Chapter 20
Once upon a time, after Sterling appreciated the fact that he had been given the gift of academic gab, in other words the ability to polish off term papers efficiently in a single draft, without straying far from his iMac, he got on a history kick. This was his first independent study. He had persuaded his school, although he was only ten at the time, to allow him to construct a course entitled “Essays on People I find Famously Weird.” He promised to turn in one essay every week if the school agreed to let him alone, in other words dispense with the standard history, geography and social studies courses he was supposed to take with his peers. He also asked for access to the local university libraries because, as much as he worshiped the data-gathering ability of the internet, he still respected libraries as places of last resort. By the end of the semester, true to his word, Sterling had turned in twelve essays on Howard Hughes, Jesus Christ, Mao Zedong, T.E. Lawrence, Pythagoras, Lord Byron, Hitler, Nikola Tesla, Empedocles, Yukio Mishima, Charles IX of France and himself. Of all these people Lawrence of Arabia has continued to intrigue Sterling.
Several years after he wrote his school essay, the original manuscript of Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom was published. This got the academic community buzzing, commenting on Lawrence’s sexual orientation. Some suggested he was a sado-masochist; others a fantasist. Some even questioned the veracity of Lawrence’s account of being raped by the Ottoman Bey in Daraa, Syria, during World War I. As a voracious reader Sterling, the child, went through whatever books he got his hands on. He had found a copy of Pillars on a back shelf in his parents’ bedroom closet. He had started to read it; his father promptly took it away from him and told him to find something more age-ppropriate. That, of course, was a gauntlet dropped; and Sterling merely obtained, as soon as possible, a library copy of the book. He read it; the chapter on the rape did not mean much to him at the time. Several years later, when he wrote his biographical essay, he was definitionally familiar with rape, its involving violence, coercion and sexual organs. The same-sex rape of Lawrence is one of several events in his life that made the adventurer/war hero seem weird to Sterling (also the fact that Lawrence changed his name several times, never had any close relationships and desired anonymity, despite his talents and an autobiography he promoted). At some point, a few years later, Sterling wondered why his father owned a book such as Pillars, with his name on the inside cover, his army rank, and a room number. Sterling managed to get his mother to admit that the number represented the hospital room where Pandely was living at the time Sterling was an infant. Neither she nor his father ever mentioned his army service or hospital stay; he did not feel comfortable prying. Still, learning about these times, because they were mysteriously taboo, posed a challenge to the boy. Now, at age seventeen, he had received no additional information on these events from his parents; he was still curious; he knew intuitively that the events impacted on his own psyche (but he was unaware exactly how). Whatever had happened was still shrouded in intentional secrecy.
When Pandely finishes his evening boxing workout, it is his custom to have a beer. Only one beer. Generally this is the only time Pandely drinks alone; occasionally he drinks in social situations with Army buddies or takes a glass of Greek wine with Greek food, but he’s not a serious drinker. With his solitary beer he always sits in the same chair in the corner of the gym, overlooking his empire, until he finishes the brew. The imbibing ritual will take him about ten minutes during which he stares into space, thinking about whatever, perhaps not thinking at all. His face will remain more or less blank, that is, even blanker than usual. Sterling knows that this is a private time for his father; neither he nor other family members interrupt him. In fact, Pandely never pulls out the beer until his son has left the gym for the evening, and Sterling has never had to be told not to interrupt him. This is his father’s private space and time; the son always honors the father’s need. Tonight, Pandely is alone in the gym, puttering around until his son goes upstairs. He then sits down and prepares to open the beer, as Sterling appears and pulls up a chair, uninvited.
“May I have a beer to celebrate my retirement?” he asks, already seated, not waiting for a reply.
Both father and son are well acquainted with house rules concerning minors and alcohol. When Pandely sees that his son holds a copy of Pillars – it is in fact the copy from his bedroom – he nods his accord. Sterling sits down; he already holds an unopened beer in his free hand.
“Tell me what happened in the Army, before you were in the hospital,” the boy asks.
