The Schopenhauer Cure (46 page)

your distance from Tony because you fear he will interpret

a friendly overture as a sexual invitation."

"Yeah, exactly--there is that--that's an important

part of it. Tony does get a bit single-minded."

"Well," said Gill, "there's an obvious remedy: just

clear the air. Be straight with him. Ambiguity makes things

worse. Couple of weeks ago I heard you raise the

possibility that maybe the two of you can get together later

after the group ends--is that real or just a phony way of

softening the let-down? It just muddies the waters. Keeps

Tony hanging."

"Yep, right on!" said Tony. "That statement a couple

weeks ago about our possibly continuing sometime in the

future was big for me. I'm trying to keep everything on an

even keel so I can keep that possibility open."

"And," said Julius, "in so doing, you forfeit the

opportunity of doing some work on yourself while this

group and I are still available to you."

"You know, Tony," said Rebecca, "getting laid is not

the most important thing, not the only thing, in the world."

"I know, I know, that's why I'm bringing this up

today. Give me a break."

After a short silence Julius said, "So, Tony, keep

working on this."

Tony faced Pam. "Let's do what Gill said--clear the

air--as adults. What do you want?"

"What I want is to go back to where we were before.

I want you to forgive me for embarrassing you by springing

the confession. You're a dear man, Tony, and I care for

you. The other day I overheard my undergraduate students

using this new term, fuck-buddies --perhaps that's what we were and it was fun then but it's a bad idea now or in the

future--the group takes precedence. Let's concentrate on

working on our stuff."

"Okay by me. I'm up for it."

"So, Tony," said Julius, "you're liberated--you're

now free to talk about all the thoughts you've been holding

back lately--about yourself, Pam, or the group."

In the remaining meetings the liberated Tony returned to

his instrumental role in the group. He urged Pam to deal

with her feelings about Philip. When the potential

breakthrough following her praise of Philip as a teacher

never materialized, he pressed her to work harder on why

she kept her resentment of Philip red-hot yet could find

forgiveness for others in the group.

"I've already said," Pam answered, "that obviously

it's much easier to forgive others, like Rebecca, or Stuart,

or Gill, because I was not a personal victim of their offense.

My life wasn't altered by what they did. But there's more. I

can forgive others here because they've shown remorse

and, above all, because they've changed.

"I've changed. I do believe, now, it's possible to

forgive the person but not the act. I think I might be

capable of forgiving a changed Philip. But he hasn't

changed. You ask why I can forgive Julius--well, look at him: he never stops giving. And, as I'm sure you've all

figured out, he's been giving us a final gift of love: he's

teaching us how to die. I knew the old Philip, and I can

attest he's the same man you see sitting here. If anything,

he's colder and more arrogant."

After a short pause she added, "And an apology from

him wouldn't hurt."

"Philip, not changed?" said Tony. "I think you're

seeing what you want to see. All those women he used to

chase-- that's changed." Tony turned to Philip. "You

haven't really spelled it out, but it's different. Right?"

Philip nodded. "My life has been very different--I

have been with no woman in twelve years."

"You don't call that change?" Tony asked Pam.

"Or reform?" said Gill.

Before Pam could respond, Philip interjected,

"Reform? No, that's inaccurate. The idea of reformation

played no role. Let me clarify: I have not changed my life,

or, as it's been put here, my sex addiction, by virtue of

some moral resolution. I changed because my life was

agony--no longer bearable."

"How did you take that final step? Was there a last—

straw event?" asked Julius.

Philip hesitated as he considered whether to answer

Julius. Then he inhaled deeply and began, speaking

mechanically as though wound up with a key: "One night I

was driving home after a long orgy with an exceptionally

beautiful woman and thought that now, if ever in my life, I

had gotten all I wanted. I had had my surfeit. The aroma of

sexual juices in the car was overpowering. Everything

reeked of fetid flesh: the air, my hands, my hair, my

clothes, my breath. It was as though I had just bathed in a

tub of female musk. And then, on the horizon of my mind I

could spot it--desire was gathering strength, readying to

rear its head again. That was the moment. Suddenly my life made me sick, and I began to vomit. And it was then,"

Philip turned to Julius, "when your comment about my

epitaph came to mind. And that was when I realized that Schopenhauer was right: life is forever a torment, and

desire is unquenchable. The wheel of torment would spin

forever; I had to find a way to get off the wheel, and it was

then I deliberately set about patterning my life after his."

"And it's worked for you all these years?" said

Julius.

