Where Does It Say in Freud That a Shrink Has to be Polite?
February, 1964
Booth Adams, who looked nothing like Harry Belafonte but thought he bore a striking resemblance to Whizzer White, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, crept into the room stealthily with a black scowl on his face. He wore a dazzlingly white T shirt that had been washed in the institution laundry with Fab, and his bare purplish forearms radiated strength and oftentimes joy. Wound around his neck was a long colored scarf, the kind worn by students at All Souls College on a foggy day. The scarf hung down below the drawstring on his gray sweat pants.
"Good afternoon," Booth Adams said to the man who was shaving in front of an oval basin with a shaver equipped with floating heads. The accent was Oxfordian which Booth had cultivated carefully, but to this he had added his own sensual drawl, which he considered faintly Jamaican. The man who was shaving did not answer him. "Good afternoon," Booth Adams repeated. The man still did not reply. "Didn't you hear me?" Adams said.
The man who was now trying to snip off a long hair on the rim of his ear finally said, "I heard you." His name was Dr. Alonzo Shreck.
"You could be polite enough to answer," Adams said. "Where does it say in Freud that a psychiatrist has to be polite?" Shreck, other than this statement, made no gesture acknowledging Adams' presence.
"At least you can stop shaving when I come in. You can make believe you're in the presence of a human being – even if it kills you."
"Let's not forget who we are," said Shreck irritably. "Remember you're a charity case here."
"I know why I'm here. And I know why I'm a charity case. Even if I'm a charity case you can be polite."
Shreck turned off the motor. "Don't you realize where we are, Adams? This institution is in the Deep South. Half the patients here are bigots and the other half are trying to be. Can't you understand my position? You're a Negro. You ought to know what's going on. If the South can't depend on Negroes to know what's going on, who the hell can they depend on?" He said all this in wearied patience.
"You still could have said hello." (continued on page 100) Where does it say in Freud (continued from page 91)
"Do you want me to lose face? If I lose face, how can I help anybody? You want me to help you, don't you?"
"I don't need help," Booth Adams said.
"If you don't need help, why did half the student body at the university try to destroy your manhood?" Dr. Shreck began to wind his shaving cord.
"Because they were jealous of it."
"You keep saying that," Shreck said. "I have no proof. How can you expect me to treat you as a psychotic when I have no proof? I'm a scientist, not a witch doctor. You want voodoo, go back to your people."
"I don't know why I stay here and take your insults. I could cut out. Think your fence could hold me?"
"So why don't you go?"
"Don't provoke me, buddy."
"You want me to tell you why you don't go?"
"I'm warning you, Shreck!"
"You've got it in your mind to rape somebody. That's it, isn't it?"
Booth Adams laughed. "So why don't you put me in solitary?"
"What do you think this is – a lousy penitentiary?"
"But you know it's going to happen. I'm going to commit a crime."
"A lunatic doesn't commit a crime," Shreck said, emptying the bristles from the shaver into the basin. "How can a man who doesn't know the difference between right and wrong commit a crime? A crime is a criminal act. Once you've been committed you cannot commit, don't you understand that?" He leaned against the oval washbasin. "The crime rate in this institution is absolute zero. I could get a commendation from J. Edgar Hoover. Of all major crimes committed in this country not one can be traced to this institution. I run a clean place." Shreck leveled a finger at Adams who shrank back a little. "And if you think I'm going to let some idiot deface this record because he thinks he's normal, you're out of your mind."
Adams sniggered. "You want me to tell you why you won't confine me?" he said. "Because you think you know who it's going to be."
Dr. Shreck turned on the tap and began to wash the black bristles down the drain. "I know who it's going to be," he said confidently. "Goddamnit, I'm a psychiatrist. I know every twist and turn of your diseased mind."
"But you're not sure, are you?" Adams taunted.
"Granted. We live in a world of uncertainty. But mine is a calculated guess."
"But you're still guessing, aren't you, Shreck?" Adams said, wiping the moisture from his palms on his scarf.
"When I guess, I do it with the help of the scientific method."
"Would you like to know who it is, Shreck?" Booth Adams baited.
Shreck shrugged his shoulders. "I'm as curious as the next man," he said, trying to conceal his interest.
Adams planted his feet apart in the center of the room and with both fists on his T shirt gathered up two imaginary lapels in the manner of a parliamentary debater. "Who am I going to rape, Doctor? The folk singer? The actress? One of the nurses? Your wife?"
Shreck's eyes lit up. "You mean you are seriously considering Selma?"
"I didn't say, Shreck."
"You know, my boy, Selma would not be a bad choice. She's still a very attractive woman, and she has absolutely no prejudices in bed. Now mind you, I'm not suggesting that you choose my wife, but if it has to be anyone, she'd be the last person in the world to consider it an atrocity. Now, if you're serious, I could easily arrange to be away at a conference ..."
"A minute ago you told me you knew who it was. Now you're talking like you're not sure."
"Don't play games with me, Adams," Shreck said angrily. "I know who it is, but you won't worm it out of me."