Sterling won’t need to be told much. Over the years he has collected bits and pieces of information. He knows, for example, that his father joined the Army right out of high school, recruited in part because of his boxing prowess. The Army trained him well; he rewarded his employer with taking the Golden Gloves title in 1984. He was expected to go professional, but he rejected the idea for several reasons. He felt he was not prize-fighter caliber, that his Golden Gloves title, although clearly earned, was courtesy of luck, given other fighters’ injuries and sicknesses and a dearth of talent in his division for that particular year. Pandely never considered himself a contender; most everyone disagreed; prospective trainers and sponsors were lining up to sign him on. The only person who concurred with his assessment was his girlfriend, Catherine, who had made it clear she had no interest in being engaged to, much less marrying, a profession fighter. The military was delighted that he wished to remain career Army. They were, in turn, very kind to him. He was allowed some time off in order to serve as a sparring partner for Thomas Hearns. The Hitman told him to spar like Marvin Hagler, the middleweight title holder and Hearns’ upcoming opponent. Pandely was one of several punching bags Hearns went through in his training program. He liked Pandely, who mimicked Marvelous Marvin’s style well, but without packing the punch. Sterling’s father was privileged to attend the title bout at Caesars Palace. He had been given a free ticket, although a bit distant from ringside. The combat, August 13th 1985, is regarded as one of the greatest slugfests ever. It lasted a savage eight minutes and one second, the referee stopping the contest in the third round. Hagler retained his title; this match was to be the penultimate of the champ’s thirteen successful title defenses, establishing a record for the division. (He eventually lost to Sugar Ray Leonard). Sterling had viewed the eight minutes on YouTube several times. He envied his father for witnessing and indeed being a part of boxing history.
Pandely’s boxing history is part of the public record. The other parts of his past, what Sterling is now eager to know, are not public. He had heard his parents in conversations not meant for him to hear. He had heard his Army buddies make references and offer condolences and anger. Sterling’s time in therapy has taught him to view the world differently. He is not consciously assuming the role of analyst and treating his father as analysand. That should be left to professionals. He had once presumptuously been his own lawyer; after that failure he has begun to realize he has limitations, although those limitations are viewed as themselves limited. He is not confronting his father to offer his help; he’s here to better understand their relationship, which he used to see very clearly, but which has suddenly become almost inscrutable.
Over the years Pandely’s buddies, usually after a few beers, had mentioned several place names: Tikmeh Kord, Sarıçavuş, and Mosul. Sterling knew that his father had served in Iraq in several tours including one in 1992 in the months before he was born. He supposedly was part of the American forces enforcing the No Fly Zone which the coalition forces had imposed on Iraq after the first Gulf War. It did not take someone as bright as Sterling to figure what his father was doing. The boy had Google-mapped the place names to find their locations in Turkey, Iran and Iraq, respectively. Sterling’s supposition was that his father’s unit had been employed in the Kurdish controlled northeast of Iraq, at its border with Turkey and Iran. When confronted with this
information, Pandely says that his operations are still classified and that he cannot discuss them.
“But you can discuss your hospital treatment; that’s not classified,” Sterling says.
Pandely, as is his habit, doesn’t reply. When this happens – and non-response is SOP for his father – Sterling accepts the silence as a confirmation. He proceeds with the inquiry.
“Whatever happened to you, dad, has scarred both of us. Well, not actually scarred me because I don’t have the marks to show for all the times I got the strap.”
Pandely says nothing; more confirmation. He has not taken a drink from his beer. Sterling has not bothered to open his.
“I’ve talked with Dr. Franz about why you beat me. I know your father beat you and I know there’s a better than even chance I’ll beat my son if I have one. I’m not saying that corporal punishment is wrong; I certainly deserved it sometimes. Knowing that now, that’s important. My doctor says that a conversation about the strap is better had with you. Anger is something I have to control. But I don’t understand why you took the strap to the Trips and then never told me you were wrong when you beat me.”
“What good would it have done?” Pandely asks.
Sterling realizes it would not have done him much good. He would not have been any less angry at the Trips. He would not have respected his father any more or any less. It might have humiliated his father, which would not have done either of them any good especially if the humiliation were recalled at the next beating. Sterling doesn’t really have an answer to that question.
“I don’t know. It would have meant we had a real conversation, which we never do.”
