The Last Collection (17 page)

“Well, one thing comes out of this in stark haut relief, Mr. Kerner, that is one thing other than the fact that you can't get your petzel up; and that is your desire to put women in degrading positions. You obviously don't want to face them, symbolically speaking. That's why you always have them on their hands and knees. That should be quite obvious to you, I would imagine.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Kerner said.

“In any event, this sudden impotency is directly related to your buying addiction. They're both manifestations of a deeper problem. A hidden guilt. Let me recap the last three sessions. First of all, your craziness seemed to start when your girlfriend Estelle, whom you perhaps loved, left you. The reason she left you, however, was because you let her go. The reason you let her go was because you were afraid of making a close contact with anyone. Now what we have to find out is why you are afraid. Once we know this we . . . you will be on your way towards being cured. There is some guilt somewhere, Mr. Kerner.”

“But I don't feel guilty,” Kerner said.

The doctor stood up and approached the couch. He looked down at Kerner who was reclined on his side.

“In this world, Mr. Kerner, everyone feels guilty whether they know it or not.”

Kerner stared up at Dr. Lehman. “Well, I'll take your word for it.”

“Good. Now what I'd like to do is try and speed things up a bit. To try and uncover the source of your problem more quickly.”

“I'm all for that. That's what I'm here for,” Kerner replied, sitting up on the couch.

“We may be able to progress more quickly if we were to try hypnosis on you. What do you think about that?” Dr. Lehman asked.

“That's fine with me. Do you think it will really help?”

“Look, Kerner, if it helped the Wasp, it'll help you,” Dr. Lehman said curtly.

“Okay, I'm sorry. I was just asking.”

“And I was just telling! Okay?”

“Okay, I'm sorry,” Kerner said contritely.

“You're making a nervous wreck out of me, Kerner. By the time I'm finished with you,
I'll
need therapy.”

Kerner was about to suggest to the doctor that he was already in need of treatment but held his tongue.

“All right then, Mr. Kerner. If you've agreed, we can proceed now with the hypnosis.”

“I'm game.”

Dr. Lehman turned and walked to a point several feet away from the couch. He motioned for Kerner to come over. Kerner stood up and approached the psychiatrist, wondering what he was up to.

“Now before trying to put you under hypnosis, it's essential that I establish whether you trust me or not. If you don't trust me, then you'll resist my efforts to put you in a trance. Now the way I'm going to determine whether or not you trust me is as follows: I'm going to stand directly behind you. When I say ‘Go,' you will let yourself fall straight back until I catch you. Do you understand? I will catch you before you hit the floor. Do you trust me to catch you, Mr. Kerner?”

“Yes,” Kerner replied, nodding.

“All right then, let yourself fall now without stopping yourself at all. Fall straight back now. Go!”

Kerner took a breath and let himself topple backwards. As his head smashed against the floor, a series of starlike flashes danced through his eyes. Dazed, he picked himself up, holding the back of his head.

“Why didn't you catch me?” Kerner asked in an injured tone.

“Why? Because it wouldn't have been a true test of your confidence in me. Now if I tell you to do it again and you're still prepared to fall back,
then
it will
really
show that you have confidence in me and then I'll be able to put you under with ease. Are you ready to try again?”

Kerner nodded grimly. What did he have to lose?

“Okay, let yourself go then. Don't worry, I promise I'll catch you this time.” The doctor yelled, “Fall back!”

Kerner let himself fall. As his head hit the floor for the second time, he almost lost consciousness. When he regained his senses, he rolled over on his side. The doctor stood over him, looking down sternly.

“That was to teach you self-reliance. An overly trusting mind is the mind of a fool, my friend.”

Kerner shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Now we're ready for hypnosis,” the doctor said. “Go lie down on the couch.”

Kerner staggered over to the couch and fell onto it. The doctor seated himself on the little chair and leaned over towards Kerner.

