The End of the Road (13 page)

“Now, not only are we the heroes of our own life stories—we’re the ones who conceive the story, and give other people the essences of minor characters. But since no man’s life story as a rule is ever one story with a coherent plot, we’re always reconceiving just the sort of hero we are, and consequently just the sort of minor roles that other people are supposed to play. This is generally true. If any man displays almost the same character day in and day out, all day long, it’s either because he has no imagination, like an actor who can play only one role, or because he has an imagination so comprehensive that he sees each particular situation of his life as an episode in some grand over-all plot, and can so distort the situations that the same type of hero can deal with them all. But this is most unusual.

“This kind of role-assigning is myth-making, and when it’s done consciously or unconsciously for the purpose of aggrandizing or protecting your ego—and it’s probably done for this purpose all the time—it becomes Mythotherapy. Here’s the point: an immobility such as you experienced that time in Penn Station is possible only to a person who for some reason or other has ceased to participate in Mythotherapy. At that time on the bench you were neither a major nor a minor character: you were no character at all. It’s because this has happened once that it’s necessary for me to explain to you something that comes quite naturally to everyone else. It’s like teaching a paralytic how to walk again.

“Now many crises in people’s lives occur because the hero role that they’ve assumed for one situation or set of situations no longer applies to some new situation that comes up, or—the same thing in effect—because they haven’t the imagination to distort the new situation to fit their old role. This happens to parents, for instance, when their children grow older, and to lovers when one of them begins to dislike the other. If the new situation is too overpowering to ignore, and they can’t find a mask to meet it with, they may become schizophrenic—a last-resort mask—or simply shattered. All questions of integrity involve this consideration, because a man’s integrity consists in being faithful to the script he’s written for himself.

“I’ve said you’re too unstable to play any one part all the time—you’re also too unimaginative—so for you these crises had better be met by changing scripts as often as necessary. This should come naturally to you; the important thing for you is to realize what you’re doing so you won’t get caught without a script, or with the wrong script in a given situation. You did quite well, for example, for a beginner, to walk in here so confidently and almost arrogantly a while ago, and assign me the role of a quack. But you must be able to change masks at once if by some means or other I’m able to make the one you walked in with untenable. Perhaps—I’m just suggesting an offhand possibility—you could change to thinking of me as The Sagacious Old Mentor, a kind of Machiavellian Nestor, say, and yourself as The Ingenuous But Promising Young Protégé, a young Alexander, who someday will put all these teachings into practice and far outshine the master. Do you get the idea? Or—this is repugnant, but it could be used as a last resort—The Silently Indignant Young Man, who tolerates the ravings of a Senile Crank but who will leave this house unsullied by them. I call this repugnant because if you ever used it you’d cut yourself off from much that you haven’t learned yet.

“It’s extremely important that you learn to assume these masks wholeheartedly. Don’t think there’s anything behind them: there isn’t.
Ego
means
I,
and
I
means
ego,
and the ego by definition is a mask. Where there’s no ego—this is you on the bench—there’s no
I
. If you sometimes have the feeling that your mask is
insincere
—impossible word!—it’s only because one of your masks is incompatible with another. You mustn’t put on two at a time. There’s a source of conflict, and conflict between masks, like absence of masks, is a source of immobility. The more sharply you can dramatize your situation, and define your own role and everybody else’s role, the safer you’ll be. It doesn’t matter in Mythotherapy for paralytics whether your role is major or minor, as long as it’s clearly conceived, but in the nature of things it’ll normally always be major. Now say something.”

I could not.

“Say something!” the Doctor ordered. “Move! Take a role!”

I tried hard to think of one, but I could not.

“Damn you!” the Doctor cried. He kicked back his chair and leaped upon me, throwing me to the floor and pounding me roughly.

“Hey!” I hollered, entirely startled by his attack. “Cut it out! What the hell!” I struggled with him and, being both larger and stronger than he, soon had him off me. We stood facing each other warily, panting from the exertion.

“You watch that stuff!” I said belligerently. “I could make plenty of trouble for you if I wanted to, I’ll bet!”

