A Crazy Mixed-up Id

The more I thought about it, the more the whole bit with Seena seemed like an experiment in masochism.

Mine.

What else but masochism to want to marry a high-strung, stubborn, introverted, unpredictable, neurotic, gorgeous brunette with a built-in debt factor of sixty clams a week?

Sixty smackers. That was the tidy little sum Seena regularly forked over to Siggie. Siggie, the unseen, Siggie, the omnipotent – he haunted my courtship of Seena like a duenna, a jealous suitor, a possessive father. He was her analyst.

Minus sixty bucks a week. What a dowry for an underpaid ad copywriter like me! Catastrophic. What was worse was having to submit to the ignominy of Siggie's playing Monday-Wednesday-Friday-night quarterback to Seena's stream of consciousness broadcasts of my strategy d'amour.

I needed this like a flat tire on a weekend. Still, I was smitten with Seena. And, I suppose, for such unrestrained emotional commitment you just have to suffer. It would have been so much simpler if, say, I'd decided to woo Alice. Now, there was an uncomplicated wench.

"Zip me up, Freddie, will you?" Alice chirped as she flitted into the living room of the flat she shared with Seena.

Zip I did, clumsily. This, then, was the condition to which I'd been reduced: trusted handmaiden to little Alice Alberts, runner-up in the Miss Steeplechase beauty contest of 1954. I, Fred Henley, erstwhile lothario of the office stenographers' pool, Greenwich Village Don Juan, slick seductionist of the Whaler Bar. Unmanned!

In a rebellious expression of stifled virility, I pinched Alice's little rump. Even her "ouch" was unsatisfying – the mild squeal of annoyance of kid sister for big brother.

"Control yourself, Freddie. Seena will be back soon. Her session ends at seven."

Alice was a saucy little blonde with a quick tongue and a monolithic middle-class compulsion: she had to get married before she was twenty-five (original deadline, twenty-one) to a handsome devil with, of course, dough. For such a catch and such a catch alone would she barter her precariously maintained virginity. Perfectly normal, well-brought-up American white-collar girl – Alice. Not neurotic enough for my taste. And she wasn't Seena's cup of Lipton either.

They'd met at opposite ends of a panty girdle during a bargain counter tug-of-war at Ohrbach's. Ever since, their tenuous friendship was a test of two-way stretch. They were a mismatch from the start – a hasty marriage of expediency based on no common interest other than that both needed an apartment, and neither could afford more than seventy-five bucks a month rent.

The flat which economic necessity forced them to share was a high-ceilinged job which cried out for Victorian vintage furnishings but made do with wrought-iron modern culled from Foam Rubber Heaven during "unbelievable" clearance sales.

"I hear he's a real dreamboat," Alice said hopefully, slipping into her coat. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if he were?"

"Another blind date?" I groaned.

"Third one this week. Tell me, sweetie, don't you think you try too hard?"

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," she shot back, her face coloring.

That hit me like a wet towel in the face. I suspected that my panting pursuit of the elusive Seena Wickers was becoming more and more a case of the stupid greyhound chasing the mechanical rabbit. But I hadn't realized it was quite so obvious – least of all to Alice.

I changed the subject.

"Good luck," I said half-heartedly, "and be careful."

"Who wants to be careful?" she said, bouncing out like a high school cheer-leader. "Besides, I have a hunch tonight I'll hit pay dirt."

I was glad to see her go. Her unflagging optimism was depressing. I picked up Seena's copy of The Basic Writings of Sigmund Freud, and stuffed myself like a colic infant into the black canvas diaper pegged on wrought-iron legs, which passed for a chair.

I had done this before – scan the sacred pages of the master – while waiting for Seena to leave the disciple's couch. The words flew up at me like stones cast at an infidel – libido, infantile sexuality, erogenous zones, anamnesis – and bounced off my skull. Maybe the answers were there, coded in psychoanalytical argot. But I couldn't decode them. I would have to solve Seena without recourse to and in spite of the ultimate authority. I slammed the book shut, and made myself a Scotch and water.

Seena showed up a while later, (continued on page 140)Crazy mixed-up id (continued from page 58) wrapped superciliously in a reverent air, which meant her hour with Siggie had been "meaningful." And that meant I could expect a hard time this evening.

She confirmed my suspicion. When I went to her, she gave me a cold cheek instead of warm lips.

"Has Alice gone a-hunting?" she asked wearily.