“Now then, you will begin slowly counting backwards from ten. By the time you reach one, you will be in a deep trance. All right, begin counting.”

“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” Kerner said.

“Your eyelids are becoming very heavy,” the doctor said in a slow, ponderous voice.

“Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .” Kerner said.

“You are now almost asleep,” Dr. Lehman intoned.

“Three . . . two . . . one. . . .”

“You are now asleep. You are in a deep trance, Mr. Kerner. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Kerner replied, wondering why he felt exactly as he had before his countdown. He had expected to feel as though he were in a dream, but aside from the dizziness and pain caused by his two falls, he felt much the same as thirty seconds before.

“Now the purpose of this session is to find out certain things about your past which for some reason you've been unable to recall or are otherwise reluctant to discuss. For example, you haven't said anything about your feelings towards your parents. You seem to be fighting me on that and I want to get to the bottom of it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Kerner replied, wishing he felt more asleep.

“All right. Now when I snap my fingers at the end of this session, you will wake up feeling refreshed and remember nothing. Do you understand, Mr. Kerner?”

“Sure, Doctor, whatever you say.”

“You have a glib mouth even when you're in a trance,” Dr. Lehman said sharply.

“I'm sorry, I was just answering your question,” Kerner replied, opening his eyes.

“Shut up, Kerner. You're in a trance, which means you can't talk freely unless I tell you to!” the doctor yelled.

“Okay, okay. Take it easy. I didn't know that. You should have explained that before you put me under and I wouldn't have said a word. How was I supposed to know?”

“Ah! You're not even hypnotized,” Dr. Lehman said in a choked voice.

“You mean, I'm awake now?”

“Well, that's debatable, Kerner. . . . You might have a hard time proving it to anyone else but, yes, you're as awake as you'll ever be. You must have been resisting me.”

“I tried my best,” Kerner said, gesturing with open hands.

“Well, sometimes it doesn't work,” the doctor said sullenly.

“Can't we try it again?”

“No, I don't want to do it now,” Dr. Lehman snapped. “Maybe we can try some word association?”

“What's that?”

“I say a word or a series of words and you say the first word or words that come to mind. By your response, I may be able to obtain some clue, some insight into the cause of your perversion. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Kerner said, sitting up on the couch.

“All right then, here we go. The first word is . . . dog!”

“Buy.”

“Cat!”

“Buy.”

“Buy!” said the doctor, leaning forward, a sly grin on his face.

“Cunt,” Kerner replied.

“Money!”

“Shit.”

“Shit!”

“Buy.”

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” said the doctor.

“Buy, buy, buy!” was Kerner's response.

The doctor paused as though thinking. “Enough,” he said.

“Buy,” said Kerner.

“That's enough!” the doctor yelled.

“Shit!” screamed Kerner.

“Okay, stop already!”

“Buy, buy, buy, already!” Kerner shouted.

“No! Enough! Stop it!”

“Buy! More! Shit!” Kerner screamed.

The doctor stopped. In a very low voice, he said, “Mr. Kerner . . .”

“Buy,” Kerner replied.

The doctor ran over to Kerner and placed a heavy hand over his mouth.

“No more, Mr. Kerner. This part is finished. I keep getting this connection between money, sex, buying and shit, but I know that already. I don't think this particular technique will take us any farther.”

“I couldn't think of anything else to say. Those were the only words that came to mind.”

“Never mind. We'll move on to something else.”

“I was thinking, Doctor . . .”

“Yes?”

“I've heard they've cured people of things like alcoholism and smoking and so on by making the patient associate their addiction with a bad experience.”

“Oh, very good. I see now you're an expert in psychology,” the doctor sneered.

“I'm not trying to tell you anything. I just happened to have read a few things on that.”

“You read a few things and right away you're an expert, eh? Well, let me tell you something, I don't believe in all that crap. And just for the record, Mr. Psychology Expert, the behaviourists try to effect cures not only by giving the patients bad experiences but also good experiences. For example, a colleague of mine who is very big on behaviour therapy once had a Mrs. Greenberg as a patient. Maybe you know her—Sally Greenberg, the wife of Jack Greenberg, the paper magnate?”

