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The Practical and The Actual
She hands me a bound document, very official looking and rather hefty.
"What's this?" I ask.
"It's part of my services," she says removing her glasses. I had asked for a woman you might find in a Humphrey Bogart movie. One of the things she's always doing (and I just love this) is taking off and putting on her glasses. It indicates a kind of seriousness: Glasses on, she's working; Glasses off she's being frank with me. There's also hair up and hair down. If you've seen any of these movies you know what hair down means.
She gracefully lowered herself into a chair at my kitchen table. Without ceremony she piled the debris coving the surface (mostly empty pizza boxes, unopened mail, some cloths), crossed her legs and put her glasses back on. I noticed that she's got a bound document of her own. It's got the same design on the cover but it's slightly larger and thicker and is a different color. I wondered if it's like the teacher's addition of the copy I'm holding. It turns out that I'm not far from the truth.
She gestured for me to sit, crossed her legs (such beautiful legs!) and opened her book.
"What are we doing now?" I asked. I suppose if I were a more assertive man I would have insist that she march herself back into my bedroom. She is still on the clock, I thought to myself.
"Now we go over my report," she answered. The idea of going to the bedroom evaporated. As I open the booklet, a strong familiar feeling rose within me. If I had been a bit more evolved or in touch at the time I would have recognized the feeling as humiliation. Instead all I could connect it to was the feeling of doom, disgust, and anxiety from being trapped that I felt for the weeks leading up to my dumping Linda last month.
It was my pride that made me say with forced ease: "Alright. Your report. Go ahead."
She checked her watch but I know already, she has fifteen more minutes with me. This was not how I had envisioned our last fifteen minutes together.
"I'm just going to briefly go over the highlights of the report and answer any questions you might have. I think you will find the report to be thorough and quite informative. Clients have told me that these often have different meanings for them weeks, months, and even years later. What I recommend is that you take in as much as you can right now but be sure to read it later. And of course, you are welcome to call at any time to schedule a 'date' if you would like to be reassessed or if you would just like to go over this report on greater depth."
"Can't we go over this while in bed?" I asked giving her my most endearing boyish smile.
She returned my smile with a half smile of her own, a kind of look of pity. She didn't remove her glasses. Suddenly she just seemed so cold to me: that perfectly ironed very crisp tailored white shirt, that perfect navy blue pencil skirt. Doesn't she ever sweat? I wondered. The room was suddenly very hot.
"Let's begin with the basics," she said opening her copy. I managed to get a look at her copy and yes, it is just like a teacher's manual. There is a paragraph in a different font following each paragraph that I have in my book. I asked her what hers says.
She fixed me with a gaze that is for a moment one of irritation. This startles me as she has never indicated anything but adoration for me. The look shifts to one of patience (not that different really) and she answers: "There are two parts to my report. There is what we call The Actual, you're holding that one, and there is The Practical which is my copy. My copy has what is in yours but with additional comments on how best to deliver the information in The Actual."
My feeling of disgust and discomfort grew: She needs directions on how to deal with me?
"In fact," she continued with a tone to indicate that this should be a welcome bit of news for me. "I only right The Practical, there is anther team that writes The Actual."
As she's speaking, I've begun scanning through my copy. The first section, "The Basics" as she had called them, was all about my personal habits. Things like: "May 21st, used the bathroom and found there was no toilet paper. Recommendation to client: When entertaining women, always be sure to keep an extra roll in an easy to find place near the toilet." It's a slam report. Somehow this woman is getting back at me for something. But why? She is being paid for the express reason that I might avoid just this kind of criticism.
My feelings must have been visible to her because she stopped talking, took off her glasses, uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She smiled at me in a way that betrayed the cool demeanor she has been sporting for the last week. I suddenly realized how little I know about her. I wondered, If I had chosen "Cindy" the easygoing surfer girl what I would have gotten. Maybe I would have just gotten her but in Birkenstocks instead of navy pumps.
"Look. Rick," she reached for my hand. I wanted to pull away but did't. "My company provides a very special service. You know the expression: Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he'll eat a lifetime. Well, we want to help you fish while we're feeding you. For some men, this means we help you get and stay organized. For some men this is a kind of therapy. Our goal is to help you clear away the things that have prevented you from having the kind of relationships you want."
I gave her a blank stare. She sighed and looked around my kitchen which now gives me a feeling of deep embarrassment to be sitting in.
"I have a Masters Degree in psychology. The people who create The Actual are almost all PhDs. We take our job very seriously."
"You're a high-paid call girl financed mostly through the generous support of my best friend." Ex-best friend, I thought to myself.
"Yes, and I am that too. Look, I'd really like to get through this report before 3 o'clock."
"You have another client," I said with an icy stare.
She sighed. "Yes, I have another client."
Without bothering to put her glassed back on, she begins again.