Pandely now opens his beer and takes a swig.
“We don’t have “real” conversations because you don’t talk with us, son. Only to us. You lecture, you crack jokes, you insult our politics, you criticize, you show off your intelligence, you make us feel stupid. Your mother and me decided early on that talking with you was useless most of the time. By early on I mean right after you learned to talk. We find you way too frustrating. You’re always right. Much of the time you are right, son, certainly when it comes to facts and figures. We can’t compete in that area. But we could give you advice, we could help you to make better choices. But whenever we have tried, you don’t respect our advice. So we just gave up. You’ve always been good at figuring things out for yourself. That’s why we didn’t interfere with the grand jury. We knew we couldn’t talk reason into you. We wanted you to ask us for help. Mr. Miles pleaded with us to bring you in to talk with him. You never even showed us the subpoena. I deal with crap like this every day. I could have helped you. Tell me one time you’ve ever asked us for advice, really asked us for advice.”
This speech has blown Sterling away. Not only is it about the only occasion his father has ever thrown so many words together in one, more or less, coherent punch. Pandely is also right on the money. Sterling knows from his conversations with Dr. Franz that he doesn’t respect his parents. Most people would not know this; Sterling is well-mannered, a Southern gentleman in the making. But he doesn’t respect their opinions because he feels they are his intellectual inferiors. And they are. His mother dropped out of a nursing program; it took his father eight years of night school to get a so-called degree equivalent from the community college. Everyone agrees Sterling is smarter than Catherine and Pandely put together. That’s not in dispute. But he is still a child, one without the wisdom that comes from experience. Sterling had not realized these insights until Dr. Franz managed to coax them out of him.
“But you paid my lawyers,” Sterling points out.
“We were hoping they could talk some sense into you. But you didn’t listen to Mr. James. He told me you only listen to yourself. That was his assessment, his first impression. I told him he wasn’t wrong.”
“Is that why you said you were ashamed of me?” Sterling asks.
“I would never say that,” Pandely responds.
“When I was in the cell, in the courthouse, that’s exactly what you said, ‘I am ashamed of you, son,’” Sterling says, those six words etched into his memory.
“I meant I was disappointed.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“That’s what I meant. I’ll never really be ashamed of you. You’ll have to take my word for that.”
“And are you disappointed I quit boxing?” Sterling asks.
“You should have quit long time ago, after your growth spurt.”
“You could have told me that.”
“Would you have heard me?”
“Maybe not.”
“Sterling, your mother and me have some experience in raising you. We still don’t know what works, but we sure know what doesn’t work. In a nutshell, you’re hard headed.”
Sterling smiles. He knows his father didn’t mean to crack a pun. He continues to listen:
“Telling you what to do doesn’t work. Mr. James told me he knew exactly how to handle your case. He asked my permission to ignore you because he said you were your own worst enemy. We told Mr. James not to make your decisions for you. We told him we hoped you would ask his advice. I assume you never did.”
Sterling reflects and says:
“I asked a lot of questions and he explained the strategies. No, I never asked his advice. I can be stupid sometimes.”
Pandely has finished his beer. He rises and pats his son on the shoulder.
“We wouldn’t have you any other way.” He starts to walk away to head upstairs. He turns, back in a reflective mood and points to strap in its rightful place on the pillar.
“Did I ever once hurt you?” he asks.
Sterling had always figured his father to be really thick-headed in his choice of punishment. How could his father not realize, the boy asked after each thrashing, that the beatings were so weak? His spankings and lashings were not much more forceful than the single lick he had administered to Bobby Jo for which, he had told himself, he would have to one day apologize to the tyke. Sterling himself never cried or moaned, although he occasionally let out an “ough” or a “shit” sometimes even a “fuck” if the sting became more uncomfortable than usual. Sterling had always considered the punishments mostly ritualistic, the reprimand inflicting less pain than his father’s sparring shots in the ring. To prevent punishments altogether he had the Vegas card to play. Ironically, when he received corporal punishment it always felt like he had pretty much gotten away with the crime. Even the few times he was punished in front of his peers had its benefit. It earned him increased respect.
“Of course not,” Sterling replies more or less honestly.