“No, I don't know her.”

“They live in Westmount,” the doctor said.

Kerner shook his head. “Don't know them.”

“From the paper mills,” the doctor said.

“No,” said Kerner, “I don't know them.”

“Well, in any event, she had a frigidity problem, this Mrs. Greenberg; was absolutely terrified of sex. During a word association session such as we've just had, it became apparent to my colleague, who doesn't know his ass from his elbow anyways, that she had an incredible desire, bordering on lust, for mint candies. He would say ‘Fuck' and she would immediately reply ‘Mint candy,' slobbering at the mouth every time she said it. So he advised her husband to give her a mint candy every time they had intercourse. Within a relatively short period of time, she began wanting to screw constantly.”

“So she was cured?”

Dr. Lehman shrugged. “Let's put it this way: Before her therapy she was afraid of sex; now apparently she's not, but now she weighs three hundred and sixty pounds as compared to a hundred and twelve before. Every time she has intercourse, she finishes a half-pound box of mint candies. Soon they'll have to push her around in a wheelbarrow.”

“I see,” Kerner said, nodding understandingly.

“That's not for you, Mr. Kerner. Besides, I don't believe in all that shit. I'm not against working on eradicating the symptoms of a disorder through an attack on the symptoms themselves, but at the same time we have to find the root cause of it and that can best be done through the psychoanalytic method. Now we've already made some very good progress with you, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes. Yes. Definitely,” Kerner said eagerly.

“Now I already have a good idea of what your problem is. However, I should like to use two more tests on you in order to validate some of my conclusions about your disorder. At the same time, these tests may give you some further insight into your problem. The thing that I find puzzling is that you haven't as yet blamed anything on your parents or your teachers, or anyone in fact. Surely there must be someone you can blame for having screwed you up.”

Kerner shrugged and made no reply.

“Well, maybe these next tests will open things up a bit more. Now the first is the Rorschach test. Let's go over and sit at the table near the pond.”

Kerner got up and walked over to the table. The doctor went into the hut and came out a moment later with two Manila folders. He sat down opposite Kerner and withdrew several sheets from one of the folders. He passed one across to Kerner who looked down at it and observed a large ink blot.

“All right, now what do you see there, Mr. Kerner?” the doctor asked, pointing at the sheet.

Kerner studied the blot for a moment. “It looks like a painting by Lambert Groulx.”

“But what do you see there?” Dr. Lehman said testily.

“It looks like a car,” Kerner replied.

“A car?”

“Yes, it looks like a car to me.”

“Well, for your information, it's a cunt!” the doctor snapped.

“It doesn't look like a cunt to me,” Kerner said.

“No, I don't imagine it does considering how fucked up you are. If you were normal, you'd see a cunt; but since you're not normal, you see a car.”

Kerner shrugged. “Well, I can't help it. It looks like a car to me.”

“Well, just take my word for it, it's a cunt all right.”

“Look, I know I'm not normal, but anyone who sees a cunt in that blot isn't either, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Don't philosophize, Mr. Kerner. Just tell me what you see in this second blot,” Dr. Lehman said, pushing another sheet over towards Kerner. “What do you see there?”

“A cunt?” Kerner said hesitantly.

“A cunt!” the doctor screamed.

“Well, yes, look. See. There's like the lips and there's the little jigger up here,” Kerner said, tracing his finger along the blot.

“That's not the little jigger, my friend; that's the front fender of the car. It's a 1972 Maseratti, for your information.”

“It looks like a cunt to me.”

“Oh, Kerner, leave me alone already,” Dr. Lehman muttered, grimacing as though in pain.

“Look, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to be honest.”

“Okay. Never mind. It's just that you get on my nerves, Kerner. I know you can't help it, but you do.”