“Anything wrong?” asked Mrs. Dockey, sticking her head into the room. I would not want to tangle with her.

“No, not now,” the Doctor smiled, brushing the knees of his white trousers. “A little Pugilistic Therapy for Jacob Horner. No trouble.” She closed the door.

“Now, shall we continue our talk?” he asked me, his eyes twinkling. “You were speaking in a manly way about making trouble.”

But I was no longer in a mood to go along with the whole ridiculous business. I’d had enough of the old lunatic for this quarter.

“Or perhaps you’ve had enough of The Old Crank for today, eh?”

“What would the sheriff in Wicomico think of this farm?” I grumbled uncomfortably. “Suppose the police were sent out to investigate Sexual Therapy?”

The Doctor was unruffled by my threats.

“Do you intend to send them?” he asked pleasantly.

“Do you think I wouldn’t?”

“I’ve no idea,” he said, still undisturbed.

“Do you dare me to?”

This question, for some reason or other, visibly upset him: he looked at me sharply.

“Indeed I do not,” he said at once. “I’m sure you’re quite able to do it. I’m sorry if my tactic for mobilizing you just then made you angry. I did it with all good intent. You
were
paralyzed again, you know.”

“Horseshit!” I sneered. “You and your paralysis!”

“You
have
had enough for today, Horner!” the Doctor said. He too was angry now. “Get out! I hope you get paralyzed driving sixty miles an hour on your way home!” He raised his voice. “Get out of here, you damned moron!”

His obviously genuine anger immediately removed mine, which after the first instant had of course been only a novel mask.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” I said. “I won’t lose my temper again.”

We exchanged smiles.

“Why not?” he laughed. “It’s both therapeutic and pleasant to lose your temper in certain situations.” He relit his cigar, which had been dropped during our scuffle. “Two interesting things were demonstrated in the past few minutes, Jacob Horner. I can’t tell you about them until your next visit. Good-by, now. Don’t forget to pay Mrs. Dockey.”

Out he strode, cool as could be, and a few moments later out strode I: A Trifle Shaken, But Sure Of My Strength.

THE DANCE OF SEX: IF ONE HAD NO OTHER REASON FOR CHOOSING TO SUBSCRIBE
to Freud, what could be more charming than to believe that the whole vaudeville of the world, the entire dizzy circus of history, is but a fancy mating dance? That dictators burn Jews and businessmen vote Republican, that helmsmen steer ships and ladies play bridge, that girls study grammar and boys engineering all at behest of the Absolute Genital? When the synthesizing mood is upon one, what is more soothing than to assert that this one simple yen of humankind, poor little coitus, alone gives rise to cities and monasteries, paragraphs and poems, foot races and battle tactics, metaphysics and hydroponics, trade unions and universities? Who would not delight in telling some extragalactic tourist, “On our planet, sir, males and females copulate. Moreover, they enjoy copulating. But for various reasons they cannot do this whenever, wherever, and with whomever they choose. Hence all this running around that you observe. Hence the world?” A therapeutic notion!

My classes commenced on the seventh of September, a tall blue day as crisp as the white starched blouses of the coeds who filed into my classroom and nervously took their seats. Standing behind the lectern at eight o’clock sharp, suit fresh-pressed and chin scraped clean, I felt my nostrils flare like a stud’s at the nubby tight sex of them, flustered and pink-scrubbed, giggling and moist; my thighs flexed, and I yawned ferociously. The boys, too, lean and green, smooth-chinned and resilient, shivered and stretched at the mere nearness of young breasts and buttocks as hard as new pears. In a classroom on the first day of a new term the air’s electric with sex like ozone after a summer storm, and all sensed it, if all couldn’t name it: the rubby sweet friskies twitched in their seats and tugged their skirts down dimpled white knees; the springy fresh men flexed and slouched, passed quick hands over crew cuts; I folded arms and tightened hams, and leaning against the desk, let its edge press calmingly against my trouser fly like a steadying hand. Early blue morning is an erotic time, the commencement of school terms an erotic season; little’s to be done but nod to Freud on such a day.