Adams chuckled brutishly. He even bared his white even teeth. He often did this on purpose. He felt that it gave Dr. Shreck a feeling of security. "What the hell, Shreck," he said. "I know who it is. If you tell me who you think it is, I'll tell you if you're right."
Shreck glanced at him suspiciously. "You think I trust you? As soon as I told you, you'd double-cross me. You'd go ahead and rape somebody else."
"Now would I go and do a thing like that?"
"You're damned right you would. You'd do anything to discredit me."
"How much you got riding on it?" Booth Adams asked casually.
Shreck stiffened. "What are you talking about?" he said guardedly.
"Listen, I know that you and the staff organized a pool."
Shreck was outraged. "Omar told you that, didn't he? I never did trust a male nurse. He thought that by telling you that, you'd change victims. He'll do anything to win."
"How much did you bet?" Adams pursued.
Shreck put on his surgeon's smock. He turned the pockets inside out and began combing through them with his fingers for lint. "It's a small wager," he said matter-of-factly. "I did it just to keep it interesting." He glanced up at Adams. "So what's the harm? My God, you were going to do it anyway, weren't you? So we had a small gentlemanly pool. Who gets hurt?"
"I just hate to be used like that," Adams said righteously.
Shreck drew himself up. He shook his smock under Booth Adams' nose. "No one accuses Alonzo J. Shreck of exploiting his patients!"
Adams lowered his woolly head. "I'm always being used," he said morosely.
Dr. Shreck lay down on the couch and covered himself with the smock. He closed his eyes, waited awhile and then snapped, "Tell me why half the student body at Ole Swanee tried to castrate you?"
Adams sat down at Shreck's desk. He began paring his nails with a letter opener. "Because they thought I didn't want to marry their sisters," he said calmly.
"No," said Shreck.
"Because I hated watermelon."
"Wrong."
"Because I got an A in differential calculus." Shreck shook his head. "Give me a hint," said Adams.
"Because they believe in capital punishment," said Shreck.
"But I believe in capital punishment, too," Adams said.
"But I believe in capital punishment, for whites, and they believe in capital punishment for the advancement of colored peoples," Shreck said, caressing the long silken hairs on his chest.
"But it's a small difference," Adams objected. "We could have discussed it. I was willing to join their bull sessions and debate the issue like a college man. I was willing to be persuaded. I was ready to see their point of view. I had an open mind on the subject." He buried his face on the desk blotter.
"How can you debate castration?" Shreck said kindly. "In the whole history of controversy have you ever read of a debate on the issue? Did Bruno debate castration? Did Socrates? How about Galileo? They only wanted to debate the heliocentric theory of the universe by not looking through his telescope." Shreck shifted his position on the couch.
"I can debate anything," Adams roared. "I can even defend the white man's position."
"That's easy," Shreck retorted. "Can you defend the Negro's position?"
"I never tried."
"Why haven't you tried? Everyone else has."
Adams arose from the desk and began walking around the room. "The Negro needs no defense. He is God's experiment. He is the litmus paper of the human race. He is God's ink blot on the tabula rasa. He is the only evidence of God's imperfection. The Negro is the white man's thumb suck. It gives him security against the sovereign tyranny of the father figure."
(continued on page 173) Where does it say in Freud (continued from page 100)
"Do you believe in God?" Shreck said.
"Only for His sake," Adams said.
"Then you believe in Him as an act of charity."
"Only as a white man. I am not one of His children."
"I asked you a question, and you're evading it. Do you believe in God?"
"Why?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"I don't even believe in spirituals."
"Do you believe in God?"
"As Holy Ghost or fount of wisdom?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"Can I lie on the couch?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"As carpenter, transcendental transvestite or inventor of the meson?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"As comic referee, almighty hipster or categorical imperator?"
"Do you believe in God?"
"If He wants to know, let Him ask me," said Adams angrily.
"You make me sick," said Shreck in disgust. "You make me want to lie down on my own couch. You don't even know what's good for the race."
"How the hell do you know I don't know what's good for the race?"
"OK, you're a smart nigger, tell me what's good for the race."
"Don't call me that!"
"Don't call you what?"
"Don't call me a smart nigger!"
"Why not? Don't I have the same privileges as anyone else?"
"Goddamnit! You're my psychiatrist, ain'tcha?"
"And you're my patient. You've been here four months, and overnight you expect me to lose my prejudices."
"You're supposed to treat me with respect."
"Where is it written that I have to treat you with respect?" Shreck arose from the couch bristling with indignation. "If I treated you with respect, you'd lose confidence in me. Do you think that would be good for my ego? A nigger looking down on someone who studied in Vienna? If there's one thing a psychiatrist doesn't need, it's an insecure psychotic. It's hard enough trying to treat a secure psychotic. Do you think it's a pleasure cruise traveling up your psyche with only a toilet plunger for a divining rod? I tell you it's messy!"
As Shreck talked, Adams threw himself down on the floor and started a series of vigorous push-ups. On the ninth push-up he said, "So is your couch."
