“Yes, I see.”
“Now, Alex, this is where the real fun starts. Sheere called Joe on the Friday—”
“Dennis, I’m not quite sure how to put this. I’ve never had to say anything like this to a patient before but—”
“Like what?”
“Well . . . for the sake of your treatment I need to have only one role in your story, namely, that of your psychiatrist. I can’t also be a protagonist, or worse, an antagonist in your life.”
“Look, I’m sorry, Alex, if I’ve been—”
“No, Dennis, it’s not your demeanor. It’s not a healthy situation for a patient to see an act by his therapist, particularly one unconnected with their doctor-patient relationship, as even partly responsible for the patient’s negative circumstances.”
“You’re talking about the letter?”
“Yes.”
“Alex, my business was to be the handmaiden of people whose business was selling units of stock in certain companies. We didn’t care what the companies did. They could mine uranium, they could pollute rivers, they could insure against other companies being prosecuted for doing those things. We didn’t care. It wasn’t our business what they actually did. My job was to help them make money, and thereby keep my job so that my wife could keep buying things and I could pay off the mortgage.”
“You misunderstand me. I know you were a mercenary in the battle for managed care rather than a crusader. Come to think of it, so was everybody else. I believe it was a matter of supreme indifference to you whether the share issue you were promoting required the passage of the managed-care bill or its rejection.”
“Hang on a minute. I hadn’t finished. It’s true that I had no views about managed care one way or the other while I was selling the selling of the share issue, but it’s not true anymore. On the contrary, I’m now very sympathetic to your position on it—for obvious reasons. At the time no one at work ever talked about the human consequences of the legislation we were depending on. People don’t express moral or political views in social conversation anymore.”
“No, you’re wrong, Dennis. They do. But it’s the same view over and over again, so you don’t notice it. The problem, as your therapist, that I have with you does not relate to a possible difference with respect to managed care but, as I said, to you seeing me as at least part author of the problems you’re wanting me to help you with.”
“In that case, Alex, let me put your mind at rest, and I won’t charge you for it either. My domestic problems predate your letter by years. And as for my job, had the Health National deal not fallen through, sooner or later, and very likely sooner, another would’ve. Failure is systemic in the investment industry. I do not for one moment hold you responsible for the problem I came to see you about.”
“All right, then, I will accept that that’s true, at least at the conscious level. Now tell me what happened after Sheere phoned Joe. Were you and he actually fired?”
“Within the week. Maybe not even that long. We had the weekend for Joe to get Sheere to change his mind. That’s the way he put it to me first thing the next morning.”
“He called you?”
“Apparently he tried to call me, but I’d already left for the firm’s corporate retreat. Now, at that time, and I think it’s still the case today, there existed a government requirement that companies with over a certain annual turnover had to spend a minimum of one percent of their gross income on what they were pleased to call “staff development” or incur a tax hike. Millions of dollars had to be spent before the end of each financial year. And so a new industry of training brokers was born to service this requirement. Enter Dr. Terry Brabet.”
“Doctor? What was he a doctor of?”
“I still don’t know. He was not a doctor of medicine. I don’t imagine he had a genuine doctorate in anything. What he did have was a Svengali-like ability to talk profitable companies into throwing their money at a snake-oil salesman rather than at the tax office.
“Gorman, the boss, had sent me and Joe and eighteen others, men and women, some of them from the offices of interstate affiliates, to something Dr. Terry Brabet marketed as his Personal Effectiveness Program. We were supposed to be flattered to be chosen. It was said to signify that we were part of the company’s future. It cost the firm eight thousand dollars per person for a four-day course, so with twenty people, that’s a hundred and sixty thousand in four days. Even allowing for the Spartan overheads and for his sad, obedient, doe-eyed, slightly overweight assistant, Helen, he had to be clearing at least a hundred grand for four days of total crap. ‘That’s a talent,’ Joe Geraghty pointed out between moments of panic.”
“Panic?”
“Sure. The first time he’d seen me since Sheere had told him to sell was in the foyer of this guesthouse they’d booked us into. It was two and a half hours out of the city in the foothills of the mountains. They wanted us there by nine A.M. Terry Brabet couldn’t wait to work on us, to start breaking us down. I got up at five-thirty on Saturday morning to be there on time. When I arrived I was ready to find the bed they’d allocated me and sleep for the whole four days. And how I wish I had.
