Do you see that, Beck? It’s not like she wants to tweet about being a nurse—“Fucking Twitter my ass, I prefer life,” she said just the other day. There’s a simplicity to it all that is really good for me and I know it because my cheeks are flushed, my belly is full, my dick is the stick heard ’round the fucking world—just ask Karen—and I wake up and I want to get out of bed and do my life. But I also wake up thinking about you.
I finish reading my list to Dr. Nicky. At first he doesn’t say anything.
I am impatient. “What’s up, Doc?”
“You tell me, Danny.”
“I did my homework. Now it’s your turn.”
Dr. Nicky just stares at me and I just stare at Dr. Nicky. Does he do this to you?
“Okay, Danny. I’m gonna ask you something.” He leans in. “Does Karen know that you’re not in love with her?”
I can’t lie to him about Karen. He can’t help me unless I tell the truth. “No,” I say. “She doesn’t know.”
“Lies don’t pave the way to joy,” he says and sometimes he reminds me of a rabbi and I can’t believe I used to think that you had sex with him. “And, if there’s anything I’ve learned in almost fifty years on this planet, it’s this: If you don’t start with crazy, crazy love, the kind of love that Van Morrison sings about, then you don’t have a shot to go the distance. Love’s a marathon, Danny, not a sprint.”
I blurt, “What about you? Do you love your wife?”
“No,” he says, super quick. “But I did.”
On the way home from therapy, I’m depressed and I check your e-mail. You RSVPed yes to a birthday party at an upscale bowling alley for assholes. I know that you won’t go; you never go anywhere anymore. You only go to Dr. Nicky’s because he’s . . . Dr. Nicky. But I know that Karen Minty will go with me to the bowling alley and sit there until I say it’s time to go home.
She sits with me at the hipster bar near the lanes and we don’t belong. We are the only people who are not a part of the party. They are all around us, talking about Lena Dunham’s wardrobe—Who’s Lena Dunning? Karen Minty wants to know—and they talk about the alpha male’s vintage suspenders—Karen Minty chews on her straw and shrugs—and they talk about Campus Dance at Brown—Karen Minty plays a game with jewels on her phone. You don’t show up at the party and Karen Minty is in love with me and I don’t love her back, I can’t. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you and life would be easier if I could turn into a fan of The King of Queens. But I can’t, Beck. And you of all people would understand. It’s like the letter you wrote to yourself today:
Dear Beck, Louisa May Alcott is right. An extraordinary girl can’t have an ordinary life. Don’t judge yourself. Love yourself. Love, Beck
37
I’VE read enough books and seen enough movies to know that Nicky fucked up when he told me about his wife. I’m not surprised when he tells me we need to talk. He accepts full responsibility for the breach, for crossing the patient-therapist boundary. I’ve never seen the guy look worse, Beck. And he’s such a good person, like Mr. Mooney back in the day, before he got angry at me, at life. I can’t stand to hear him cut himself down.
I plead, “Hey, come on, Doc. Stop beating yourself up already.”
I can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying and he might be the only guy on earth who can do those two things at once. He’s a juggler and God bless him because I could never apologize to another dude for saying one freaking thing about my own life.
“Danny,” he says. “All I can do for you now is give you a referral. You want a referral?”
There are pit stains on his shirt and his clothes are wrinkled, as if he’s been in them for too long. I know how to cheer him up and I tell him I don’t need a referral because I’m better. He smiles. I go on. I tell him I don’t have a mouse in my house because he’s the best shrink ever.
“How’s it going with Karen?”
“It’s good,” I say. I want him to feel accomplished. “Seriously, the mouse is dead.”
“Wow,” he says and somehow, he sounds jealous. Or maybe he’s just sad.
I tell him that his mouse-cat theory is genius and he likes that I use that word, genius. Of course, I don’t tell him that I want to cover myself in cheese and peanut butter in order to get the mouse to come back. He deserves better.
“I’m happy for you, Danny,” he says. “You worked hard and you did your homework and this is all you, kid. Figuring out what makes you happy is a journey.”
You make me happy. I nod. “You said it.”
“Being obsessed didn’t make you happy,” Nicky continues. “And you knew that. And more important, you acted on that knowledge and decided to rise above your obsession. You’re smart, Danny.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Doc.”
“I wish we were all as smart as you,” he says and he has that sad, glossy-eyed look again as he talks about how hard it is to make a mouse go away. I’m sitting and thinking about you, my beloved mouse. Nicky is right. You might never show up again—you might be gone—I know it’s possible that you’ve moved on—you could even be seeing someone. But the most important thing I know is that I want the possibility of you more than the reality of Karen Minty.
“And what can I say, Danny? I’m also so happy your cat worked out,” he says. “When you came in here, I was worried. You did not look well. You looked like a prisoner.”
“I felt like one,” I say. And I did. I do.
“But then you got yourself a cat,” he says.
“Amen,” I say. I picture Karen Minty on all fours with your little body hanging out of her mouth.
“Hey, I went on YouTube and watched that Honeydrippers video today right before you got here,” he says and his eyes pop. “I can understand your obsession. That video is trippy, that guy in his Speedo, that jacket. What is that jacket doing on that hanger?”
We laugh but his sadness is like a fever that shows up in his eyes, in his mouth. I feel bad about lying and his phone buzzes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But I have to check it.” He says he has to step out—“shit hitting the fan at home,” now that he has broken the doctor-patient dynamic he can overshare again—and he promises to be back in five minutes. He closes the door and immediately I look at his computer. I wanted inside that computer the first time I stepped into this room. You live in there, somewhere, and the temptation to find the Sea of Love is overwhelming. I would swear that you are calling from inside the hard drive, luring me to your own sea, and I can’t help it. I really am like the guy in the video. And this is it, my big chance. I’ve never been alone in here and fuck it. I run over to Danny’s desk and I tap the space bar and dive in.
Looking at the screen-saver family snapshot of Nicky with his wife and his daughters makes me feel guilty. I’m violating our trust and Nicky’s family is so innocent, lined up in front of Nicky’s Pizza in Chestertown, NY. There’s something pathetic about a grown man forcing his wife and daughters to pose on a rainy day in front of a pizza place just because it’s called Nicky’s. I feel for the guy but I want you and I minimize the Honeydrippers video—he’s a good man, he really was looking at it—and I search the hard drive. Wow. Dr. Nicky doesn’t write about my sessions or your sessions or anyone’s sessions. He just dictates his thoughts into his iPhone and downloads the MP3 files onto his computer. There is a folder called GBeck with a bunch of audio files. I get that Van Morrison feeling that Nicky was talking about. I send myself the folder. I delete the e-mail in his sent folder. I empty the trash. I made it.
But I didn’t. It’s over. I fucked up.
Nicky’s back with a disappointed smile and he sighs. “Danny, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I tell you the video’s here and I leave. I’m losing it, Danny.”
I breathe. I made it after all. “No you’re not, Doc,” I say and I mean it.
He looks weak, and his voice is unsteady. “How about that referral?”