Lying on the Couch

by Irvin D. Yalom

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  just couldn't put his opponent away. Maybe he was just too nice a guy. Maybe he needed a "closer." When he retired from the pro circuit, he invested his modest inheritance in a tennis club near Santa Cruz a month before the '89 earthquake swallowed up his whole valley. He received a small insurance settlement, most of which he invested in Pan Am Airlines stock just before it went belly up; some went into junk bonds with Michael Milken's brokerage firm, the rest he invested in the San Jose Nets of the American Volleyball League.

  Perhaps that was one of the game's attractions for Shelly. These guys knew what the hell they were doing. They knew how to make money. Maybe some of it would rub off on him.

  Of all the guys, Willy was by far the richest. When he sold his start-up personal finance software company to Microsoft, he walked off with about forty million. Shelly knew that from reading the newspapers; none of the guys ever talked openly about it. What he loved about Willy was the way he enjoyed his money. He made no bones about it: his mission on earth was to have a good time. No guilt. No shame. Willy spoke and read Greek—his folks were Greek immigrants. He especially loved the Greek writer Kazanzakis and tried to pattern himself after Zorba, one of his characters, whose purpose in life was to leave death "nothing but a burned-out castle."

  Willy loved action. Whenever he folded a hand, he'd rush into the other room to snatch a peek on the TV at some game—basketball, football, baseball—on which he had bet a bundle. Once he rented a Santa Cruz war games ranch for the whole day, the kind of place where groups play Capture the Flag using guns that shoot paint bullets. Shelly smiled as he remembered driving out to the place and seeing the guys standing around watching a duel. Willy, wearing goggles and a World War I fighter pilot's hat, and Vince, both with guns in hand, were pacing off ten steps. Len, the referee, wore Jack's shirt and held a fistful of hundred-dollar bills from the betting. Those guys were nuts—they'd bet on anything.

  Shelly followed Willy outside where Porsches, Bentleys, and Jags were revving up and waiting for Len to open up the massive iron gates. Willy turned and put his arm around Shelly's shoulders; the guys did a lot of touching. "How's it going. Shelly? Job search moving?"

  "Comme ci, comme ga."

  "Hang in there," said Willy. "Business is turning. I've got a feeling the Valley's going to open up again soon. Let's have lunch." The

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  two had become close friends over the years. Willy loved to play tennis and Shelly often gave him a few pointers and had, for years, informally coached Willie's kids, one of whom now played on Stanford's team.

  "Great! Next week?"

  "No, after that. Away a lot the next two weeks but real free the end of the month. My schedule's in the office. I'll call you tomorrow. I want to talk about something with you. I'll see you at the next game."

  No comment from Shelly.

  "Right?"

  Shelly nodded. "Right, Willy."

  "So long. Shelly, so long. Shelly." "So long, Shelly." "So long. Shelly." The calls rang out as the big sedans pulled away. Shelly ached as he watched them drive off into the night. Oh, how he would miss them. God, he loved those guys!

  Shelly drove home in deep grief. Losing fourteen thou. Dammit — takes talent to lose fourteen grand. But it wasn't the money. Shelly didn't care about the fourteen thou. What he cared about was the guys and the game. But there was no way he could continue playing. Absolutely no way! The arithmetic was simple: there was no more money. / have to get a job. If not in software sales, then I'm going to have to go into another field — maybe back to selling yachts in Monterey. Yuck. Can I do thatf Sitting around for weeks waiting for my one sale every month or two would be enough to send me back to the horses. Shelly needed action.

  In the past six months he had lost a lot of money in the game. Maybe forty, fifty thousand dollars—he had been afraid to keep an exact count. And there was no way to get more money. Norma deposited her paycheck in a separate bank account. He had borrowed on everything. And from everyone. Except, of course, from one of the guys. That would be bad form. Only one last possession he could get his hands on—a thousand shares of Imperial Valley Bank stock, worth about fifteen thousand bucks. His problem was how to cash them in without Norma finding out. Somehow or other she'd get wise. He had run out of excuses. And she was running out of patience. It was only a matter of time.