We looked one another over appraisingly. What I said, with professorial succinctness, was: “My name’s Jacob Horner; my office is in Room Twenty-seven, around the corner. There’s a list of my office hours on the door.” I assigned texts and described the course; that was all, and that was enough. My air of scholarly competence, theirs of studious attention (they wrote my name and office number as frowningly as if I’d pronounced the Key to the Mystery) were so clearly feigned, we were all so conscious of playing school, that to attempt a lesson would have been preposterous. Why, confronted with that battery of eager bosoms and delicious behinds, a man cupped his hands in spite of himself; the urge to drop the ceremonious game and leap those fine girls on the spot was simply terrific. The national consternation, if on some September morn every young college instructor in the land cried out what was on his mind—“To hell with this nonsense, men: let’s take ’em!”—a soothing speculation!

“That’s all for today. Buy the books and we’ll start right off next time with a spelling test, for diagnostic purposes.”

Indeed! One hundred spelling words dictated rapidly enough to keep their heads down, and I, perched high on my desk, could diagnose to my heart’s content every bump of femininity in the room (praised be American grade schools, where little girls learn to sit up front!). Then, perhaps, having ogled my fill, I could get on with the business of the course. For as a man must grow used to the furniture before he can settle down to read in his room, this plenitude of girlish appurtenances had first to be assimilated before anyone could concentrate attention on the sober prescriptions of English grammar.

Four times I repeated the ritual pronouncements—at eight and nine in the morning and at two and three in the afternoon. Between the two sessions I lounged in my office with a magnificent erection, wallowing in my position, and watched with proprietary eye the parade of young things passing my door. I had nothing at all to do but spin indolent daydreams of absolute authority—Nerotic, Caligular authority of the sort that summons up officefuls of undergraduate girls, hot and submissive—leering professorial dreams!

By four o’clock, when my first working day ended, I had so abandoned myself to the dance that I was virtually in pain. I tossed my empty brief case into the car and drove directly across town to the high school, to seek out Miss Peggy Rankin; after some inquiry at the principal’s office I caught up with her just as she was leaving the teacher’s lounge.

“Come on!” I said urgently. “I have to see you right away!”

She recognized me, blushed, and fumbled for protests.

“Come
on!”
I grinned. “I can’t tell you here how important it is!” I took her arm and escorted her swiftly outside.

“What’s the matter, Jake? Where are we going?”

“Wherever you want to,” I said, holding the car door open for her.

“Jake, for God’s sake, are you just picking me up again?” she asked incredulously.

“What do you mean,
just?
There’s nothing just about this, girl.”

“There certainly isn’t! It’s fantastic! What do you think I am, for heaven’s sake?”

I stepped on the accelerator. “Shall we go to your place or to mine?”

“Mine!” she said furiously. “And just as fast as you can! I’ve never in my life met such a monster as you are! You’re simply
a monster!”

“I’m not simply a monster, Peggy: I’m
also
a monster.”

“You’re an incredible cad! That exactly describes you—you’re a complete cad! You’re so wrapped up in yourself that you don’t have a shred of respect for anyone else on earth! Turn left right here.”

I turned left.

“The fourth house up on the right-hand side. Yes.”

I parked the car.

“Now look at me, Jake.
Look
at me!” she cried. “Don’t you realize I’m just as much of a human being as you are? How in the
world
could you even look me in the eye again after last time? I’d have been shocked if you’d even had the gall to face up and apologize to me, but
this
—”

“Listen, Peggy,” I said sharply. “You say I don’t respect you. Is that because I didn’t bother to flatter you at Ocean City, or apologize afterwards, or call up yesterday to make a date for today?”

“Of course it is! What do you
think
I mean? You haven’t got the slightest bit of common courtesy in you; not even common civility! I’m—I’m astonished! You’re not a man at all.”

“I’ll explain this only once,” I said solemnly; “I assumed you were mature enough to understand it at once, without explanation, as these things should be understood.”

“What on earth are you getting at?”

“I’m afraid I overestimated you, Peggy,” I declared. “I thought after I met you that you might actually be the superior woman you give the first impression of being. But you know, you’re turning out to be one hundred per cent ordinary.”