"As I look at it, Sam, you and I are in similar businesses,” he began. “Yes, the people who come to you are called clients, while those who come to me are called patients. But in both cases, they come looking to us to solve their problems, don’t they.”
“That they do, Dr. Sid.”
“And many times those are problems they themselves have created, and continue to create, regardless of us or what we do. Right?”
“Oh, so right,” I replied with a knowing laugh.
“Well, I call the business of solving these people's problems "psycho-ceramics."
"Psycho-ceramics? I don’t get it. We're ceramicists?"
"Yeah. We both deal with crackpots."
I couldn't resist a laugh. "Okay. So psycho-ceramics is dealing with crackpots."
"You got it. An inside term of the trade. That's what we do, you and I." He steepled his fingers and made eye contact. “So, what's going on? Tell me.”
I waited for him to say more, but he kept silent.
Finally, he smiled. “Well, Sam, you’re lucky. I don’t help crazy people. I help people like you. Your situation is normal. Yes, it’s dysfunctional. But it’s normal.”
I cocked an eye at him, and he understood that I didn’t really get what he was saying.
Suicide never, homicide...
Dr. Sid stood up. I followed, assuming the session was at an end. “Sam,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder, “You’re a little depressed. It’s normal after what you’ve been through.” He leaned dramatically in my direction. “I have to ask, have you had any ideations of suicide?” “Suicide? Never. I would never give anybody the satisfaction. Homicide, yes. And I have a short list.” He frowned, and then his face melted into a wry smile. “I appreciate your comedic humor,” he said. “You’re a funny guy, just like your father.”
Johnny Redman – Thief selling shit to idiots
Johnny had been perceptive, bright, and a fantastic golfer. The PGA tour was his dream. But he just couldn’t help shilling, cutting corners, working a con. He had never lost his confidence skills—or his rat sense for survival. I had asked him once what he did at his boiler room office supply sales job. “I’m a thief selling shit to idiots—you know, like politicians and other B.S. role models,” he had said, straight-faced.
Arrogance … where it belongs
Seeing the word ‘partnership’ did give me a twinge, reminding me of the looming Meet and Confer with James and that smug, self-absorbed yuppie, arrogant, golf-playing attorney of his. “Both of them should keep their arrogance behind their zippers where it belongs.”
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