Pandely had already receded upstairs before Sterling had thought to return to the original line of inquiry: the hospital stay. Sterling was pretty certain – the old Sterling would have been 100% certain – that his father had been captured in Iran, most likely when he had been caught on the wrong side of the border, probably by mistake, unlikely spying. This is an incident that neither government, Sterling figures, would have wished to make public. It may have been seen as US spying, or perhaps it involved a rogue unit of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards, or both; it is uncertain. Big wars have grown from little incidents; Sterling reasons that it is history best left buried for now; one can wait until documents eventually become available through Freedom of Information or Wikileaks. Sterling is also reasonably certain his father had been tortured and probably raped. That must be the relevance of T.E. Lawrence’s book. Torture of the genitals and anus, the boy thinks, in hindsight, is almost certain to have occurred. His reasoning is impeccable: Pandely had several issues concerning his private parts. First, he has hemorrhoids, which themselves are of course not an indication of torture, although they are a torture in and of themselves. For years Pandely has relied on suppositories to mitigate the inflammation caused by this occasional nuisance. For unspecified reasons Sterling’s father, however,
could not himself insert the Preparation H bullets. Catherine was always assigned the task. Sometimes, however, his mother worked out-of-town or had to leave before Pandely got up in the morning. In those situations the procedure fell to Sterling who performed it without complaint. When it comes to the human body, Sterling does not embarrass easily and, in any case, it is not the first time his finger has explored strange places. Sterling, however, did not comprehend Pandely’s inability to perform such relatively routine maintenance. No way were his digits too short or his muscles subject to cramps or whatever lame excuse he could conjure up. Once, when he was performing his filial duties, Sterling noticed a lump on his father’s right testicle what he then thought was a tumor. He saw a similar one on his left gonad. Sterling was worried that his father had testicular cancer as Pandely was within the age range at risk. Even young Sterling had been informed he should perform periodic self examinations, which he enjoyed doing, but which of late had been assigned to Sara. A worried son had at that time asked his father about the lumps; Pandely had said that he had had them checked out: they were not cancerous, nothing to worry about. Sterling accepted this and the subject never reappeared. In retrospect, after he viewed some photos on the web the boy has come to believe that electric shock had been given. His hospital stay must have addressed these physical injuries as well as their mental side-effects.
Sterling supposes he is beginning also to better understand his mother. Catherine holds his own birth against him, unconsciously, of course. His mother was a few credits short of completing her nursing studies, before her education was abruptly disrupted by Sterling’s arrival. At the same time she had to deal with Pandely’s post traumatic stress. Consequently she never got her degree. In addition the role his mother played in his forced circumcision, in the name of disease prevention, fits her profile as a vengeful mom. Sterling has not worked all this out; he has more reading to do on the subject (a reason for taking a psychology course in the autumn). At some point he’ll be able to better understand, and thus better love, his mother, he thinks. For his part, Sterling has been suggesting, not to subtly, that his mother go back to school; two quick semesters is all she needs. She has been thumbing through the avalanche of nursing school catalogs. He’s figured out how she can acquire sufficient leave from work, how she can pay the tuition, and has guaranteed to supervise her studies and ensure she completes them this time around. He’s also nagging his father to retake the exam for promotion, which he has twice failed. Again, Sterling has guaranteed that he can pass it. No one doubts Sterling’s test-taking abilities and the persistence necessary to motive his parents. Whether he can succeed waits to be seen.