“But Terry Brabet didn’t have us up there to sleep. As he told us in the introductory session, if we let him he was going to help us find our true selves, even if it meant taking us outside our usual ‘comfort zones.’ I knew it was all going to be bullshit, but I saw it as a few days off so I was prepared to sleepily go along with it. I was still asleep. But Joe Geraghty was red eyed and ashen faced. He looked as though he hadn’t slept.”
7. “ ‘What’s wrong? You look awful,’ ” I said to him as we signed in and received our name tags. For the first of what was to be countless times, speakers mounted everywhere blared the song “Celebration” lest you catch your breath or get lost in your thoughts. It was like a Maoist indoctrination camp in that regard. Light towers with speakers under them were everywhere, and everywhere we heard this idiot’s idea of a corporate mantra, ‘Ce-le-brate—Good times—Come on!’
“But Joe had known for twelve hours or more that we had nothing to celebrate.
“ ‘Sheere called me last night. Have you read today’s paper?’ ”
“ ‘You must be joking. I’ve been asleep at the wheel for the last two and a half hours trying to get here on time. What’s up?’ I asked him.
“My guard was down. I had relaxed and you can never relax, not in the business we were in. Certainly you do not expect to hear, first thing on a Saturday morning while registering at a corporate retreat in the foothills of the mountains where you’ve been sent as a pat on the back, about a development that will most likely cause you to lose your job within days. So when he told me about your letter to the paper and that Sheere, having gotten wind of it, had decided to pull out of the whole thing, for an instant I thought Joe was joking. It was too surreal. But Joe was not a good enough actor to look the way he did for his news flash concerning our careers to be a joke. He looked about to cry. It was not a joke.
“The music was blaring and above it our names were being called out in what really amounted to a roll call, the first of many. I had started to contest the logic in Sheere’s decision, to tell Joe that your letter did not source the U-turn by the opposition to anybody authoritative, that it was simply rumormongering and that, anyway, sooner or later the legislation was going to get through, as it did. But Joe had already unsuccessfully put this to Sheere and before we could continue, we were separated and being told by Dr. Terry Brabet that we each had chairs and that our chairs were our own personal responsibility.
“When the music stopped Terry Brabet introduced himself and his Personal Effectiveness Program. I should have punched him in the nose then and there. He asked us to stand up, and then he led us through some en masse stretching side to side. He walked around us, occasionally adjusting someone’s stretch or whispering ‘Good.’ He completed a circuit or two of the entire group, alternately directing his ‘Good’ to the individual he
was passing and to all of us collectively. I kept trying to make eye contact with Joe.
“When we’d finished with the stretching, he told us that we could be seated. Then he told us that in four days he was going to extend us beyond our previous limits and that, as a result, we would return to our workplaces, to our homes, to our loved ones—more effective people. He was going to get us to open up. We would be talking about ourselves, finding out some real truths and telling each other about them. We were going to be putting in, physically and emotionally. He recounted stories of previous participants who had run out of a particular session in tears and were better for it. A few people looked a little uncomfortable at this. Some looked at others, some at the floor. I looked at Joe. He sat like a stone version of himself.
“Then Terry said he thought it was only fair that he tell us a little about himself. He said, with a rehearsed laugh, that in his colorful life he had been a carpenter, an insurance salesman, a rugby player, and physical therapist. He never told us what he was a doctor of.
“ ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ he said meaningfully, by way of both a boast and a confession. ‘I’m divorced and I’m a recovering alcoholic.’