  Fourteen thou? That fucking last hand. He kept reliving it. He was sure he had played it right: when you got the odds, you have to push . . , lose your nerve and it's over. It was the cards. He knew

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  they would turn soon. That's the way it went. He had the long view. He knew what he was doing. He had gambled heavily since he was a teenager and ran a baseball bookie operation throughout high school. And a damn profitable operation, too.

  When he was fourteen he read, he forgot where, that the odds on picking any three ball players to get a combined total of six hits on any given day was about twenty to one. So he offered nine or ten to one and had plenty of takers. Day after day the suckers kept believing that three players selected from the likes of Mantle, Musial, Berra, Pesky, Bench, Carew, Banks, McQuinn, Rose, and Kaline had to get six hits between them. Suckers! They never learned.

  Maybe now it was he who wasn't learning. Maybe he was the sucker and shouldn't be in this game. Not enough money, not enough nerve, not a good enough player. But Shelly had a hard time believing he could be that bad. Suddenly, after holding his own over fifteen years in this game, he'd turned into a bad player? It didn't compute. But maybe there were some small things he was doing differently. Maybe the bad run of cards was affecting his play.

  His worst sin, he knew, during the whole bad streak was to get too impatient and try to force through mediocre hands. Yes, no doubt. It was the cards. And without question they would turn. Just a matter of time. It could happen any game—probably the next game—and then he could take off on a fantastic winning tear. He had played in the game for fifteen years and sooner or later things balanced out. Just a matter of time. But now Shelly could buy no more time.

  A hght rain started. His window fogged. Shelly flipped on the wipers and defroster, stopped to pay his three dollars at the toll booth on the Golden Gate, and headed down Lombard Street. He was not good at planning ahead, but now, the more he thought about it, the more he realized how much was at stake: his membership in the game, his pride, his self-esteem as a player. Not to mention his marriage—that was at stake, too!

  Norma knew about his gambling. Before they married eight years before, she had had a long talk with his first wife—who had left him six years earlier when, in a marathon game on a Bahamas cruise, four jacks wiped out their entire savings.

  Shelly really loved Norma and sincerely meant the vows he made to her: to give up all gambling, to attend Gamblers Anonymous, to turn over his paychecks, and to allow her to manage all finances.

  And then, in a show of good faith, Shelly even proposed to work on his problem with any therapist she chose. Norma selected a psychiatrist she had seen a couple of years before. He saw the shrink— kind of a jerk—for a few months. A total waste of time; he remembered nothing of what they discussed. But a good investment—it clinched the deal, proving to Norma that he took his vows seriously.

  And, for the most part. Shelly had kept his vows. He gave up gambling except for the poker game. No betting on football or basketball, he said good-bye to Sonny and Lenny, his long-time bookies; no more Vegas or Reno. He discontinued his subscriptions to The Sporting Life and Card Player. The only sporting event he bet on was the U.S. open; he knew how to read tennis form. (But dropped a bundle betting McEnroe over Sampras.)

  And, until Digilog went under six months ago, he faithfully turned over his paychecks to Norma. She knew about the poker game, of course, and gave him a special dispensation for it. She thought it was a five- and ten-dollar game and willingly advanced him a couple of hundred at time
s—Norma rather liked the idea of her husband socializing with some of the richest and most influential businessmen in Northern California. Furthermore, a couple of the guys retained her for legal counsel.

  But there were two things Norma didn't know. First, the stakes. The guys were very discreet about that—no cash on the table, only the chips they always called "quarters" (twenty-five dollars), "half-bucks" (fifty dollars), and "bucks" (hundred dollars). Occasionally one of the guys' kids would watch the game for a few hands and would have no idea of the real stakes. Sometimes when Norma met one of the players or their wives socially—at weddings, confirmations, bar mitzvahs—Shelly braced himself for her learning about his losses or the magnitude of risk. But the guys, bless their hearts, knew their lines: no one ever slipped. It was one of those rules that no one ever mentioned but everyone knew.

