The psychologist in the ratty T-Shirt paced back and forth atop the New York Lottery building. He’d woken up there yesterday, stripped of his usual tweed suit and bifocals. His loafers were gone, replaced with some other man’s sneakers, and someone had even shaved his beard. Now, the psychologist had studied mental breakdowns, but never of anything quite like this. This could only be the work of some neurotic or possibly nefarious troublemaker. But why had the no-gooder chosen him?
Decades of working with crazies told him to ask why later, and focus on the immediate situation. He took stock of what had been left to him.Before-mentioned T-Shirt, athletic shorts, sneakers. A bag of pistachios and a granola bar sans wrapper. A pristine copy of this month’s Psychology Today. Basta.
The psychologist sucked the salt off a couple of pistachios and wished he could stroke his beard; that always helped him think.
Just then, a sound issued forth from the roof door, through which the psychologist had no doubt been hauled while unconscious.
“Who’s there?” he asked with what he hoped passed for confidence.
“Your subconscious. Open up.”
“Very funny. You, sir, are a kidnapper and a liar both.”
The voice behind the door chuckled. “Would you be convinced if I told you that I remember what happened in sixth grade in the locker room?”
The psychologist paused. “What do you mean, what happened in the locker room?”
“First you have to let me in.”
The sun set on the psychologist’s second day atop the Lottery building. He toed up to the edge of the roof and watched downtown Schenectady move around him. Lights blurred. He was dehydrated, and his stomach growled louder than the cars below. He curled up far away from the door, and tried to ignore the clanging on the other side.
What had the voice meant? Nothing had happened in sixth grade. The year was a blank in the psychologist’s memory, like it had never happened. He had been a small kid, he remembered that. His teacher was Ms. Carlisle, and one day she’d taken him aside and asked him… something. He couldn’t remember.
The psychologist fell asleep to the whirs of cars and the rhythmic change of stoplights from green to yellow to red. He dreamed of gym shorts, soccer, and the sound of a body being slammed against lockers.
“Wake up wake up wake up!” yelled the hooligan from inside the Lottery building.
The psychologist groaned into wakefulness. His head pounded, probably from caffeine withdrawal, and he was sorer than he had ever been in his life. No fifty-seven-year-old should have to spend the night on a roof. “I have money,” he said loudly. “Whatever ransom you want, I’ll pay you. Just let me off the damn roof.”
The voice laughed. “Silly psychologist. Don’t want to let you off the roof. I want you to let me onto it.”
“First you have to tell me what happened in the locker room.”
“Get out of my head!” cried the psychologist. He pounded his fist on the rooftop. He hung his head and sniffled one pathetic tear. Three days on a rooftop had reduced him from upstanding psychologist and progressive thinker to a snot-nosed old man in a teenager’s clothes. He didn’t bother to stand up; it would be a waste of precious energy.
The sun rose higher, and the psychologist lay on the rooftop with his eyes closed, trying to remember sixth grade. His gym teacher was Mr. Lovell. He seemed ancient (although probably younger than the psychologist was now) and spent all of class scribbling in his notebook. The real gym teacher was Mr. Lovell’s assistant, Mr. Jacob. All the girls had crushes on Mr. Jacob. One day Mr. Jacob had come to the psychologist after class and said… something. The psychologist couldn’t remember.
He fell asleep that night and dreamed of a little girl. He never saw her face; she just walked away from him with her golden hair bouncing.
He awoke in the morning, but it was deliriously. His vision was blurred and brightly colored and his mind moved lackadaisically, stumbling along mental paths he normally found smooth. The girl from his dream haunted him. She whispered in his ear in a language he couldn’t understand. Who was she? What was her name?
The sun rose. The psychologist ate the last of the pistachios and attempted for the umpteenth time to shout to the passersby below.
And then he remembered. Just like that. He remembered everything.
Mr. Jacob held the golden-haired Marie against the lockers. He fumbled with her pants and with his own, all the while muttering in her ear. Marie struggled. She kicked and bit, but Mr. Jacob was athletic and strong. She was so small. The psychologist saw everything, all of her pain, all of his darkness. And when he left her there, beaten and dying on the tile, the psychologist had done nothing. He ran away and let his friend die. He let Marie die.
The door to the roof swung open to reveal a dark, cool stairwell, and the psychologist heaved himself up towards it. He was crying, as he never had at Marie’s funeral or even afterward, in all the years between. He trembled as he walked down the stairs. He was so weak, so frail. Life had been so promising then, when he and Marie would plan their lives. How had he become so dull?
As the psychologist reached street level and reentered the world, he resolved to change. He would honor Marie’s legacy. He would live as she had, her feet always in motion, her mouth always smiling and her heart always open.
Mental breakdown? Maybe. Whatever it was, it gave the psychologist, Doctor Adam Winters, his life back.