“There were to be no phone calls, no newspapers, no television or radios. When people complained that they needed to be in touch with their offices for work reasons, Terry Brabet informed us that for the following four days this was our work. Then he instructed Helen, his assistant, to walk among the group carrying a wicker tray on which people were supposed to place their cell phones. ‘See if you can live without them for four days. You’ll get them back at the end of the program,’ he told us. Helen moved slowly, silently but for the sound of her feet barely lifting from the floor. She was a heavyish young woman with large breasts and dark hair, which she wore tied back. She smiled a sad little smile, the smile of a woman who had played tag with a weight problem for too many years, barely keeping it at bay, a woman who now had a job picking up after and following the orders of a charlatan who possessed what she took for charisma. The effect of Terry Brabet’s matter-of-fact instructions that we all relinquish our cell phones, added to that of Helen’s eyes and sad smile and the perfume on her neck above the outstretched wicker tray, was that all of us, without exception, silently yielded up our cell phones without further protest.
“I must have been crazy to comply. It’s no excuse to say that I did not yet know that the rooms didn’t contain phones because the truth is, I hadn’t even turned my mind to whether they did or didn’t. That wasn’t why I gave it to her. There was a coin-operated phone in the reception area, but I hadn’t yet noticed that either. I’m ashamed to say . . .”
“What are you ashamed of?”
“Well, we hadn’t been there an hour and although I realized that keeping my job depended on Joe Geraghty phoning Donald Sheere before Monday morning to try to get him to change his mind, I . . . I had just given away my phone. Everybody had. Joe had. The idiot! He knew the trouble we were in. He knew what he had to do. But he gave his phone away as well. I remember when she came up to me. Everyone was looking at me. I looked at her face, at her eyes. I can see her now. I know it sounds ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. I could smell her perfume and I didn’t want to . . . you know . . . right from the beginning be singled out as the guy who makes trouble. I did hesitate for a moment. I really did. I was thinking, I’m not sure I should be doing this, but she came a step closer and she smelled so surprisingly good and, as I said, everyone was watching. I took it out of my pocket, slowly, like a kid at school handing over a pack of cigarettes, and I gave it to her. Just like that.
“Terry Brabet explained that we had to be ready for physical exercise each morning at six A.M. Then we could shower, have breakfast, and be ready for our first session. There was an expectation that we would complete all the designated exercises. This was work. The firm had paid for it. When the introductory session was over, we were given fifteen minutes to find our rooms, which were actually cabins, and to take our bags there. That was the next opportunity I had to talk to Joe. We were sharing a cabin. The first chance I had I told him, ‘You have to change his mind.’
“ ‘I tried. Believe me,’ he protested.
“ ‘Well, you have to try again. You know what will happen to us if he sells.’
“ ‘Mitch, what can I do? I didn’t know he was going to get spooked by a letter to the paper. How could I know that? It’s not my fault,’ he said, closing the door to our room behind him.
“ ‘Don’t tell me it’s not your fault. Just fucking fix it. Talk him around.’
“ ‘What should I say?’
“ ‘Joe, you’re the salesman. You’re the one with the great relationship. Tell him he’s got to trust you on this. Tell him that the legislation will get through, that it’s still a great deal—’
“ ‘Mitch, he’s not stupid.’
“ ‘But, Joe, it is a good deal. Nothing’s changed. Why is he so timid?’
“ ‘He’s not timid, Mitch. Look at it his way. He knows he can always buy in again later if the legislation ultimately passes. If he sells, the firm has to take up the shortfall for Sid Graeme and Health National gets to buy all the hospitals Sid wants for a song. Then when the legislation passes, Sheere can buy all the Health National shares he wants if the price is low enough. He knows he can’t lose by pulling out.’
“ ‘No, but we can.’
“ ‘That would really worry him, wouldn’t it?’
“ ‘What about his relationship with Gorman? The firm would be taking the loss. Would he care about that?’
“ ‘What do you think?’
“ ‘Well, you’ve got to fucking try to get him to change his mind, Joe. You’ve got to at least try. How the hell could something like this happen?’ I said, unpacking.
“ ‘Did he say this was for four days? I thought it was only for the weekend. I didn’t bring enough clothes. Did you know it was for four days?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘How did you know?’
“ ‘It was in the memo.’
“ ‘Shit, I must’ve misread it. I’ve only brought enough clothes for two days. What am I going to do?’
“ ‘For fuck’s sake, Joe. We’ve got bigger problems than that.’
“ ‘Mitch, don’t get mad at me. We’re both in the same boat. Did you give her your cell?’
“ ‘Yes. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
“ ‘I know. I gave her mine too.’
