Luke Rheinhart - The Diceman

'And they don't miss appointments, either,' I added.

'That's right,' Jake went on, `there's no home life to mess up their lives.'

'No wives or husbands or children or home-cooked meals.'

'Yeah.'

Dr. Felloni interrupted: 'Isn't adjustment to the home environment what we're striving for though?'

"Adjustment to some environment,' Jake answered. `I try to get my Negro patients in group therapy to see the sickness of the white world so that they will end their resentment and find themselves satisfied with either their lives on the ward or their necessary ghetto existence.'

'And God knows,' I said, `that the white world is sick. Look at the starving millions in East Germany.'

This slowed Jake down for a moment: he lived the rhythm of agreement but wasn't certain that my statement here was entirely satisfactory. With that brilliance which was his essence he hedged: `Our job is to shoot psychological penicillin into the whole social fabric, white and black, and we're doing it.'

'But with regard to Mrs. Lansing,' Dr. Felloni said, `you do feel she should be released.'

'She's your baby, Renata, but remember, "When is doubt, don't let 'em out."

'Dr. Mann sent up a belch as an apparent warning signal that he was about to speak. We all looked at him respectfully.

`Jake,' he said. `You would have been at home as commander of a concentration camp.'

Silence.

Then I said: `What a lousy thing to say. Jake wants to help his patients not exterminate them. And besides, in

concentration camps the commander sometimes … didn't give them food: Silence. Dr. Mann seemed to be chewing a cud; Dr. Felloni was moving her head from side to side and up and down very slowly, like someone watching a tennis match consisting entirely of lobs. Jake, leaning forward intently and peering without fear into Dr. Mann's bland face, said with the rapidity of a typewriter `I don't know what you mean by that, Tim. I'll stack my patient record against yours any day. My policy on patient' release is the same as the director's. I think you should apologize.'

`Quite right,' Dr. Mann wiped his mouth with his napkin (or he may have been nibbling from it). `Apologize. I'd be at home as commander too. Only one who wouldn't is Luke, he'd let everyone go - on a whim.'

Dr. Mann had not been enthusiastic about the release of Arturo Toscanini Jones.

`No, I wouldn't,' I said. `If I were commander I'd increase food allotments two hundred percent and do experiments

with the inmates which would advance psychiatry a hundred years past Freud in twelve months.'

`Are you-talking about Jewish inmates?' Jake asked.

`Damn right. Jews make the best subjects for psychological experiments.'

I paused about one and a half seconds, but as Jake started to speak, I went on. `Because they're so intelligent,' sensitive

and flexible.'

That slowed Jake down. Somehow the racial stereotype I had created with my three adjectives didn't seem to leave him

much to shoot at.

`What do you mean by flexible?' he asked.

`Not rigid - open-minded, capable of change.'

`What experiments would you perform, Luke?'

Dr. Mann asked, watching a chubby waiter quiver past with a platter of lobsters.

`I wouldn't touch the inmates physically. No brain operations, sterilizations, that stuff. All I'd do is this: Turn all the

ascetics into hedonists; all the epicureans into flagellants; nymphomaniacs into nuns; homosexuals into heterosexuals, and vice versa. I'd train them all to eat non kosher food, give up their religion, change their professions, their styles of dress, grooming, walking and so on, and train them all to be unintelligent, insensitive and inflexible. I would prove that man can be changed: Dr. Felloni looked a little startled; she was nodding rather emphatically: `We're going to do this at Queensborough State, Hospital?'

`When I become director,' I answered.

`But I'm not certain it would be ethical,' she said.

`How would you do all this?' asked Dr. Mann.

`Drole therapy.'

`Drole therapy?'

Jake asked.

`Yes. Honker, Ronson and Gloop, APB Journal, August, 1958, pages sixteen to twenty-three, annotated bibliography.

It's short for drama-role therapy.'

'Dessert menu, please, waiter,' said Dr. Mann and seemed to lose interest.

'The same thing as Moreno?' Jake asked.

`No. Moreno has patients act out their fantasies in staged playlets. Drole therapy consists of forcing patients to live

their pressed latent impulses.'

'What's the APB Journal?' Jake asked.

`Jake, I agree with everything you say,' I said pleadingly. Don't challenge me. The whole thin tissue supporting our

argument will tear and collapse the whole thing on us.'

`I wasn't urging experimentation on patients.'

`Then what do you do during a typical hour?'

`Cure 'em.'

'Dr. Mann began what might have been a long rumbling laugh but was infected by food swallowed the wrong way and

ended as a fit of coughing.

But, Jake,' I said, `I thought it was our idea to gradually increase the facilities of and enrolment in mental hospitals one

percent a year until the whole nation was being cured.'

Silence.

`You'd have to be first, Luke,' Jake said quietly. ""Let me start now, today. I need help. I need food.'

`You mean analysis?'

`Yes. We all know I need it badly.'

`Dr. Mann was your analyst.'

'I've lost faith in him. He's got bad table manners. He wastes food.'

`You knew that before.'

`But I didn't know until now the importance of food:'

Silence. Then Dr. Felloni:

`I'm glad you mentioned Tim's table manners, Luke, because for some time now…'

'How about it, Tim,' Jake said. `Can I take on Luke?'

`Certainly. I only work with neurotics.'

That ambiguous remark (was I schizophrenic or mentally healthy?) essentially ended the conversation. A few minutes

later I staggered away from the table engaged to begin analysis with Dr. Jacob Ecstein on Friday in our mutual office.

Jake left the table like a man handed the Sonship of God on a silver platter; his greatest triumph was about to begin.

And, by Fromm, he was right.

As for myself, when I finally ate again eighteen hours later, it killed my appetite for therapy, but, as it turned out,

going back under analysis with Jake was a stroke of genius. Never question the Way of the Die: Even when you're starving to death.

Chapter Seventeen

Eventually, it had to happen; the dice decided that Dr. Rhinehart should spread their plague - he was ordered to corrupt his innocent children into the dicelife.

He easily maneuvered his wife to a long three-day visit to her, parents in Daytona Beach, employing the horrible premise that the nursemaid Mrs. Roberts and he would take perfect care of the children. He then maneuvered Mrs. Roberts to Radio City Music Hall. Rubbing his hands together and grinning hysterically, Dr. Rhinehart began to implement his hideous plan of drawing his innocent children into his web of sickness and depravity.

`My children,' he said to them from the living room couch in a fatherly tone of voice (Oh! the cloak which evil wears!)

`I have a special game for us to-play today.'

Lawrence and little Evie clustered close to their father like innocent moths to a deadly flame. He took from his pocket

and placed on the arm of the couch two dice: those awful seeds which had already borne such bitter fruit.

The children stared at the dice wide-eyed; they had never seen evil directly before, but the shimmering green light which the dice emitted sent through each of their hearts a deep convulsive shudder. Suppressing his fear, Lawrence said bravely `What's the game, Dad?'

`Me, too,' said Evie.

`It's called the dice man game.'