On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (3 page)

“So, Michael, why are you here?” the doctor started.

Michael leaned back and spoke, “Well, Dr. Mikowsky …” but the doctor interrupted him, “You can call me Andrew if you like.”

Michael studied the doctor for a second and decided, “No, I would rather call you doctor. My mother told me never to call a rabbi or a doctor by his first name.”

“OK, tell me more about your mother,” Dr. Mikowsky said.

“Now listen, Doc,” Michael began, “I am not going to pay you to listen to me talk about my mother for an hour. She is not the reason I am here.”

“Fair enough,” Dr. Mikowsky responded, and suspected she was probably the very reason he was there, but in due time, he would broach that subject.

Michael leaned forward and rested his chin in his hands and studied the doctor.

“So tell me about yourself, Doc,” Michael said.

“Now, Michael, we are not here to talk about me,” Dr. Mikowsky said as he tried to steer the conversation back to Michael.

Michael leaned back and placed his hands behind his head.

“You know, Doc, after we spoke on the phone last week, I was happy you know nothing about me or my work,” Michael said. “But before we begin, maybe I should clarify something for you. I don’t exactly have writer’s block, as Dr. Rose probably mentioned. What I have is the inability to complete a screenplay. I just finished writing one about twins separated at birth, and I had no problems at all with that one.”

“This screenplay you cannot finish, is there a deadline you need to meet?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

Michael moved his arms down and clasped his hands together in his lap. “No, I am writing it on spec, Doc,” Michael answered, immediately sensing the doctor’s confusion with the term. “It means I have not pitched the idea, and there is no production deal secured. Usually one pitches an idea, secures a production deal and then writes a script. You get paid that way.”

“So what is the problem? Have you set a personal deadline?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

“No, I have not set a personal deadline either, it is just that I cannot finish it, and that disturbs me. I have finished everything I have ever started, always followed through, and never missed a deadline,” Michael said.

“What is the screenplay about?” the doctor asked.

Michael stood up and walked over to the window.

“Michael, are you going to answer the question?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

Michael turned around and faced the doctor, leaning back on the windowsill and crossing his arms in front of him.

“Not today,” he answered. “I want to be sure I like you as a doctor first.”

“Fair enough,” Dr. Mikowsky said.

Michael looked at Dr. Mikowsky, studying him the way he studied most people. The characters in his writing always resembled someone he knew or observed, and Michael decided from his initial observation that the young, Jewish doctor would be the perfect model for a character. Sylvia did tell Michael that the doctor was partnered and off limits.

Michael knew that he could get anyone he wanted into bed, and he usually did. However, he had a rule about married men, and he was not about to break it with his potential therapist. Michael also thought that if he decided this young, good looking, and sexy in a nerdy kind-of-way doctor was not the right therapist for him, he might break his rule just once.

“Michael, is there something else you want to talk about today?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

The doctor’s question broke Michael’s trance, and he said, “Yes, Doc. How long have you and your partner been together?”

“Michael, as I said, we are not here to talk about me,” Dr. Mikowsky said.

“Yes, I know that,” Michael said. “But, let’s say I want to talk to you about my relationships. I want to know that you can sustain a relationship. After all, I would not take marital advice from a divorcee.”

Dr. Mikowsky thought about the question, and he wondered how much he should share with Michael. Did he really want his patient to know about his partner or even himself? He put his glasses on and concentrated on Michael’s face as he gave him an answer.

“My partner, Brian, and I have been together for seven years. He is a lawyer, and we have two dogs,” Dr. Mikowsky said, confident he had divulged enough information without exposing himself too much.

“Is your partner also Jewish?” Michael asked, not letting the subject go.

“Yes, he is,” Dr. Mikowsky answered, deciding that was the end of the questioning.

“Good,” Michael said. “I may say some unflattering things about the
goyim
during our sessions, and I don’t want to offend you.”

Dr. Mikowsky concentrated on Michael’s face and wondered if Michael was serious or teasing.

“You will find it very difficult to offend me, Michael,” Dr. Mikowsky assured him.

Michael looked up at the clock and said, “I think my time is up, Doc.”

“So, will you be coming back, or did I not pass the test?” Dr. Mikowsky asked as Michael made his way to the door.

Michael smiled, displaying his sparkling white teeth, and said, “With flying colors, I will see you next Tuesday at 10:00 am, if that is OK.”

“That is fine. We can make it a standing appointment,” Dr. Mikowsky reassured him.

2

Michael Bern stretched his six-foot-four-inch frame as he stood up from the couch and walked toward the window in Dr. Mikowsky’s office.

“Dr. Mikowsky, I think we have hit an impasse,” he said. The doctor gave Michael that look he saved for those moments when Michael would make one of his declarative comments about how there was no way to move forward. Michael had been coming to therapy for almost a month, and they still had not discussed the subject of the unfinished screenplay. Dr. Mikowsky tilted his head, took off his glasses, and waited, for Michael was sure to continue any minute. He always did.

Michael turned his head toward the doctor, looking at him, proclaiming, “Let’s face it. I am never going to finish that screenplay.”

“Michael, how long have you been writing for
Los Angeles Live
?” asked the doctor.

“Seventeen years,” Michael replied.

“And in that time, how many sketches have you written for the show?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

“More than 100, I guess. What is your point?” Michael asked.

“My point is, Michael, how many did you finish?”

“All of them,” Michael said.

Silence.

“Did you hear me, Dr. Mikowsky? I said, ‘All of them,’” Michael repeated.