8. “It was still a good deal. All your letter had done was to introduce an extra degree of uncertainty. But certainty costs money. You get a discount on uncertainty. Joe was right. However small the risk, after the uproar triggered by your disclosure, that the opposition caucus would be forced back into line by the overwhelming hostility to managed care in the party as a whole, there was no reason Sheere had to take that risk. He just didn’t need to. By then, because the firm had underwritten the share issue, even Sid Graeme didn’t need him to. It occurred to me that we had been set up, that maybe Sheere and Graeme had spoken. But that was unlikely, given the timing of everything and, anyway, invoking Occam’s razor, I realized it was a leap I didn’t need to make. However the situation had arisen, if Joe couldn’t get Sheere to change his mind before Monday morning, the firm would take the loss. And because Joe and I had convinced the risk committee that the whole deal was a good bet, he and I would be finished.
“Joe went to the reception area and tried to reach Sheere from the pay phone. The husband-and-wife proprietors were talking animatedly about something, arguing, and Joe had to put one finger in his free ear to block out their voices. When I got there he was having trouble just making the person on the other end of the line get his name right. ‘Geraghty, Joe Geraghty . . . for Mr. Sheere.’ Only when Sheere’s housekeeper had gotten it right to their mutual satisfaction would she tell him that Sheere wasn’t there. Neither was Mrs. Sheere. Where could they be so early on a Saturday morning? I saw Joe scour
the pay phone for a return number, but after glancing at the arguing proprietors and then at me, he told the housekeeper that there was no message and that he would call back. He put the phone down heavily, heavily enough to interrupt the hostilities between the proprietors and prompt the wife to ask, in the manner of an accusation, whether something was wrong.
“ ‘It’s just not possible to have a normal telephone conversation with somebody here while the two of you are going fifteen rounds behind your little counter over there.’
“It was at this point that the ‘Celebration’ song started again and I took Joe in to Dr. Terry Brabet and the others, apologizing to the proprietors for my colleague’s rudeness.
“ ‘Oh fuck ’em, Mitch. What are they going to do, spit in my food? They won’t even remember which one I am.’
“I managed to calm Joe down by telling him that at the end of the session I was simply going to ask for my phone back. This gave us both sufficient peace of mind not to tear the place apart. There were large handwritten signs in colored markers or crayon stuck all over the walls and every available space of what was called the rec room. The signs read: JUST DO IT, I CANNOT NOT DO IT, CHOOSE AN ATTITUDE, LIVE AS YOUR WORD, GROW BEYOND YOUR COMFORT ZONE, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS FAILURE, ONLY LIFE’S FEEDBACK, WE CANNOT NOT PARTICIPATE, WIN/WIN—GO FOR IT, IF IT’S TO BE, IT’S UP TO ME, and EVERYBODY IS FANTASTIC. This was how the sad young Helen paid her rent, by making kindergartenlike posters for Terry Brabet and sticking them on the walls. I should have ripped his head off then and there, but we had to get through that session without causing any trouble if I was to get him to give me my phone back.
“The first session, Terry told us, was designed to illustrate ‘focus.’ He arranged everyone into same-sex couples and then had one member of each put their hand on their partner’s shoulder. On a signal from him the partner was then to push down on the outstretched arm and try to force it to move from their shoulder. He tried this with couple after couple, and each time the partner was able to displace the outstretched arm. When every couple had had its turn, he sent each of us back to our seats and told us to watch him intently. We watched him reach into a brown paper bag and pull out an orange, which he then placed on a ledge over by the wall. He called the first couple to come back out to the front and repeat the exercise, only this time, before starting, he instructed the person with the outstretched arm resting on the other’s shoulder, a woman from the Brisbane office called Pamela, to concentrate all her attention on the orange he had placed on the ledge. He told this woman, Pamela, to harness the energy from the pit of her stomach and focus on the orange. The woman did as he instructed, her eyes never wavering from the orange on the ledge by the wall and, sure enough, her partner was unable to move Pamela’s arm. Pamela and her partner looked at each other with something approximating awe. Then, as they turned to the rest of the group, they both broke into beaming smiles, like small children who had tied their shoes for the first time.