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© 2004 Kyler James
My life was about to be transformed. But I didn’t know it yet. How could I? I was sitting in my
office, waiting for Jennifer Filenbaum to show up. She was five minutes late and my favorite
patient. Of course I never told her this. She was quite funny usually – and I was getting so bored
with most of my clientele – sitting and listening to their problems all day. Jennifer was one of the
few who made me laugh.
My name is Davis Jarvey and I’m a therapist. A good therapist. My patients love me. I help
them with their troubles. And I’m really getting sick of it.
I have two outstanding features: my mind and...you can guess the other one. Women used
to love it - the other one, I mean. Now men do. No one gives a shit about my mind.
Well, that’s not really true. There’s at least one person who cares about my mind – my
literary agent. You see, I’d written this outrageous novel, THE CONSCIOUS EGOIST, and my
agent and I were waiting for about five and a half months to hear from a publisher. If you’ve
never written a book, I’ll tell you, it takes a really long time to hear anything. I guess because
everyone’s so busy reading everyone else’s – dare I say it? – crap.
But as I waited for Jennifer, and as I waited to hear from my agent, which I was always doing,
we knew it could be any day. Would I stay working as a bored but brilliant therapist for the rest
of my life? Or would the publication of THE CONSCIOUS EGOIST catapult me into the soaring
heights of glittering acclaim?
The phone rang. Would this be the call to change my life?
It was Jennifer: “Davis – I’m so sorry, but I’m stuck in a taxi and the traffic’s not moving! Can
we begin the session over the phone?”
“What’s the taxi driver’s name?” I asked.
“Mohammed Abdul,” replied Jennifer.
“And how would you feel,” I continued, “about Abdul hearing the intimate details of your love
life, or lack of it, Jennifer?”
“How would I feel?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You’re always asking me that, Davis.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you got in touch with your feelings. Tell Mohammed to get his ass over
to Charles Street as fast as he can.” And I hung up.
Don’t think I’m being cruel here. My supervisor, Nicholas, advised me to be particularly tough
with Jennifer because her parents were never tough with her and consequently transformed her
into this all-knowing monster, for which she was miserable her whole life long. Should one trust
the advice of one’s supervisor? One has no choice in therapy land: our supervisors are kings –
or queens – as the case may be. And I loved Nicholas; his sessions with me were like heaven;
he always confirmed my brilliance, yet dignified his criticism of me with a dagger of nobility from
which I emerged unscathed, yet somehow improved – as if improvement were possible in my
case.
“Nicholas, where are you now that I need you?” I sighed as I waited by the hung-up receiver
for my favorite patient. Jennifer, oh Jennifer, I thought, if only my life could be as pure as yours.
If only you knew how neurotic your beloved therapist really was!
My Siamese cat, Alphonse, entered and jumped up on my lap. “What are we going to do,
Alphonse,” I purred, as I petted him nervously. “The session started five minutes ago – and I’ve
got to stop at ten of three. Will Jennifer understand? Or will she insist on pursuing some new
problem discovered precisely at 2:45, just when it’s time to leave? Will I have to forcibly remove
her, my pet? Perhaps you can help me.”
The phone rang. Oh my God – should I answer it? I was, after all, officially in a session. I let
the machine get it: “You have reached the office of Davis Jarvey. Please leave a message and
I will return your call promptly. Thank you.”
It was my agent! “Davis, darling, this is Harriet. Could you please fax me a copy of your New
York Times interview? I seem to have misplaced it and need another for a new submission.
Thanks, love.”
Oh, Harriet – I loved her dearly – but she was so unorganized. How did she ever expect to
sell my novel? She was driving me crazy. I couldn’t stand another day of my exacerbated rage
against her. I pushed Alphonse off my lap and went to the john. Some cold water on my face
might make me appear calm and collected when Jennifer arrived.
The doorman buzzed. I raced out of the bathroom, towel in hand, and said, “Yes, Mick?”
“It’s Jennifer on her way up to see you, Mr. Jarvis.”
“That’s Jarvey. Davis Jarvey.”
“OK, Mr. Jarvey.”
“Thank you.”
And Jennifer arrived with a flourish and a flutter – blond hair, red dress, green bag – talking a
mile a minute, as usual:
“Davis, My God, you wouldn’t believe the traffic – you wouldn’t believe the day
I’ve had! Oi Gevalt! I’m a wreck, a total wreck. I couldn’t get the kids to school,
I couldn’t find a taxi, I couldn’t find my diaphragm, not that I have anyone to use it with – but just in
case – after the session, you never know – and what am I doing here? Why am I here? What
can we accomplish today? With just a half hour left practically? I can’t take any more of this…I’
ve got to go away on a vacation or something….”
“Jennifer, why don’t you come sit down and tell me about it?”
“Do you really care, Davis?” she asked as she chose the chaise lounge for the day’s
session. “Or is it just a front?”
“Why is it important for you to know that?”
“ ‘Why,’ he asks! ‘Why?’ I’ll tell you why. Because I would like to feel that somebody really
cares about me, for once. Do you know what I mean? Do you really care about me, Davis? Or
is it just my money you care about?”
“Now Jennifer – these questions don’t suit you and you know it. Let’s get to the bottom of
them. Let’s try some free association. I’ll say a word and you say the first thing that comes into
your mind, OK?”
“All right, but I’m very dubious.”
“Well, let’s try it….”
“OK,” she said, reluctantly.
“Now lean back, close your eyes, and say the first word that comes into your mind.”
“OK.”
“Care…”
“…Nurse.”
“Doctor…”
“…Penis.”
“Vagina…”
“…Love.”
“Love…”
“…Fuck.”
“Sex…”
“…Death.”
