Don't Think

Don't think, Harrison told himself. It was always best not to dwell on it too much beforehand. Best not to plan or map out what you're going to say. Just let it come, let it flow, gush, spout spontaneously. Free association, that was the ticket. And I ought to know, he sighed to himself as he parked his convertible in the one empty space on the fashionable block: I ought to know – I'm a veteran.

He got out of the car and walked up the street, past stately brownstones. He walked slowly because he was just a trifle early. How often have I been doing this? he asked himself as he walked. How often have I driven to this part of town, parked as close to his office as I could get, and walked up this pleasant block for our two-thirty appointment/rendezvous/tryst/you-name-it? Almost two years? That long? That short?

And all for what? Am I any happier, any more content, any more at ease with myself or my world? He snorted, sardonically. And then immediately asked himself if one could snort sardonically, and then immediately replied that yes, one could, with practice.

He walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. Soon, he heard Miss Zimmerman's efficient, spinsterly feet clacketing to answer his summons. The door opened. "Hi, Miss Zimmerman," he said.

"You're right on time, Mr. Harrison," she said, with prim approval. "Please go right up."

"Thanks." The dialog, he noted, seldom changed.

He walked up a gracefully curving staircase, his shoes sinking into lush carpet. At the top, he knocked softly on a massive oaken door.

"Come." Harrison recognized the familiar dry voice. He opened the door and entered a book-lined room.

A bald, portly man sat behind an immense desk. He was impeccably dressed and manicured and he looked at Harrison from behind thick spectacles. "Good afternoon," the man said.

"Afternoon," Harrison replied, almost sullenly.

"How are you today?"

"Oh, great. Just great. I didn't sleep a wink last night, worrying."

"That won't help. A cigarette?"

"Those lousy filters of yours? I'll smoke a real cigarette." Harrison lit up.

The bald man smiled thinly. "You should get paid for that testimonial."

"Money is the least of my headaches."

"Shall we begin?"

"Sure. Might as well get it over with." Harrison slipped out of his sports jacket and stretched out on a black leather chaise. He crossed his feet and folded one arm under his head, holding the cigarette with the other hand, while his eyes inspected the spotless, noncommittal ceiling.

The bald man had produced a pad and pencil, and sat patiently waiting. "Any time," he said, gently.

"Well," Harrison drawled after a while, "I've tried not to think about it too much. Better that way. Oh, I can see the outcome all right; any fool can see that. It's getting through every day that bugs me, one day after another, day after day after day. Trying to fill those days. Fill them with something that – has meaning, makes sense." He got up and paced.

"I mean," he said after a moment, "it's almost classic, you know? Wife suspects husband is playing around. Accuses him. He denies it. She gets sore, packs her bag and – dig this – actually goes home to mother! Don't laugh. It's corny but it happens. One week later she comes back. All is forgiven. Or is it? The air is still loaded with suspicion, lack of trust, short answers, the whole lousy mess. But I can handle it, that I can handle. The thing that worries me is: what the hell happens now?"

He turned to the bald man with the notebook, and crushed out his cigarette in the desk ashtray. "What happens now?" he repeated. "You tell me."

• • •

Later, Harrison climbed into his jacket. "Good," he said curtly. "It was a good session this time."

"Yes," said the bald man, "I think so. Very profitable."

"But will it fill thirteen weeks?"

"Oh, easily. Twenty-six, perhaps, if we stretch it. I'll have Miss Zimmerman type all this up and we can look it over tomorrow."

"Fine. See you."

As he left his collaborator's office, Harrison felt a small, cynical satisfaction. I was right, he told himself – brainstorming a daytime television serial always turns out best when you don't think.