keep telling her if he doesn’t stop bothering her, I’m going to have Ivan pay him a little visit with his ‘cement truck.’ The small scar on my left cheek keeps me reminded of how persuasive he can be.

So, where are we? This entry feels scattered all over the place. Maybe I need to give it a rest. Maybe I need a break.

It was dark in the room when I asked her, “What do you think?”

She wasn’t too happy with my waking her up at two in the morning, but she was used to my craziness. She raised up on one elbow and turned on the light.  “Jesus, Charlie, it’s two in the morning, and you want to know if I want to go on a vacation? Couldn’t it wait till tomorrow?

I jumped on the bed and playfully pinned her shoulders back with my knees. “Tomorrow is today. Pack a little bag. We can be there by sun up. Say yes.”

“Sun up? Where the hell you want to take me? And get off my shoulders. Damn, that hurts.”

“Not until you say yes. We’re going to take him up on that invitation. Get away and do it in style before you get locked back up in school. We deserve it and... “

“What invitation? I don’t believe this.” She looked at her clock again.

“The Mirage’, he said. “Might as well take a weekend and enjoy some of this money instead of spending it all on Mathews.”

I jumped up and opened her closet door. “Just pack a couple of... “ I took one look at her modest wardrobe, and turned back. “Just grab your toothbrush. I’m gonna play the role. You’re going to be lounging over my shoulder in silk and diamonds while they teach me how to play whatever I’m supposed to know how to play, okay? Hurry up. I’ll have the limo here in an hour.”

That’s how it was that crazy middle of the night in August. I knew when I picked her up in the stretch, she’d never been a Princess before. Her eyes were, should I say, a bit larger than usual.

We walked down the path of her house to the awaiting chauffeur whose white-gloved hand opened the door of her carriage to the sun. We were on our way to Las Vegas in a white Rolls. As we stepped in, she girlishly whispered in my ear. “How in hell’d you find this in the middle of the night?”

I whispered back as Jamison closed us in, “This is what paying your rent a year in advance can get you. It belongs to the hotel.”

With that, she took a deep breath, enclosed my face in her hands, looked me sternly in the eye and whispered, “You really have gone over the edge, you know.”

“Just for a weekend.” I said.

“Just for a weekend, then.” She gently kissed me and I knew I had made the right decision. We did deserve to play a little. I just didn’t know how crazy the game was going to be when the word got around The Mirage that Charlie Stevens was back.

Even at night, the Los Angeles smog shows its color. Up against certain street lamps, the mustard colored air surrounds the lights with rings—zeros. As Sara slept, curled up in the deep cushioned lambskin corner of the back seat, I counted seven hundred and fifty zeros and we were still not out of what I had read some erudite author coin, “LA’s Dome of Sacrifice.”

For some inexplicable reason, I remembered the article had been written as a metaphor signaling the continued decay of one of America’s most influential cities, a city that was famous for taking the prime out of its people and giving back to them cleverly disguised servings of temporary success and happiness. This was one author I’d remembered who believed the cancerous effect of the sun was not just skin deep. The lure of shirtsleeve days year-round, brought all kinds from all over the world. And although he knew, and gave credit where credit was due—that Los Angeles was as good a tourist attraction as anywhere in the country—he was anti-those who came to work, prospered, and then raped and pillaged the city that fed them. And that was all of us as far as he was concerned. To this author (damn, what was his name?) it was only a matter of time before we would completely waste the southern tip of the United States. Los Angeles, especially, was going to ultimately create its own isolation and demise and do it beneath its own suffocation.

We drove under a road sign. I stopped breathing for a moment. My God, we were just beyond San Bernardino, some one hundred miles from Los Angeles and by my count, “The Dome of Sacrifice” was large...much larger than I thought. The numbers had grown to thirteen hundred and seven before the circular epitaphs had begun to fade away.

I glanced over at Sara. She was doing so much good with her life. Something strange inside me said I was too, but I didn’t know what. I knew it was the Charles part of me tugging at Charlie, trying to say something. It was an awful feeling to be listening and not being able to hear.

I turned back to the window. There were no more little lights with zeros. The highway was dark. We were on our way to the big light in the desert...on our way to have fun together. As I peered up at the desert sky, I wondered if I was one of those myself, one of those who had “raped and pillaged.”