Sterling’s relation with Sara is less problematic in that it doesn’t have the baggage of a seventeen years to confound it. He doesn’t want to create a litany of growing problems, heaped one upon another, all unsolved with his girlfriend, as he has done with his parents. Also, he doesn’t want the relationship to be just about him. So far he has pretty much been the focus. Sterling, the little prince, is the family’s work in progress. Sara, now a part of the family, needs to pull her weight in maintaining him. Granted, Sterling is the one with the more interesting life, certainly in terms of number of issues that need to be worked out. This is not to say that Sara is boring, just that she is less troubled, despite the fact that she comes from very conservative stock. Conservative is good in Sterling’s opinion. Conservative stock is not necessarily good, however. It is essential, in the boy’s view, that their relationship not continue to be so one-sided. They initiate a lot of intimate talks about her but all these conversations seem to end up being about Sterling. Even discussions about art or music, not subjects that greatly interest him, have a way of being twisted around so they focus on him. Sterling has shared this concern with Sara; it doesn’t seem to bother her. Managing Sterling, she says, is pretty much full-time work. She proceeds one day at a time. She knew he was high-maintenance when she signed on, against the advice of Susan, who had loved and cared for them both and didn’t want to see Sara suffer like she, herself, had. Unable to dissuade Sara or drag her out from under Sterling’s spell, she suggested various strategies for dealing with someone as brilliantly stupid as her brother; one technique was to ignore most of what he said and concentrate on any areas that might involve shame. “Let things unfold as they do; just be there to pick up the pieces after he’s humiliated enough.” Sara’s first test of the effectiveness of this advice began on the night they had witnessed the Trips in their bedroom farce. From the outset she had picked up on the Trip’s game, for their manner resembled that of performance artists, but for reasons she could not then fathom. Complicating this was the fact, discovered by Sterling, that the boys had a serious drug problem. He had not run the forced rehabilitation plans past her – and she had scolded Sterling for not being forthright with her. Still, she had never accepted Sterling’s case for musical beds; she had known the Trips for years and, despite their propensity for tricks and jokes (especially if they could get the better of Sterling), she was convinced that they took the Commandments and teachings of Jesus very seriously. She did not buy their sleeping with their girlfriends, especially not all at the same time. This was clearly a plan to make Sterling feel ridiculous at some point. The Trips always prefer to string out humiliation, so they can enjoy an extended period for sharing a private joke at Sterling’s expense. Sara felt totally vindicated after Sterling had updated her on what he had learned from the boys on the return drive from their rehab centers. He had expected her to give him an I-told-you-so. The facts spoke for themselves, she said. The next time, she advised, perhaps he should confide in her when he had suspicions and together they might be able to work something out. “You’re not along in the world, Sterl,” she had said. His relationship with Sara won’t be easy, Sterling realizes. He’ll have to work hard at it. Perhaps this recognition is a sign of maturity, he hopes.
All weekend Sterling had eagerly awaited his appointment with Dr. Franz. Monday’s sessions are always full of surprises. The psychiatrist would as usual no doubt have derived or concocted an analysis over the weekend which he would dump on Sterling at some point. On Mondays it was almost pointless for Sterling to develop topics on his own that he, the patient, thinks important. Monday’s sessions were often less about the patient than the analyst. The doctor had a way of setting the agenda, despite what Sterling wanted or felt or felt he wanted and needed. The doctor was in charge, although the boy argued (mostly to himself) it was always the patient who should be in charge; he should be the focus, he should talk while the psychiatrist listens. Sterling’s readings in psychiatry had taught him nothing if not that the field was a veritable war zone between practitioners who participate actively with the patient (Tony’s shrink in The Sopranos, for example) and the traditionalists who believe that offering interpretation is the only valid verbal intervention. In that regard Dr. Franz is a traditionalist most of the time. His job is indeed to interpret and analyze. Sterling’s job is to listen and accept his verdicts and accordingly effect the changes in his life suggested by the interpretation. To date he has been working on issues of respect and anger. The analyst has remained aloof, supported by a theoretical triumvirate of anonymity, abstinence (from intervention) and neutrality. In contrast, the lady psychologist, Sterling’s second who had failed him, or vice-versa, represented the non-traditionalists. Her technique reflects the other theoretical approach, one in which the analyst is much more active with the patient; advocates believe that sessions have in reality as much to do with the analyst as the analysand. The therapist should not be removed, uninvolved and objective, as the traditionalists prefer. Often sessions with such psychiatrists are more about them than the patients, or so it often seems to their bewildered patients. Sterling was convinced that the woman had herself some daddy issues which is why she dwelled so intently on his penis. Yet the overall theory for this approach might be
