David Gerrold - A Matter for Men

It went on like that for ten or fifteen minutes, a tumble of pictures, one after the other, faster than I could assimilate. A couple of times I felt frightened; I didn't know why. Once I felt angry. I didn't like the film. I wondered why they were showing it to me. This was boring. And then, just when I started to get interested again, it ended.

When the lights came back up, a quiet voice said, "Good afternoon." The voice was male. Quiet. Very mature. Grandfatherly.

I cleared my throat again, and I found my voice. "Where are you?" I asked.

"Atlanta."

"Who are you?"

"You may call me Dr. Davidson, if you wish. That's not my real name, but that's the name I use for these sessions."

"Why is that?"

He ignored the question. "If you'd like to smoke, please feel free," said Dr. Davidson. "I won't mind."

"I don't smoke," I said.

"I meant dope."

I shrugged. "I don't do much of that either."

"Why not?" he asked. "Do you have strong feelings about it?"

"No. I just don't like it much." Something was making me uncomfortable. I said, "Can you see me?"

"Yes, I can."

"Is there any way I can see you?"

"If you mean, is there a screen for two-way video, I'm sorry, there isn't. If you mean you'd like to see me face to face, you'll have to come to Atlanta. I'm something of an invalid. That's one of the reasons why we don't have two-way hookups. Sometimes my ... ah, condition can be disconcerting."

"Oh." I felt embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

Dr. Davidson said, "Please tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

"Why do you think you're here?"

"I was told to come here."

"Why?"

"They want to know if I'm too crazy to be trusted." "What do you think?"

"I don't know. The way I always heard it, the crazy person is the worst one to judge."

"Just the same, what do you think?" Dr. Davidson's voice was mild-and incredibly patient. I began to like him. A little.

I said, "I think I'm doing okay. I'm surviving."

"Is that your gauge of success? That you're surviving?" I thought about it. "I guess not."

"Are you happy?"

"I don't know. I don't know what happiness feels like anymore. I used to. I don't think anyone's happy since the plagues."

"Are you unhappy? Do you feel depressed?"

"Sometimes. Not a lot."

"Hurt? Confused?"

"Yeah. A little."

"Angry."

I hesitated. "No."

There was silence for a moment. Then Dr. Davidson asked, "Do you ever feel angry?"

"Yeah. Doesn't everybody?"

"It's a normal response to frustrating situations," Dr. Davidson admitted. "So what makes you angry?"

"Stupidity," I said. Even talking about it, I could feel my muscles tightening.

Dr. Davidson sounded puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand that, Jim. Could you give me some examples?"

"I don't know. People lying to each other. Not being honest. . . ."

"Specifically?" he urged.

"Um-well, like the people I met at the reception last night. And the scientists this morning. And even Colonel Wa-the people who sent me here. Everybody's talking to me. But so far, nobody wants to listen."

"I'm listening, Jim."

"You're a shrink. You have to listen. That's your job."

"Did you ever wonder what kind of person becomes a psychiatrist, Jim?"

"No."

"I'll tell you. Somebody who is interested in other people enough to want to listen to them."

"Well ... but it's not the same. I want to talk to the people who can answer my questions about the Chtorrans. I want to tell them what I saw. I want to ask them what it meant-but it doesn't seem like anyone wants to listen. Or, if they listen, they don't want to believe. And I know I saw a fourth Chtorran come out of that nest!"

"It's difficult to prove, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I grumbled. "It is."

"Why don't you sit down again."

"Huh?" I realized I was standing. I hadn't remembered getting out of the chair. "Sorry. When I get angry, I pace."

"No need to apologize. How else do you deal with your anger, Jim?"

"Okay, I guess."

"I didn't ask you how well you thought you dealt with it. I asked you specifically what you do to deal with it."

I shrugged. "I get mad."

"Do you tell people when you're angry?"

"Yeah. Sometimes."

Dr. Davidson waited. Patiently.

"Well, most of the time."

"Really?"

"No. Hardly ever. I mean, I blow up sometimes, but most of the time, I don't. I mean . . ."

"What?"

"Well-um, I don't really like to tell people that I'm pissed at them."

"Why not?"

"Because, people don't want to hear it. They only get mad back at you for getting mad at them in the first place. So when I get mad at someone, I-try not to let it get in the way, so I can deal rationally with the other person."

"I see. Would it be fair to say that you suppress your anger, then?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

There was a longer pause this time. "So you're still carrying a lot of it with you, aren't you?"

"I don't know." And then I looked up. "What do you think?"

"I don't think yet," said Dr. Davidson. "I'm looking for patterns."

"Oh," I said.

"Let me ask you something, Jim. Who are you angry at?"

"I don't know. People talk to me, tell me what to do-no, they tell me who I am and I know that's not who I am. They talk to me, but they don't want to listen. My dad-whenever he would say, `I want to talk to you,' he really meant, `I'm going to talk and you're going to listen.' Nobody wants to hear what I have to say."

"Tell me more about your dad," said Dr. Davidson.

I rocked back and forth in the chair for a moment. Finally I said, "Well, see, it wasn't that my dad and I couldn't communicate. We could-but we didn't. Not very often, that is. Oh, once in a while he tried-and once in a while I tried-but most of the time both of us were too involved with our own concerns to be involved with each other."

I said, "You know, my dad was famous. He was one of the best fantasists in the country. Not the most popular-he didn't go in for a lot of flash and dazzle-but still he was one of the most respected, because his simulations were intelligent. When I was a kid, a lot of people used to tell me how lucky I was-even my own friends-because I got to play all his programs before anybody else. They couldn't understand my matter-of-fact attitude about his work, and I couldn't understand their awe."

"How did you feel about his work?"

I didn't answer that immediately. I wanted to interrupt and give Dr. Davidson a compliment-he was asking the right questions. He was very astute. But I realized I was sidetracking myself. And I realized why. I didn't want to answer that last question.

Dr. Davidson was very patient. The chair arms were warm. I let go of them and rubbed my hands together. Finally, I admitted it. I said, "Um ... I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but I think-no, I know-I resented my dad's work. Not the games themselves, but his total involvement with them. I was jealous, I guess. My dad would get an idea-say, like Inferno or Starship or Brainstorm-and he'd turn into a zombie. He would disappear into his office for weeks at a time. That closed door was a threat. Do not disturb under penalty of immediate and painful death. Or possibly something worse. (Beware of Yang the Nauseating.) When he was writing, it was like living with a ghost. You heard sounds, you knew there was someone in the house with you, but you never saw him in person. And if by chance you did, it was like meeting a stranger in your living room. He'd mumble an acknowledgment, but he'd never lose his million-light-year stare.

"I don't know how Mom learned to live with it, but she did. Somehow. Dad would be up before seven, fix his own breakfast and then disappear for the day-only coming out of his office to help himself to something from the refrigerator. Mom made a point of leaving plates of food for him, so all he had to do was grab the plate and a fork and he could vanish back into his study. Usually we wouldn't see him again until after midnight. This could go on for weeks at a time.