  The other thing Norma didn't know about was his poker account. Between marriages Shelly built up sixty thousand dollars in capital. He had been a super software salesman . . . whenever he decided to work. Twenty thousand dollars he brought into the marriage, but forty thousand was his poker fund and he kept it hidden from Norma in a secret Wells Fargo bank account. He thought that forty thousand could last forever, that it could ride out any losing streak. And so it had. For fifteen years. Until this one—this losing streak from hell!

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  The stakes had gradually risen. He subtly opposed the increases but was ashamed to make a big deal about it. To have a thrill in the game, everyone needs high stakes. Losses have to smart a bit. The problem was that the other guys had too much money: high stakes for him were like penny ante for them. What could he do? Endure the humiliation of saying, "Sorry, guys, I don't have enough money to play cards with you. I'm too poor, too gutless, too much of a fucking failure to keep up with you"? No way he would ever say that.

  But now his poker fund was gone, all but four thousand of it. Thank God that Norma had never learned about the forty thou. Otherwise she'd be long gone. Norma hated gambling because her father had lost the family home in the stock market: he didn't play poker (he was a church deacon, a straight arrow, broomstick up his ass) but stock market, poker—same thing! The markets, Shelly had always thought, were for pussies without the guts for poker!

  Shelly tried to focus; he needed ten thou in a hurry: he had postdated the check just four days ahead. What he had to do was get the money from somewhere Norma wouldn't think of looking for two weeks. Shelly knew, he absolutely knew, as he had known few things in his hfe before, that if he could only raise a stake and play in the next game, the cards would turn, he'd win a mint, and everything would fall into place again.

  By the time Shelly reached home at five-thirty he had decided what to do. The best solution, the only solution, was to sell some of his Imperial Bank stock. About three years ago Willy had bought the Imperial Bank and dropped an insider tip to Shelly that it was surefire. Willy was thinking he'd at least double his investment in a couple of years, when it went public. So Shelly bought a thousand shares with the twenty-thousand-dollar nest egg he had brought into the marriage, crowing to Norma about the insider tip and the money he and Willy were going to make.

  Shelly's record for being in the wrong place at the wrong time remained intact: this time it was the savings and loan scandal. Willy's bank was hurt bad: the stock skidded from twenty a share to eleven. Now it was back to fifteen. Shelly took the loss in stride and knew that Willy had lost a bundle, too. Still he wondered why, immersed in the old boys' network, he couldn't once, just once, cash in. Everything he touched turned to shit.

  He stayed awake till six so that he could call Earl, his broker, to

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  place an order to sell at market price. At first he planned to sell just six hundred and fifty shares—that would've netted him the ten thousand dollars he needed. But while on the phone he decided to sell the whole thousand shares, to give him the ten thousand payback and an extra five thousand to stake him into one last game.

  "Want a callback for confirmation of the sale, Shelly?" Earl asked in that squeaky voice of his.

  "Yeah, buddy, I'll be in all day. Let me know the exact amount. And, oh yeah, rush it for me, and don't mail the check into our account. That's important—don't mail it. Hold it for me and I'll stop by and pick it up."

  This was going to be okay. Shelly thought. In two weeks, after the next game, he'd buy the shares back with his winnings and Norma would never be the wiser. His good spirits returned. He softly whistled a couple of bars of "zip-a-dee-doo-dah" and got into bed. Norma, a light sleeper, was sleeping in the guest room as was usual on poker nights. He read a little from Tennis Pro Magazine to calm down, switched off the ringer on the phone, put earplugs in so as not to hear Norma getting ready for work, and turned off the light. With a little luck he would sleep till noon.

  It was almost one p.m. when he stumbled into the kitchen and put on some coffee. As soon as he turned the phone ringer back on, it rang. It was Carol, Norma's friend, who was an attorney at the same firm.

  "Hi, Carol, you looking for Norma? She's long gone. She's not at the office? Listen, Carol, I'm glad to get you on the phone. I heard about Justin leaving. Norma said you were shook up. What an idiot to walk out on a class act like you. He was never in your league. Sorry I never called to talk. But the offer is now open. Lunch? A drink? A cuddle?" Ever since the afternoon Carol had picked him up for a quick revenge lay. Shelly had had hot fantasies of a repeat performance.