“Exactly,” the doctor continued. “You have finished everything you have ever written — everything. So, why can’t you finish this one screenplay? Are you afraid of failure?”

Michael sat back down on the couch facing the doctor. He ran his fingers through his hair, looked at the doctor and said, “I don’t know. Maybe I am afraid of failure. But you know, Doc, this was the first screenplay I ever wrote. For 19 years, it has been sitting unfinished on my desk.”

“I know,” he replied.

“And if I finish it, you will lose me as a patient,” Michael told him.

“So, you are purposely not going to finish this screenplay for my own financial benefit?” the doctor asked.

“You could say that,” Michael said as he smiled, revealing his perfect set of expensive, white teeth that made his green eyes sparkle.

“Then let’s take another tact,” the doctor said. “If you do finish it, and it is a success, my business will triple as every writer in Hollywood will be knocking on my door for the secret to your success. I will write a book and go on the lecture circuit. Hell, I may even star in my own infomercial!”

Michael saw right through the doctor’s sarcasm. He leaned back, looked up at the ceiling and said, “OK, you got me.”

Dr. Mikowsky leaned forward, Michael brought his head down and looked at him, and the doctor said, “You know, Michael, you still have not told me what this screenplay is about. I have asked you repeatedly over the last month, and you always evade the subject. I think it is time to answer the question.”

Michael asked, “What is the question?”

Dr. Mikowsky asked in frustration, “What is the unfinished screenplay about?”

Michael stood up, walked over to the window and stared out at Sepulveda Boulevard. He knew his hour would be up in about ten minutes, but he was not sure he could stall for that long. Dr. Mikowsky watched his patient, hoping this would be the one time he would get at the truth. Michael walked around the room, straightened the picture over the doctor’s desk, and circling around, he returned to the couch. He sat down, placed his hands behind his head and sat back.

The doctor thought back as this conversation had occurred over and over again for the past month only to end with Michael avoiding the subject, and the doctor pursuing it no further. Why had he not pressed Michael further? After all, he was the doctor. Was it not his job to insist his patient confront the issues that made him seek therapy in the first place? Was he perhaps fearful of losing his now favorite patient and never seeing him again?

Michael took a deep breath, looked at the doctor, and said, “1985.”

“What?” the doctor asked.

“You asked what the screenplay was about. I am telling you it is about 1985,” Michael told him.

The doctor decided not to respond. He thought back to the few details Michael had shared about his life, his childhood, school, friends, family, and it did not take him long to come to a realization. Whenever they talked about Michael’s past, the stories would stop sometime before his senior year in college. If the doctor was doing the math correctly, Michael graduated from college in 1985 — 19 years ago. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and goose bumps form on his arms, but he did not want his patient to see his excitement or trepidation.

He looked at the clock and realized he had only five minutes left in the session, but his next appointment was not for another two hours.

Michael continued, “1985 was the year I graduated from college.”

Again, there was silence. Dr. Mikowsky was right. So many thoughts were going through his mind. He did not know whether he should just sit there or push Michael for more information. The silence was deafening, and the doctor could hardly keep from squirming in his seat.

Michael thought back to his senior year in college. What a year. Just saying 1985 was like having a giant weight lifted off his shoulders. He knew the doctor wanted to know more, and he took a deep breath.

“1985 was one strange year,” Michael started. “It was the last year that my mother and her friends were still talking to each other. So much happened that I decided to write a screenplay about it.”

Michael leaned back, as he allowed the memories to come to the surface again. There was no turning back now. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and began to tell the story.

“1985 was a pivotal year in the lives of my mother and her four best friends. Four more different women you would never meet. Yet, they had a friendship that up to that point had lasted almost 40 years. They were a lot of fun and full of surprises. However, there was one thing you could always depend on.”

“And what was that?” the doctor asked, breaking his silence but confident he would not stop his patient from telling his story.

Michael paused for a moment and answered, “On Tuesdays, they played Mah Jongg.”

Dr. Mikowsky looked at the clock. The session was over. Michael stood up, and the doctor suddenly blurted out, “Wait!”

In the short time he had been in therapy, Michael never saw the doctor get excited, and he found it startling. “Wait,” he continued, “I have two hours until my next session, finish your story.”

Michael sat down again and stared at the doctor. He did not know whether to be scared or relieved since this was the first real emotion he had ever witnessed in this office. “If you insist,” he responded.

Dr. Mikowsky apologized for his outburst. Retrieving a freshly sharpened pencil, the doctor sat back, shifted to a more comfortable position, and prepared himself for the outpouring he had too patiently waited to finally hear.

“Well, Doc, you should know that I like to start a story with a funeral,” Michael responded, “So, imagine if you will an old Jewish cemetery in the South, and it is January 24, 1985 …”

3

Yes, there are Jews in the South. I do not know why everyone thinks all Jews live in New York. My mother, Hannah Shimmer, was President of the Eastern Seaboard Region of the Sisterhoods of Conservative Jewish Congregations in 1973, and at their annual meeting at the Concord Hotel in the Catskills, someone asked her, “What do Jews do in the South?” My mother answered, “We pick cotton.”

My mother’s mother and her family settled in Newport News in 1905 after escaping the pogroms in Ukraine. However, my mother grew up in Washington although she was born in Baltimore, where her mother and father met, which is the subject of another story I want to write about a blonde, blue-eyed Jewess reading
The Jewish Daily Forward
backward to the Jewish neighbors to prove her membership in the tribe.