“Suicide…”
“…Cure.”
“Escape…”
“…Fuck me!”
“Professional…”
“…Turn-on.”
“Doctor…”
“…Penis.”
“Nurse…”
“…Wants it.”
“Why…”
“…Emptiness.”
“Fulfillment…”
“…THAT’S IT!!!” she cried. “I’ve just realized how I substitute my own feelings of inadequacy
with the need for a man’s cock.”
“Very good, Jennifer. I think you were able to release some of your aggressions there. Do
you feel better?”
“I do, Davis. You are so good!”
“Thank you.”
“Now why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you today?”
“How can you tell that something’s bothering me?”
“I can tell, Davis – woman’s intuition.”
“Well, this is your session – so we need to explore your reasons for asking.”
“Oh, cut the bull, Davis. We’re two human beings relating to each other. I’m paying you, but
we’re still two human beings – despite your self-assured arrogance, the grim, confident tone in
your voice. So what’s the matter with you today?”
“Jennifer, we only have fifteen minutes. Are you sure this is how you choose to spend the
rest of your session?”
“Yes! I feel released – I feel wonderful. Now I’d like to help you. So tell me.”
“That would be highly unprofessional.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Tell Jennifer your troubles.”
“You think I have troubles? Perhaps you’re projecting.”
“What are you feeling, Davis?”
“Why do want to know this?”
“Maybe I care about you. What are you feeling?”
I took a deep breath.
“What are you feeling?” she asked again.
“I’m feeling….”
“Yes….”
“Sadness…infinite sadness.”
“That’s an honest answer. Why?”
“Because I’ve written a book – and it’s already been rejected 26 times. No one believes in
me except my agent; otherwise I am totally alone in this world. This causes me infinite sadness
because the day may never come when I’ll be recognized for who I am: a man with original
ideas – not just a therapist, not just your average professional guy – but a writer, an artist.”
“I’m surprised to hear you talk this way,” she confessed.
“So am I,” I replied. “Shall I continue?”
“Um-hmm,” she nodded.
“I’ve sacrificed everything to try to get what I want – the only thing I want –
to be published, which seems so impossible. Suffering is the only thing that seems possible.”
She was silent. And I was growing more and more agitated:
“I’ve put every ounce of energy into my book – and it’s turning my hair gray. I’ve got circles
under my eyes. I haven’t had sex since God knows when. Gray hair may be appealing to
women in the heterosexual world – but not so with gay men. I’m getting older, Jennifer, and
what have I got to show for it? I come from a rich family, you know; sure I make a decent living
as a therapist – but until I get that huge advance as a writer, I’m just not in their league. The
pressure to succeed in an upper-middle-class family is one of the great pressures of our time. If
I don’t have a breakdown, I’m afraid I could have a heart attack. It’s all about trying to please my
father who never gave me any approval.”
She was still silent.
“Yet it all comes down to this futile sense of loneliness; the despair of having no relief in
sight. I’ve realized lately that there is only one cure. Not drugs, not drinking, not sex, not
meditation, not magic, not getaway trips – only one cure –as hopeless as it may seem. Writing
– whether I’m published or not – writing is the only cure...because it makes me conscious of
who I am.”
After a long pause, she said, “Wow…you know…you really are an egotist, Davis.”
“Well, you wanted me to talk about myself, didn’t you? But the term is ‘egoist’ –there is a
difference. And I am aware – very aware – of my egoism.”
“Well, egoism or egotism – it’s all the same to me. Our time is up, Mr. Jarvey. Today and
always. I can’t believe it, but you are not the man I thought you were. I always thought you were
so together. I’ve got to go now, I’m sorry.” And she got up to leave.
“Just a minute, Jennifer. You haven’t paid me for the session.”
“No, I haven’t. Apparently, when you get to the heart of what you truly feel, what is truly deep
inside you, it’s just an embarrassment – and nobody else is interested. It’s you who should pay
me, sweetheart, for I’m teaching you a major lesson of life: nobody really cares what anyone
really feels – unless they’re getting paid for it.”
And she walked out on me. I never saw the woman again.
I lost most of my patients after that. I didn’t want to listen to them anymore; I just wanted to
hear myself talk. I was simply the most fascinating character around. You see, no one
understood life, the world, the people in it – in short, the Human Condition – better than I. No
one had the brains I had – or the size of equipment I had – to bring forth my unique offering of
ideas and power to this confused, emasculated world.
The phone rang. I let the machine get it. I was in no mood to talk to anyone.
“You have reached the office of Davis Jarvey. Please leave a message and I will return your
call promptly. Thank you.”
“Davis! This is Harriet!”
She sounded drunk.
“Great news, darling! You won’t believe it – we sold the book! Finally! We got an offer of 17
Thousand from Bad Boy Books in L.A! I had to fuck that editor senseless! Call me right away,
Davis! Bye, honey!”
What did I just hear? Was I losing my mind? I went to the machine to listen to the message
again…but as I reached for the button, I started feeling dizzy and nauseous. I thought I was
going to throw up. It felt like everything was spinning…and I fell down and passed out.
Unconscious, devoid of awareness, I lay on my thick, orange carpet in total oblivion….
I must have come to about an hour later. The only thing I remember is the feeling of Alphonse
licking my face with his hard, prickly tongue – a coarse reminder of reality.
I was conscious once again and ready for my new life.
A bit about Kyler James:
Kyler James is a graduate of New York University and a former actor.
Known primarily for his work as a psychic counselor, Kyler also wrote
a psychic column in NEXT Magazine, the popular New York weekly,
and has done many Tarot reading gigs at NYC hotspots.
Kyler James is the author of a novel titled The Surprise Ending, and
is currently working on his second novel, The Voices of Children.