sound, Sterling figured; whether it works depends on its execution, which in turn reflects the competence of the analyst. Still, it is very different theoretical base from that to which Franz subscribes. Sterling enjoyed the doctor’s discussion in his textbook concerning the various techniques which analysts use; his advice is that a particular therapeutic strategy may not work in a given situation; changing strategies may be necessary. This was a radical assessment as almost no advocate of a given approach accepts much value in the competing approaches. This would be the equivalent of Democrats saying that Republicans are sometimes right, or vice-versa. It’s just not said, Dr. Franz had written. He doesn’t suggest, however, a mix and match strategy for “only in rare instances is an individual psychiatrist or psychologist competent in more than one approach. Furthermore, a change in approach in mid-treatment is liable to discombobulate the analysand. It’s better for the patient just to change therapists.” And, of course, it is unlikely that a competent therapist can be wedded to more than one underlining theory, certainly not monogamously. Go with what works for the individual patient, Dr. Franz advocates. Sterling agrees. He figures he could argue convincingly for or against any of the various approaches if he had an opportunity to review more of the literature. They all lay out sound frameworks, it seems. Suffice it to say that at the moment that Sterling’s concern is less with technique than with results. He is willing to give an analyst a limited trial. If it isn’t getting results, he’d like another psychiatrist. Thus, he’s willing to continue with Dr. Franz, although he continues to be annoyed that he, as patient, is not in charge. He has so much he wants to say.
Sterling gets comfortable, the Nikes already slipped off. He’s willing to take the risk that he can lie on the couch and prepare to free associate, his consciousness ready to stream. It seems, however, that Dr. Franz had had enough of his chatting or thinks he has enough information to work with. Sure enough, just as Sterling gets comfortable and desirous to open his mouth and keep the words flowing until told to cease and desist, the doctor motions for him to sit up so they can chat face-to-face. This is apparently a new strategy, and Sterling wonders if the internationally famous psychiatrist (his text is a big seller in Singapore and New Zealand) has fully accepted the meaning of his own ghost-written words.
“Let’s pick up where we left off, if that’s alright with you.”
“Sure, although I have a lot of new stuff to report from the weekend. It was very busy time for self-assessment. I promise to limit my remarks to five minutes.”
The doctor nods and indulges the boy; Nikes off, Sterling, true to his word, recaps the weekend in the allotted time. He mentions his attempt at resolving some issues with Father Emmanuel, he mentions the trick that the Vaneys played on him. He summarizes his talk with his father and the progress he believes he’s making with his mother. “These are the four people (six if you consider the Trips as individuals) who can make me angry. Now they don’t, so I must be getting cured,” Sterling concludes, returning to the upright positon.
“Cured of what?” the doctor asks.
“From anger. I mean, I realize anger is a legitimate emotion, so I guess I mean cured from repressing anger or obsessing anger.”
“And there’s no one else you’re angry at?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Good. Let’s move back to something you said last time. Remember you were talking about fate and a person’s being born the way he’s born. Can you repeat what you said?”
“You mean, can I repeat myself word for word.”
“That would be wonderful, if you could. I have down here you used the word ‘weepy.’”
“Shouldn’t be a problem to quote myself. I said:+ ‘But there’s no way I’ll go all weepy over fate and events we can’t control, like how we are born or if you’re killed in an accident.’ Then I used an expletive,” Sterling adds apologetically.
“Interesting,” the doctor exclaims. He sits there thinking to himself.
“So?” Sterling wonders.
“That’s not exactly what you said,” Dr. Franz explains.
“Sure it is. I have 100% recall.”
“So you’ve told me. I think you believe that’s what you said but that’s not actually word-for-word what you said.”
“It is.”
“No, it isn’t. I have it on tape. Should I play it back?”
Sterling is surprised to learn that the sessions are being taped. Where’s the microphone, he wonders. It must be wireless. But even more surprising is the revelation that his memory is flawed.
“No, no playback needed. I trust you.”
“What you said was not ‘…events we can’t control…’ You had said ‘events I can’t control, I mean, we can’t control.’ You corrected a slip of the tongue.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“Yes. That’s what I find so interesting. You made a normal correction, something we do all the time, but your memory has blocked it out. You know that slips of the tongue are our bread and butter.”
