Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Are you nuts?” Mr. Software said. “I’m just getting loose.”

Copley frowned at me. “We play the best two out of three.”

Taking a break, everybody sat on the bench, produced Glacéau bottles and sucked. I fell into a reverie. Was this a class difference? In Washington Heights, when we played touch football or basketball, the kind of strategy I had adopted against Mr. Software, including the meanness of the last few points, where I had deliberately varied the height and pace to force him into abrupt stops and starts, was considered fair play. Under the boards in basketball, we gathered rebounds with our sharp elbows out, whacking noses and foreheads until someone decided he’d had enough and let the sharpest elbow prevail. But an admission of injury and defeat was allowed and respected. No, this wasn’t a matter of class. I knew from Albert that code was gone from the streets. Was it also gone from the penthouse?

For the second set, I resumed a losing strategy of hitting at Mr. M&A and returning serves to Mr. Software with topspin. Relieved by the reappearance of my feeble groundstrokes, Mr. Software strode into them. He hit two lovely winners down the line. He was certainly the best player on the court. Soon, we were behind three games to love.

Copley brought the balls for me to serve the fourth game. We were at the rear of our court. He turned his back to our opponents. Laying the balls on my racquet, Stick spoke through his thin lips so they hardly moved. “Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?” I said.

“Play to win.”

“He’ll get hurt.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s out of control.”

“That’s his problem. Are you scared to win, Doctor?” Copley moved into position at the net. So be it, I decided. I spun a serve out wide to Mr. Software. He couldn’t move quickly in that direction, nor, once he made the return, could he, with alacrity, get back into position for the rest of the point. His reply was short and slow. Three-quarters of an open court were available to Copley for a winning volley. Instead, at point-blank range, he punched the ball at Mr. M&A, who tried to cover up, but got smacked in the groin. It must have smarted. Mr. M&A pretended it didn’t.

Copley and I blooped balls or floated them out of Mr. Software’s reach, presenting him the choice of cutting back and forth to try to salvage a win, or allowing us our sneaky triumph. We won five straight games to come to within four points of victory when it happened. Mr. Software, knowing that a lazy lob of mine over his left shoulder was merely the prelude to a series of them, tried to end the point quickly with a twisting leap. He reached the ball, but came down with his foot going in one direction and his thigh in another. The knee crumpled. While he lay on the ground, Copley smashed a groundstroke at Software’s head. He missed by an inch and then pretended surprise at the spectacle of his fallen opponent. That ended our friendly game of doubles.

Mr. Software had a comfortable limo to drive him home and, although he had to be helped to it, I was sure he had no worse than a twisted knee. What happened was far from horrible or ugly, yet a mild despair overcame me, a nauseating reminder of my childhood as a performing machine for my uncle.

After we watched our opponents limp into their chariots, Copley said, with an open look of admiration, “I see what Edgar meant about you knowing how to win.”

“I need a shower,” I said.

“You know, you should get into better shape.” Copley’s tone was a new one: avuncular. “You’re perspiring too much. You’re a fine athlete. Gotta maintain the machine.”

“I sweat whether I’m in shape or not,” I told him. “Remember, I’m a spic.”

Copley laughed hard, stopping in his tracks to put his hands on his hips. He laughed too hard to suit me. I asked him what he did to keep fit. He gave me the details while we stripped in the locker room. Actually, while I stripped. He dawdled with his undressing so that I was naked and inside one of the multi-headed showers when he removed his black and purple outfit. I was convinced the delay was deliberate. Sure enough, he came out with a towel wrapped around him and angled himself in the shade of his locker door to put on his underpants; only then did he turn my way while talking. The precious jewels were kept from the vulgar gaze throughout.

An explication of Sticks regimen — swimming two miles a day and workouts on machines every other day — preoccupied us until he was dressed in chinos, a black polo shirt and, to my surprise, sandals. The kind of handmade soft brown leather sandals I used to wear in the early seventies. Copley asked if I wanted some pasta. “We need carbos,” he said.

In his limo, heading north, he asked again about my meeting with Chen, in a different way. “What did you think of Andy?”

“Brilliant kid.”

“He is.”

“But he’s a kid,” I commented.

“They’re all kids, really. Even when they’re forty.”

“Building machines keeps them boys?” I asked. “Still playing with their Legos?”

Stick nodded. “In a way. I guess that’s a shrink’s point of view. Did he answer your lingering questions about Gene?”

“Yes. Andy’s very loyal and grateful to Gene, but it slipped through that Gene was burned out, feeling overwhelmed, out of his depth. You weren’t kidding when you said that was a hazard of your business. Things are pretty grim down there.”

“Grim?” Even in the dim light of the limo, I could see a flicker of irritation on Stick’s face. “I don’t think it’s grim. More like a playroom, isn’t it? Or summer camp?”

“They’re not playing,” I said firmly, but without emphasis, as if it had no importance to me. “They’re fighting for survival.”

“For survival?” He chuckled. “Aren’t you exaggerating just a little?”

Adopting a casual and pompous tone, I delivered a monologue chock-full of popular psychology jargon. I talked about limits and the need for authority. I talked about structure: rewards and punishments; incentives and security. I talked about how loyalty to a consistent parent figure or an appropriate substitute, such as a corporation, can empower and build self-esteem. I said his young employees all had the same base psychological profile. (Stick didn’t question how I could know that.) They are emotionally retarded, I said, fearful to ask for what they want, or worse, walled off from their emotions, suffocated by their mothers, rejected or squashed by their fathers as inadequate Oedipal competition — an outright contradiction, by the way, but the sort of all-encompassing generalization that is commonly made by popular psychologists. My rambling speech continued while we entered II Cantinori, an expensive restaurant on Tenth Street off University Place. We had both ordered and consumed ziti with mussels, sun-dried tomatoes and yellow peppers by the time I finished my Dr. Joyce Brothers imitation.

“How do you think Andy is doing?” Stick asked. “What’s your impression of his management skills?”

“Okay,” I said, lowering my eyes and my voice.

“You know,” he leaned forward, caressing a glass of white wine in both hands. “We’ve got a lot riding on our people. Andy’s in a position to help himself and the company. He’s also in a position to hurt himself and the company.”

I nodded. But offered nothing.

“What’s your opinion of his state of mind?”

“I spent less than an hour with him. Can’t really say.”

Copley leaned back and sipped his wine reflectively. He returned the glass lazily, sliding it onto the table. He cocked his head, locking his fingers together. “This afternoon I was thinking about you and Gene. He was doing very well, for himself and for us, up until about a year, year and a half ago. That’s when he stopped seeing you, right?”