"Let me just give you a summary of the report. It comes to this Rick. Your house is filthy and you say you have a plan to get it cleaned up. You're self centered and shallow but aspire to be something more. Your job is unsatisfying even when it's going well - most of the time it isn't going well. You're unhappy and unsatisfied most of the time making you irritable and frankly unpleasant to be around. I suspect that you may have actually been down-right mean to your ex." She paused to look at her booklet. "Linda."
As I was staring at her, I was trying to think of a suitable revenge for Brian, my newest ex, ex-best friend.
"Brian knew about this?" I asked gesturing at the report.
She nodded. "And really you should have too. It was in the documentation that you signed on the first night."
That seems unfair, I think. With what she was wearing that night I would have signed anything.
"Right. My fault. Again. Of course. Well, continue I guess."
We both glanced at our watches. Me slower and more deliberately than her.
"The common element here is that you are unwilling to do the work as we say. Now, you have mentioned anxiety over feeling lazy. It is our opinion that what's really behind this is a deep seated insecurity fueled by a very real need for self-preservation at an early age."
I thought about my childhood. Yes, it sucked. Yes, it was more traumatic than most. Whatever. I've gotten over it. I've talked to people about it, forgave my parents, gone to various meetings. This lady has no idea who I am.
"This insecurity makes it impossible to trust people and therefore impossible to get close to anyone."
Pop-psyche. Total babble. How much longer? Five minutes.
"You see fault in everyone but these faults are primarily your own. Frequently, the faults you identify don't even actually exist in the other person. You have disgust for almost everyone and love for no one but your dog. This is your motto: I'm the piece of shit the world revolves around. In other words, you're a narcissist."
She paused and looked up to let this sink in. I checked my watch again.
"Sure," I answer gesturing by partially opening my hands folded in my lap over my groin.
The next bit she read directly from the report. I think, If I were a good boy, I'd be following along right now. Fuck it. Fuck her.
"The narcissist looks to be the center of attention through his success and then is satisfied by the attention given to him by a partner, at least for a time. Or, and this is especially true when the narcissist is having difficulty usually with his work, he wishes for his partner to attract this attention so that he can receive this attention vicariously."
She looked up. "You are ruled both by a craving for this attention one gets through success, both actual and vicarious, and by a fear of humiliation. With Linda there were a number of instances where you felt embarrassed because she knew something of your failures. And as your failures became more pronounced, you looked to her to make you look good. She's a great woman-"
"Of course," I chimed in to show how evolved I am.
"-But you needed her to be more so that you could show her off and prove your worth. Two bits of irony here: One, you could never stand to be with someone more successful that you. And two, your friends don't care."
"You spoke to my friends?"
"And a few ex's. And your parents."
"What?" I said sitting up and leaning over the table. The pizza box pile threatened to fall over. I didn't attempt to stop it.
"You signed a waver," she said looking at her watch. "Well!" she said standing up. "We didn't get to all the nice things like how neat your closet always is or how much I enjoyed spending time with you. But, if you look, you'll see that it's in the report."
I stood up too, scowling.
"You have my business card if you wish to go over the report in more detail. You can also call if you would like to get set up with a different consultant."
She beams at me. I stare back.
"Truthfully Rick, I don't think you will call back. Or that you'll read the report. The ugly thing about being a narcissist is that by your very nature you are deeply set against truthful self analysis. It's your deep seated need for self preservation and fear of humiliation that rule you."
"So you've said."
"Right. The important thing to realize is that you're not that little kid anymore. You don't need to do this. You can relax and be close to someone."
"I plan to," I said suddenly realizing with a tiny part of my brain that what I'm doing fits her profile exactly. I pushed these thoughts aside. "And I will be happy. I'm going to have that relationship. I don't care what other people say about me. They don't know me. You don't know me. I just need to meet the right person. I have before and-"
"-and she dumped you."
I nodded and then added, "But it can be different. Linda and I just didn't fit together. She just wasn't successful enough - successful in a way that I need. You know, she's successful in her own way. And she lacked common sense. Linda is a great girl there was just no way that I could have really been in love with her."
She sighed, picked up her glasses, put them on and slouched. The slouching was strangely out of character. I responded with a very real physical sensation of anger.
A realization dawns on me. I pick up the report and scrutinize it.
"Linda hired you, didn't she? Christ! I can't believe this. Brian and Linda teamed up to do this to me."
"Your friends love you. They want to see you happy. You're almost forty. It's time for you to make some decisions."
"Fuck you! And Brian. And Linda. You don't know me. No on knows me."
"I think that's part of the problem," she answered quietly.
There was a pause, like a moment of silence at a ball game or something. She and I looked up at nearly the same time.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you Rick, please call anytime," she said and she extended a hand for a handshake. I respond reluctantly.
"I'll show myself out," she said and then did.
I sat down at the kitchen table and flipped through the report. Then, impervious to the sounds of the smoke alarm or the tiny voice in my head telling me to stop, I burned the document in the sink.
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"It's not me, its you."
"No, it's definitely you."
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