Could there be a more unsuitable person in the world for that job? He seems very much

the same: still no sense of humor, still hung up about money (maybe I shouldn`t have

made that crack about his bill). A therapist without a sense of humor? And so cold. And

that edgy request to meet at hisoffice. Julius shivered again.

_________________________

Lifeis a miserable thing. I

have decided to spend my life

thinking about it.

_________________________

Union Street was sunny and festive. The clatter of silverware and the buzz of animated

luncheon conversation streamed from the packed sidewalk tables at Prego, Beetlenut,

Exotic Pizza, and Perry`s. Aqua–marine and magenta balloons tethered to parking meters

advertised a weekend sidewalk sale. But as Julius strolled toward Philip`s office he barely

glanced at the diners or the outdoor stalls heaped with the leftover designer clothes from

the summer season. Nor did he linger at any of his favorite shop windows, not at Morita`s

antique Japanese furniture shop, the Tibetan shop, or even Asian Treasures with the gaily

colored eighteenth–century roof tile of a fantastical woman warrior that he rarely passed

without admiring.

Nor was dying in his mind. The riddles connected with Philip Slate offered

diversion from those disquieting thoughts. First there was the riddle of memory and why

he could so easily conjure up Philip`s image with such eerie clarity. Where had Philip`s

face, name, story been lurking all these years? Hard to get his mind around the fact that

the memory of his whole experience with Philip was contained neurochemically

somewhere in the cortex of his brain. Most likely Philip dwelled in an intricate «Philip»

network of connected neurons that, when triggered by the right neurotransmitters, would

spring into action and project an image of Philip upon a ghostly screen in his visual

cortex. He found it chilling to think of harboring a microscopic robotic projectionist in

his brain.

But even more intriguing was the riddle of why he chose to revisit Philip. Of all his

old patients, why choose Philip to lift out of deep memory storage? Was it simply

because his therapy had been so dismally unsuccessful? Surely there was more to it than

that. After all, there were many other patients he had not helped. But most of the faces

and names of the failures had vanished without a trace. Maybe it was because most of his

failures had dropped out of therapy quickly; Philip was an unusual failure in that he had

continued to come. God, how he continued! For three frustrating years he never a missed

session. Never late, not one minute—too cheap to waste any paid time. And then one day,

without warning, a simple and irrevocable announcement at the end of an hour that this

was his last session.

Even when Philip terminated, Julius had still regarded him as treatable; but then,

he always erred in the direction of thinking everyone was treatable. Why did he fail?

Philip was serious about working on his problems; he was challenging, smart, with

intelligence to burn. But thoroughly unlikable. Julius rarely accepted a patient he

disliked, but he knew there was nothing personal in his dislike of Philip:anyone would

dislike him. Consider his lifelong lack of friends.

Though he may have disliked Philip, heloved the intellectual riddle Philip

presented. His chief complaint («Why can`t I do what I really want to do?») was an

enticing example of will–paralysis. Though the therapy may not have been useful for

Philip, it was marvelously facilitative for Julius`s writing, and many ideas emerging from

the sessions found their way into his celebrated article «The Therapist and the Will» and

into his bookWishing, Willing, and Acting. The thought flashed though his mind that

perhaps he had exploited Philip. Perhaps now, with his heightened sense of connectivity,

he might redeem himself, might yet accomplish what he had failed to do before.

Four–thirty–one Union was a modest stucco two–story corner building. In the

vestibule Julius saw on the directory Philip`s name: «Philip Slate Ph.D. Philosophical

Counseling.» Philosophical counseling? What the hell is that? Next, Julius snorted, it`ll

be barbers offering tonsorial therapy and greengrocers advertising legume counseling. He

ascended the stairs and pressed the bell.

A buzz sounded as the door lock clicked open, and Julius entered a tiny bare–walled waiting room furnished only with an uninviting black vinyl loveseat. A few feet

away, in the doorway to his office, Philip stood and, without approaching, beckoned

Julius to enter. No handshake was offered.

Julius checked Philip`s appearance against his memory. Pretty close match. Not

much change in the past twenty–five years except for some soft wrinkles about the eyes

and slight flabbiness in the neck. His light brown hair still combed straight back, those

green eyes still intense, still averted. Julius recalled how rarely their gaze had met in all

their years together. Philip reminded him of one of those supremely self–sufficient kids in

class who sat in lectures and never took notes, while he and everyone else hustled to jot

down every fact that might make an appearance on an exam.

Entering Philip`s office, Julius considered a wisecrack about the Spartan

furnishings—a scuffed cluttered desk, two uncomfortable–looking, nonmatching chairs,

and a wall adorned only with a diploma. But he thought better of it, sat in the chair Philip

indicated, played it straight, and waited for Philip`s lead.

«Well, it has been a long time. Really long.» Philip spoke in a formal, professional

voice and gave no sign of nervousness about taking charge of the interview and thereby

switching roles with his old therapist.

«Twenty–two. I just looked over my records.»

«And why now, Dr. Hertzfeld?»

«Does this mean we`ve finished the small talk?» No, no! Julius chided himself. Cut

it out! He remembered that Philip had no sense of humor.

Philip seemed unperturbed. «Basic interview technique, Dr. Hertzfeld. You know

the routine. Establish the frame. We`ve already set the place, the time—I offer a sixty–minute session, incidentally, not the fifty–minute psych hour—and the fees, or lack

thereof. So, next step is to move to purpose and goals. I`m trying to be at your service,

Dr. Hertzfeld, to make this session as efficient as possible for you.»

«All right, Philip. I appreciate it. Your ‘why now?` is never a bad question—I use

it all the time. Focuses the session. Gets us right down to business. As I told you on the

phone, some health problems, significant health problems, have resulted in my wanting to

look back, appraise things, evaluate my work with patients. Perhaps it`s my age—a

summing up. I believe when you reach sixty–five you`ll understand why.»

«I`ll have to take your word on that summing–up process. The reason for your wish

to see me or any of your clients again is not immediately apparent to me, and I experience

no inclinations in that direction. My clients pay me a fee, and, in return, I give them my

expert counsel. Our transaction ends. When we part, they feel they got good value, I feel I

gave them full measure. I can`t possibly imagine wanting to revisit them in the future.

But, I am at your service. Where to start?»

Julius characteristically held little back in interviews. That was one of his

strengths—people trusted him to be a straight shooter. But today he forced himself to