  "Thanks, Shelly," said Carol in her steeliest voice, "but I've got to table the social talk. This is a professional call."

  "What do you mean? I told you, Norma's not here."

  "Shelly, it's you I'm calling, not Norma. Norma has engaged me as counsel to represent her. It's an awkward situation, of course, given our little encounter, but Norma asked and there was no way I could refuse.

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  "To the point, now," Carol continued in her clipped professional voice. "My client has asked me to file separation papers and I hereby instruct you to be out of the house, completely out, by seven this evening. She wishes no further direct contact with you. You are not to attempt to speak to her, Mr. Merriman. I have advised her that all necessary transactions between you are to be executed through me, your wife's counsel."

  "Cut this legalese shit, Carol. Once I make it with a broad, I'm not going to be intimidated by her highfalutin language! Plain Eng-Hsh. What the fuck is going on?"

  "Mr. Merriman, I am instructed by my client to direct your attention to your fax machine. The answer to all your questions will become apparent. Even to you. Remember, we have a court injunction, seven P.M. this evening.

  "Oh, yes, one other thing, Mr. Merriman. If this counsel may be permitted one short personal comment: you're a shit. Grow up!" And with that Carol slammed down the phone.

  Shelly's ears rang for a moment. He ran to the fax machine. There, to his horror, was a copy of his morning's stock transaction with a note that Shelly could pick up the check the following day. And beneath that something even worse: a Xerox of the balance statement of Shelly's secret Wells Fargo poker fund. And attached to that a yellow Post-it with a terse note from Norma: "You don't want me to see it? Figure out how to cover your tracks! We're history."

  Shelly called his broker. "Hey, Earl, what the fuck's going on? I asked you to call me with the confirmation. Some pal!"

  "Back off, jerk," said Earl. "You asked for a confirmation call at home. We sold at seven-fifteen. My secretary called at seven-thirty. Your wife answered and my secretary gave her the message. She asked us to fax it to her office. My secretary should know not to tell your wife? Remember, the bonds were held in a joint account. We should conceal it from her? I should lose my license for your lousy fifteen thousand account?"

  Shelly hung up. His head reeled. He tried to make sense of what had happened. He should never have asked for a confirmation call. And those goddammed earplugs.
When Norma learned about the stock sale, she must have started looking through all his papers and found his Wells Fargo account. And now she knew everything. It was all over.

  Shelly reread Norma's fax and then yelled, "Fuck it all, fuck it

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  all!" and tore it to shreds. He returned to the kitchen, warmed up his coffee, and opened the morning Chronicle. Classified ad time. Only now it was not only a job that he needed, but a furnished apartment as well. However, a strange headline on the first page of the Metropolitan section caught his eye.

  Move over. Ford, Toyota, Chevrolet! Now psychiatrists recall product!

  Shelly read on.

  Taking a page from the notebooks of the giant auto makers, the Golden Gate Psychoanalytic Institute has posted a recall bulletin (see page D2). In an unruly meeting on October 24 the institute censored and suspended one of its luminaries, Dr. Seth Pande, "for conduct detrimental to psychoanalysis."

  Seth Pande! Seth Pande! Hey, Shelly thought, wasn't that the shrink Norma asked me to see before we got married? Seth Pande— yes, I'm sure of it: How many Pandes can there be? Shelly read on:

  Dr. Marshal Streider, the institute's spokesman, would not elaborate further except to say that members believed that Dr. Pande's patients may not have received the best treatment psychoanalysis had to offer and possibly may have suffered some harm as a result of their analytic work with Dr. Pande. Dr. Pande's patients are being offered a free 'Psychoanalytic tune-up!' Was it the fuel pump? this reporter asked. Power train? Spark plugs? Exhaust system? Dr. Streider would not comment.

  Dr. Streider says the action is evidence of the Psychoanalytic Institute's commitment to the highest possible standards of patient care, professional responsibility, and integrity.