I ask him if he has to count a certain number of shoes in order to achieve satisfaction.
"Thirty's good," he says. "Fifteen pair. Most days, that's no problem."
And why is it necessary to reach a certain number?
He considers, then looks at me. "If I say 'you know,' will you just ask me to explain what it is you're supposed to know? I mean, you've dealt with OCD before and I've researched it-exhaustively-both in my own head and on the Internet, so can't we just cut to the chase?"
I say that most counters feel that reaching a certain total, known as "the goal number," is necessary to maintain order. To keep the world spinning on its axis, so to speak.
He nods, satisfied, and the floodgates break.
"One day, when I was counting my way back to the office, I passed a man with one leg cut off at the knee. He was on crutches, with a sock on his stump. If he'd been wearing a black shoe, it would have been no problem. Because I was on my way back, you see. But it was brown. That threw me off for the whole day, and that night I couldn't sleep at all. Because odd numbers are bad." He taps the side of his head. "At least up here they are. There's a rational part of my mind that knows it's all bullshit, but there's another part that knows it absolutely isn't, and that part rules. You'd think that when nothing bad happened-in fact something good happened that day, an IRS audit we were worried about was canceled for absolutely no reason-the spell would break, but it didn't. I'd counted thirty-seven brown shoes instead of thirty-eight, and when the world didn't end, that irrational part of my mind said it was because I not only got above thirty, I got well above thirty.
"When I load the dishwasher, I count plates. If there's an even number above ten in there, all is well. If not, I add the correct number of clean ones to make it right. Same with forks and spoons. There has to be at least twelve pieces in the little plastic caddy at the front of the dishwasher. Which, since I live alone now, usually means adding clean ones."
What about knives, I ask, and he shakes his head at once.
"Never knives. Not in the dishwasher."
When I ask why not, he says he doesn't know. Then, after a pause, he gives me a guilty sideways look. "I always wash the knives by hand, in the sink."
Knives in the silverware caddy would disturb the order of the world, I suggest.
"No!" he exclaims. "You understand, Dr. Bonsaint, but you don't understand completely."
Then you have to help me, I say.
"The order of the world is already disturbed. I disturbed it last summer, when I went to Ackerman's Field. Only I didn't understand. Not then."
But you do now? I ask.
"Yes. Not everything, but enough."
I ask him if he is trying to fix things or only trying to keep the situation from getting worse.
A look of unutterable relief fills his face, relaxing all the muscles there. Something that has been crying out for articulation has finally been spoken aloud. These are the moments I live for. It's not a cure, far from it, but for the time being N. has gotten some relief. I doubt if he expected it. Most patients do not.
"I can't fix it," he whispers. "But I can keep things from getting worse. Yes. I have been."
Again I have come to one of those branching points. I could ask him what happened last summer-last August, I presume-in Ackerman's Field, but it is probably still too early. Better to loosen the roots of this infected tooth a little more first. And I really doubt that the source of the infection can be so recent. More likely, whatever happened to him last summer was only a kind of firing pin.
I ask him to tell me about his other symptoms.
He laughs. "That would take all day, and we only have..." He glances at his wrist. "...twenty-two minutes left. Twenty-two is a good number, by the way."
Because it's even? I ask.
His nod suggests I am wasting time with the obvious.
"My...my symptoms, as you call them...come in clusters." Now he's looking up at the ceiling. "There are three of these clusters. They poke out of me...the sane part of me...like rocks...rocks, you know...oh God, dear God...like the f**king rocks in that f**king field..."