I nodded.

"Good," she said. "I couldn't stand that pinhead tonight. Alice and her goddamn positive thinking."

"Siggie give you a hard time, sweetie?"

"How often must I ask you not to call him that?"

"He should be honored. That's the master's given name," I said. "What the hell is his name, anyway? No, don't tell me. I won't remember. I must have a mental block."

"Don't be juvenile!"

"You've promoted me. Last week you called me infantile."

I could see this was going over like limp lettuce. So I tried to slip my arm around her waist, friendly like. She batted down the pass.

"Don't paw me, Freddie. Please. Have you no understanding?"

I retreated to the sofa, polished off my drink. Seena struck a pose – a lovely, statuesque, crumpled-browed, brooding pose. What the hell drew me to her? Her rebuffs only made my interest stronger. Was I really in love with her? Or was I trying to prove I could take the measure of that lousy, in-fighting rival, Siggie?

When I met her the previous summer at a Fire Island beach party, she was a pretty face, a winning smile, a carefree kid, a lithe, young, sun-bronzed body – a filter-cigarette-ad girl. Now she was Judith Anderson in Medea.

The metamorphosis began when she started emptying her subconscious into Siggie's slosh bucket. By now I was convinced she was suffering less from her own vague psychic upsets than from psychoanalysis itself. Anyway, if Siggie wasn't Seena's major affliction, he sure as hell was mine.

"He understands so much, so deeply," she said dreamily. "Freddie, can we ever achieve that kind of rapport?"

"Maybe," I said bitterly, "if you give me half a chance. As it is I'm flying blind. I'm not sure what's troubling you. All I know is I love you. I want to marry you. Sometimes I wonder why."

"You don't really want to marry me. You're not mature enough for marriage."

"All right. Let's have it," I blurted out."What did Siggie say about me this time?"

"What makes you think we discuss you? If we ever mention you, it's because I dream about you now and then. But even so, you're only a symbol of something deeper, more complex."

"Great. I'm free game," I sputtered. "You and Siggie must have a helluva good time pulling me apart. I'm juvenile, infantile, not ready for marriage. I'm surprised the guy doesn't send me a bill."

My irritation seemed to soothe her. I shoved a highball at her before her mood changed again, and then we went out to dinner at a cozy little Italian joint on the East Side.

It was good being with her. She looked as beautiful as any female could with fettuccine buttering her lips. I was comfortable with her. It was as if something within each of us reached across the table and held hands. Precious moments. Here we were tied together by the kind of emotional rapport Seena talked about, yearned for, and couldn't recognize under her very nose.

It didn't last long. This time it was my fault. Because an exasperating thought stung me: that at the next session on the couch, this private, very personal experience would become Siggie's. Seena would make a gift of it to him. Her monolog would cover the menu, the way I ate minestrone, the price of the dinner, the amount of the tip, and who knows what else.

"You're such a transparent little boy," she said, sipping chianti. "It's obvious you're thinking of my analyst. Aren't you being unfair to him and me?"

"It's nothing to what you two are doing to me!"

"You sound positively paranoiac."

"Never mind the psychiatric labels," I retorted. "You endow Siggie with super-human traits, and you measure me against him. If I had a flesh-and-blood rival for you, I'd prefer it. I can't compete against a superman who takes any shape you want him to."

"He happens to be an extraordinarily sensitive human being with insight and sympathy. You could do with a little of that!"

Then I had to say what had been seething in my little black brain for weeks:

"You're trying to mold me in his image, Seena. I warn you. Don't try to remake me. It's a hopeless job."

"You can say that again, brother," she said, her voice breaking.

We had tears for dessert, sullen silence in the cab back to the apartment. I despised her, pitied her, loved her. It would kill me to give her up. But how long could I go on as the imperfect mortal ranged against the demigod Seena made Siggie out to be? If only I could cut him down to size.

Back at the flat, Seena switched on the hi-fi, and a schmaltzy Rachmaninoff piano concerto came forth. We both sulked through the first movement. Then, in a conciliatory move. I pulled her to me and kissed her fragrant neck. She was a thousand miles away for all of the warmth of her body against mine, for all of Rachmaninoff's sobbing romantic overtones.

"Listen to me, damnit," I exploded.

"The great Siggie was once a boy like I was – with scraped knees, holes in his socks, marbles in his pockets, and a runny nose. He had acne in high school, necked with girls who had acne. too, and he told smutty jokes in the locker room."