"Until now, until this group."

"But you're so much better now, Philip," said

Bonnie. "You're so much more in touch, so much more

approachable. I'll tell you the truth--the way you were

when you first started here...I mean I could never have

imagined me or anyone else consulting you as a counselor."

"Unfortunately," Philip responded, "being 'in touch'

here means that I must share everyone's unhappiness. That

simply compounds my misery. Tell me, how can this

'being in touch' possibly be useful? When I was 'in life' I

was miserable. For the past twelve years I have been a

visitor to life, an observer of the passing show, and"--

Philip spread his fingers and raised and lowered his hands

for emphasis--"I have lived in tranquillity. And now that

this group has compelled me to once again be 'in life,' I am

once again in anguish. I mentioned to you my agitation

after that group meeting a few weeks ago. I have not

regained my former equanimity."

"I think there's a flaw in your reasoning, Philip,"

said Stuart, "and that has to do with your statement that you

were 'in life.'"

Bonnie leaped in, "I was going to say the same thing.

I don't believe you were ever in life, not really in life.

You've never talked about having a real loving

relationship. I've heard nothing about male friends, and, as

for women, you say yourself that you were a predator."

"That true, Philip?" asked Gill. "Have there never

been any real relationships?"

Philip shook his head. "Everyone with whom I've

interacted has caused me pain."

"Your parents?" asked Stuart.

"My father was distant and, I think, chronically

depressed. He took his own life when I was thirteen. My

mother died a few years ago, but I had been estranged from

her for twenty years. I did not attend her funeral."

"Brothers? Sisters?" asked Tony.

Philip shook his head. "An only child."

"You know what comes to my mind?" Tony

interjected. "When I was a kid, I wouldn't eat most things

my mother cooked. I'd always say 'I don't like it,' and

she'd always come back with 'How do you know you don't

like it if you've never tasted it?' Your take on life reminds

me of that."

"Many things," Philip replied, "can be known by

virtue of pure reason. All of geometry, for example. Or one

may have some partial exposure to a painful experience and

extrapolate the whole from that. And one may look about,

read, observe others."

"But your main dude, Schopenhauer," said Tony,

"didn't you say he made a big deal about listening to your

own body, of relying on--what did you say?--your instant

experience?"

"Immediate experience."

"Right, immediate experience. So wouldn't you say

you're making a major decision on second-rate,

secondhand info--I mean info that's not your own

immediate experience?"

"Your point is well taken, Tony, but I had my fill of

direct experience after that 'confession day' session."

"Again you go back to that session, Philip. It seems

to have been a turning point," said Julius. "Maybe it's time

to describe what happened to you that day."

As before, Philip paused, inhaled deeply, and then

proceeded to relate, in a methodical manner, his experience

after the end of that meeting. As he spoke of his agitation

and his inability to marshal his mind-quieting techniques,

he grew visibly agitated. Then, as he described how his

mental flotsam did not drift away but lodged in his mind,

drops of perspiration glistened on his forehead. And then,

as Philip spoke of the reemergence of his brutish, rapacious

self, a pool of wetness appeared in the armpits of his pale

red shirt and rivulets of sweat dripped from his chin and

nose and down his neck. The room was very still; everyone

was transfixed by Philip's leakage of words and of water.

He paused, took another deep breath, and continued:

"My thoughts lost their coherence; images flooded pell—

mell into my mind: memories I had long forgotten. I

remembered some things about my two sexual encounters

with Pam. And I saw her face, not her face now but her

face of fifteen years ago, with a preternatural vividness. It

was radiant; I wanted to hold it and..." Philip was prepared

to hold nothing back, not his raw jealousy, not the caveman

mentality of possessing Pam, not even the image of Tony

with the Popeye forearms, but he was now overcome by a

massive diaphoresis, which soaked him to the skin. He

stood and strode out of the room saying, "I'm drenched; I

have to leave."

Tony bolted out after him. Three or four minutes

later the two of them reentered the room, Philip now

wearing Tony's San Francisco Giants sweater, and Tony

stripped to his tight black T-shirt.

Philip looked at no one but simply collapsed into his

seat, obviously exhausted.

"Bring 'em back alive," said Tony.

"If I weren't married," said Rebecca, "I could fall in

love with both you guys for what you just did."

"I'm available," said Tony.

"No comment," said Philip. "That's it for me

today--I'm drained."

"Drained? Your first joke here, Philip. I love it," said

Rebecca.

39

F

a

m

e

,

a

t

L