"Can I help it? It's crawling with the vermin of dirty dreams," Shreck replied.
"In the brochure it said you had a reupholstered couch," Adams said on the 12th push-up.
"I didn't write the brochure," Shreck said. "Do you think I believe everything you tell me?"
"We're supposed to lie," Adams said on the 15th push-up. "It's your job to find out the truth."
"Why should it be my job? Every patient thinks he has to lie. That's the trouble with you nuts. You have no sense of honor, no conception of decency. If your own mothers heard what you said about them, they would be outraged. Has it ever occurred to you what it costs for shock treatment? Do you know what my electric bill is every month? Of course you don't. You don't even care. All you care about is rapid transference."
Adams finished doing his exercises. He turned over on his back, intertwined his fingers and rested his head on his hands. His voice became drowsy. "I wish I was back at Ole Swanee. I used to go to Greek IA with two United States marshals. One of 'em got so he could recite the whole Greek alphabet. They were learning more than I was. The first week I was there I got a telegram from the president of Liberia, the prime minister of Sierra Leone and the queen of Greece. I got those all in my scrapbook. A delegation of Georgia housewives supported my courages and integrity. The wife of a famous Tennessee judge offered to meet me in New Orleans for some special orientation exercises. I was the white hope of the colored community. Man, I was on top of the heap! 'Why'n't you go back to Africa where you belong, nigger!" they screamed at me. 'Join the monkeys in the trees, blackboy!' they shouted. 'You ain't gonna stay alive to make it, jigaboo!' they hollered at me. And you know, Shreck, I wanted to scream right alongside of 'em. I wanted to cry, 'Nigger, get back to Mau Mauville. You don't b'long up hyah with the white folks. You got no right bringin' your stink into this Grecian temple of learning. You oughta be up there swingin' from an oak like Spanish moss, like that strange fruit.' Man, the ofays woulda loved it. Booth Adams coulda been the first Nigra in memory to be in favor of white supremacy." He quit talking and turned to Shreck. "Ain't that right, Doctor?"
"You came close to making history, Booth," Shreck said softly.
Adams sighed. "As it turned out I just ended up being a disgrace to my people."
"What people are you talking about?" said Shreck.
"The blacks."
"You weren't a disgrace to the blacks. You were a disgrace to the whites. If the blacks can only be a disgrace to themselves, they can never disgrace anybody. If you're going to take disgrace professionally, you can't draw the color line." Shreck came over to him, got down on his knees and jutted his jaw forward. "Did I shave close enough?" he asked, offering his jowl for inspection.
Adams rubbed his fingers under Dr. Shreck's jaw. "You're as smooth as a baby's bottom," he said.
Shreck got to his feet. "I made a date with one of the female patients tonight. I'm going to hold her hand while she's in thermal therapy," he said gaily.
"Have a ball, Shreck," Adams said.
Although it had become quite dark in the room, Shreck did not turn on the light above the basin when he went to the mirror to look at his face. "Do you think a young twenty-three-year-old folk singer called Elodia Gloralee Hinch could fall in love with a middle-aged shrink?" Dr. Shreck asked his patient.
"Sure, Shreck," Adams said feelingly. "But don't let her plug in that electric geetar while she's in that tub."
"I'm not a bad shrink, am I, Booth?"
"You're the greatest headshrink I ever knew, Alonzo."
"Do you mean that, Booth?"
"I really mean it, Alonzo."
"But do you feel it, Booth?"
"I feel it, I feel it."
"You're not lying to me, Booth?"
"I don't think so."
Shreck's voice lowered conspiratorially. "I'm going to let you in on a secret, Booth, that I haven't shared with anyone else."
"Yeah?" Adams raised himself on one elbow.
"You're on the road to recovery," Shreck said, measuring each word with care.
"Me?"
"Every evidence points to your curability."
"It does?"
"It's unmistakable."
"How can you tell?"
"Because every time we have a session I feel better," Dr. Shreck said, snapping his leg up suddenly to make a cracking sound in his knee.
"But I'm the patient," Adams protested.
"Who's to tell?" said Shreck ruminatively.
"Wasn't I the one who cracked up at Oxford, Mississippi?"
"A trifling fact, Booth. When you cracked up at Oxford, I bled for you. No man is an island, my friend, as Ernest Hemingway said before he cracked up in Spain."
"So when do I get out of here?"
"It depends on how I feel. It depends on my equilibrium, my sense of security. It may even depend on Elodia Gloralee Hinch and her capacity for love." And here Dr. Shreck gave Booth Adams a leering wink.
"You're going to make it, Alonzo. I can feel it!" Booth Adams leaped to his feet and began skipping an imaginary rope.
"You're making me feel better every minute, Booth," Dr. Shreck said joyously. "And the better I feel, the closer you are to recovery, my boy."
And hearing these therapeutic words, Booth Adams hurtled over the confession couch and trotted out of the room, his Oxford scarf waving behind him.
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