Sterling is mulling all this over, trying to make sense of it. His unconscious has not only gotten involved in a slip of the tongue but then reappeared a second time to blot it out of his memory. The doctor is right: this is really interesting, something important. He looks to the doctor for further information. The psychiatrist says nothing. Sterling is obliged to continue:
“I guess I should be careful saying my memory is 100%. And I was talking about how people in general cannot control the circumstances of their birth. I meant to generalize, to use ‘we’ but I said ‘I.’ I guess this means I need to add control issues onto my list of character flaws. In relationships I like to control, don’t I? When I don’t have control – my parents, the Trips – I get angry or I do something stupid. All the examples of anger I was referencing, really, are about control, aren’t they? You know, this is amazing. I never knew my memory wasn’t absolute. People have been critical about my over-reliance on my memory. I had a school psychologist who went so far as to label me an underachiever because I used memory as a crutch so I didn’t have to think. She made me very mad. Then Father Emmanuel he didn’t like me regurgitating the catechism. I guess I was using my gift as a crutch there, too. This gives me a shitload of stuff to think about. I am sort of angry at you, doctor.”
“Yes, I imagine you are. Control comes up in other things we’ve talked about,” he inserts, waiting for Sterling to continue.
“Like bullying. I was never comfortable with your analysis. I still see myself as defending John Dewey, whereas you call it bullying. And my relationship with William. I’m not bullying, it’s just the way we relate. I am the Alpha. With Brandon. Oh, shit. Brandon gives me nothing but grief, but I got him back…in my dream. Fuck, did I rape him? Shit, am I this fucked up? And now if you add the control element, I understand these things better. And when I beat people in arguments because I’ve memorized all the facts, I guess that’s a sort of bullying. I never realized how upset it makes people. My parents can’t talk with me because they can never win an argument. Control? Yeah, I can see how this might be a problem.”
Sterling rests for a moment and drinks some water. His mind is racing to keep up with the new analysis he’s been fed. Dr. Franz picks up a new thread.
“This is not the first time I’ve noticed what I guess we can call memory revisionism. Remember in, I believe, the second session you recounted for me in minute detail the death of your sister.
“Yes.”
And remember in another session, the following visit, you took me through your making the Smiley Boy video.
“Yes.”
“And in each session I asked you to put the events in context, in summary form, what was happening in your life, what events immediately preceded or followed.
“Yes.”
“Try to recall how you played the events back. Do you see what I’m driving at?” Dr. F
ranz asks.
Sterling reflects to himself not on what he recalled to the psychiatrist but the actual sequence of events: the phone call, the hospital visit, his parents arrival, returning home, his dispute on which room he’d sleep in. That was the Saturday. The Sunday is the filming of Smiley Boy. Sterling had called the Indians and said he’d made up his mind and he was ready to do the shoot today. They said fine. He told his parents he had to get out of the house, which was getting difficult with all the family friends coming to offer condolences. They were also bringing casseroles, chicken pot pies, Chinese take-out, lasagna…filling up the refrigerator and freezer at the very time Sterling was trying to lose weight. In any event, home was so gloomy, people occasionally weeping, he felt he had to leave. So he did. All this he had explained to the psychiatrist; Sterling had no idea what he was now getting at.
“No,” Sterling finally replies.
Dr. Franz does not show exasperation. He says merely: “Saturday your sister dies. Sunday you shoot a pornographic film. We have quibbled before on whether it is technically masturbation. You are adamant that it is not. Nevertheless, I am now asking whether you see any connection between these events?
“No.”
“You just woke up Sunday morning, the day after your sister died, and decided out-of-the-blue to shoot the film.”
“Yes,” he says hesitantly.
“There is no link, no causality?” Sterling thinks a moment before he responds.
“I had been putting off the Indians several weeks. I had actually decided not to do the film, for whatever reasons. And I changed my mind and that happened to be on the Sunday after Susan died.”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you believe yourself.”
“That’s what you always say when you don’t believe me,” he says, putting the issue of anger as transference on the back burner.
Dr. Franz hesitates. He has an analysis all ready to go. He just doesn’t know if Sterling is ready for it to be added to all the other things he has to think about. He sighs and continues:
“I asked you on several occasions about who you were angry with. I guess I should have added that you can include yourself in the list.”