"Stop it," she shouted. "You're horrible, horrible."

I wouldn't stop; I was just getting warmed up:

"Siggie's a headshrinker. I write ad copy. Our positions could have been reversed, Seena. Think of it. I could have been the superman with the leather couch, and Siggie the jerk writing odes to deodorants.

"The point is he's a guy like I am, trying to make a buck, trying to get along. Maybe he can help you. I don't know. But for Pete's sake don't become a slave to him and his mumbo jumbo."

Seena wrenched the hi-fi knob. The speaker responded with a tremendous blast of Rachmaninoff, which set up a symphonic barrier against my voice.

She was dripping tears again. And amid this cacophony of deafening piano chords, wailing violins and stifled sobs, the door buzzer sounded off.

"Don't you dare open that door." Seena cried out, leaping to her feet. "Not until I can put some make-up on. I'd rather die than let anyone see me in this state."

She ran off to the bathroom. The buzzer continued in one long, impatient vibration. I silenced Rachmaninoff. The buzzer buzzed louder.

When I yanked open the door, someone catapulted backwards across the threshold. It was Alice. She would have gone sprawling on her fanny if not for the startled, lipstick-smeared guy who was clutching her like a life preserver. Behind me, there was a smothered gasp from Seena, then shattering silence. The blind date, red to the ears, dropped Alice as a cornered shoplifter drops hot merchandise.

"Isn't it a riot?" Alice said weakly. "We must have been leaning on the buzzer."

Her escort, a mid-thirtyish, balding guy with a weak chin, seemed undecided whether to bull his way gaily out of the predicament or to seek refuge in the incinerator.

If ever I saw embarrassment personified, it was this hallway Casanova. When, at last, he mustered courage to lift his eyes, his complexion went from beets to chalk. He tugged at his necktie, shuffled his feet, cleared his throat. His hands searched for a place to hide. It would have been a kindness to throw a blanket over him.

If anything, Seena looked more agitated than he did. With an angry toss of her head, she pivoted and strode deep into the flat.

"Well," I managed to say, unsuccessfully fighting off a grin, "won't you come in?"

"I think not," the guy said stiffly, his face grave, his fingers scrambling for a cigarette. "It is rather late."

Alice looked forlornly at me. It was plain she had already written finis to another blind date, another potential spouse. I felt sorry for her.

"Good night," the guy stammered, starting down the stairs. He hesitated, turned and said, "I'll call you, Alice." But neither Alice, nor I, nor he, believed it.

When he was gone, Alice eulogized, "He was cute. An intellectual."

Seena's voice rang through the apartment: "You'll never see him again. You cheap, stupid, contemptible..."

I had never seen her in such a state.

"No," Alice said tearfully. "I don't have your talent for keeping a man on a string." And she fled into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Seena was quivering with rage, her face ashen, her hands fluttering like scared butterflies.

"That wasn't kind, Seena," I said.

"How could she? How could she be so gross?"

"My God, girl," I said impatiently. "I never saw such a fuss. Don't tell me you never necked in a hallway."

"You're an ass, Fred Henley," she sobbed. "I hate you. I hate Alice. I hate this stinking furniture. I hate myself and I hate Siggie."

It was the first time she had ever called him Siggie. I felt the elation of sudden, unexpected proud victory when she said it. I was so carried away I nearly forgot to duck when she flung the Freud volume in my direction.

For suddenly I knew. I cut through her incoherent outcry to the truth. I pitied Seena. But I was deliriously happy at the same time.

I took her hands from her face. I held her close while her tantrum spent itself. I kissed her damp cheek, whispered "poor baby" in her ear.

She looked up at me through her tears, the prettiest, sweetest tears I'd ever seen. My heart did a cha-cha. For she knew I understood. We had rapport – unmistakably. And that was the important thing.

"Don't you dare tell Alice – ever," she said.

Her lips were velvet. She melted in my embrace. No, I would tell no one. It was enough for me to know that the poor blighter who had been stapled to Alice was Siggie. Alice, God bless her, had clipped Siggie's wings.

"Seena, sweetie," I said. "You ought to apologize to Alice."

But there was no need for that. Because a moment later Alice emerged from the bedroom, bedecked in a slinky, pink evening gown.

"Excuse me, love birds," she sang out. "But I must ask you. Does the hem need shortening? I plan to wear this dress tomorrow night on a blind date."