“I made the video because I was angry at myself?”
“That’s not for me to say. But I think it’s highly probable. There are a lot of issues here: narcissism, self-esteem, anger. I don’t know how they play out. I don’t think you are ready yet to figure it all out. A Theory of Everything may not be possible.”
“One of the triplets told me that they had wanted me to catch them with the dope. Meaning their subconscious, I guess. With Smiley Boy maybe I was also doing something that deep down I knew would get me in trouble. I was punishing myself for my sister’s death. But why? I didn’t cause the accident. I didn’t control her actions. I know that rationally…”
He stops and thinks.
“…maybe not emotionally. Was I punishing myself because I failed to control the situation? Or I didn’t even try? I could have driven her to Daryl’s; she asked me but I said I had other plans, and I definitely wouldn’t let her have the car for the evening. I should have driven her. I was wrong not to drive her. I was just being mean. I was so busy thinking about getting her bedroom. I had won that argument, just that morning. After ten years I had worn down my parents. They finally gave in. I had won a victory over the room and I was having a victory with the car. I had successfully controlled both situations. I was at the top of my game. Am I on the right track?”
“I can’t say. But what you’re saying is all possible. The death was traumatic, you were the one who had to tell your parents, it was you who felt guilty, you were the surviving child. You know the book Ordinary People. Read it or watch the movie.”
Sterling’s mind is still racing ahead.
“And I’ve been hearing lately that I’m my own worse enemy. I guess that applies deep inside. I refuse the advice of people a lot more knowledgeable and experienced than me; that’s a control issue again! I wonder why I just didn’t plead guilty to the Mickey Mouse charges. Loss of control? Rationally, I’ve never believed I was guilty of breaking that silly law but the simplest thing to do would have been to plead guilty. No one asked me to fight it. I have a million and one reasons why I’m not guilty, but the truth is that I feel guilty. I should be punished. Just like I never objected to when my dad took the strap. If I wasn’t guilty as charged at the time, I was certainly guilty of something. No one told me to plead because I never asked for anyone’s advice – the control issue. I figured it out on my own, which seems to be something I should avoid from now on.”
Sterling looks up at the psychiatrist and says: “Doc, I’m really tired. Can we stop now?”
“Why don’t you take some time. Just sit here. Let everything sink in,” Dr. Franz says. He rises and heads to the door, adding that’s he’s just outside if Sterling needs him.
There’s a good twenty minutes left in the session. Sterling tosses off his shoes yet again, lies back on the couch and closes his eyes. He wants something pleasant, so he goes back to the Silvers. He starts to imagine some of his greatest moments in the ring, but quickly decides against replaying the past, even those events he controlled so successfully. Don’t let instant replay be a crutch, he tells himself. He doesn’t know exactly why he boxed: was it to win his father’s approval, the father who had absented himself from Sterling for his first eighteen months of life. Was it because he liked being in control, or because it was a form of legalized bullying? No, he boxed because he liked to box and he was damn good at it. At least he excelled during the early years; why he didn’t quit while he was ahead is a question better saved for later. And why did he write papers for pay? It was a way of getting approval, he supposes. He took on this minor infraction because he was good at it. Just like Smiley Boy. He would have been great in the picture business! That, like boxing and the ghost-writing, are part of his inerasable history. It cannot be forgotten. But he can learn from his past; smart people learn from their mistakes, don’t they? He can try to review past events positively, so they don’t stir up so much anger. One day he hopes he can be able to laugh at being made a fool by the Trips.
Sterling is now at one of those forks in life’s road, which, in hindsight, will seem so important. But, for now, he doesn’t know where the forks lead. He cannot even look behind him with any certainty. For he’s been learning in analysis that the past is not as simple as it seems; his memories need a healthy dose of revisionism. In any case, he’s pretty sure that his recent pursuits – in the ring, in pictures, as a ghost-writer or procurer of false documents – will be consigned to history. They won’t be part of the future, at least not the future he’s constructing on the couch. Sterling realizes he’s only seventeen; he must stop living in the past and the present and move on to the future. In a multi-volumed life, this is but the
End of Book One
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