Sputterpub's Blog

I browsed through a Writer’s Idea book and saw its suggestion about describing my most memorable New Year’s Eve. I scanned my memory and couldn’t come up with a better one than the train trip to Disneyland. That was probably 1973 or 1974. And it wasn’t profoundly memorable: just pleasant company and great topography. So I went into last night thinking it might be the one to describe.

It’s the first time I’ve had anything resembling a New Year’s Eve date, in years. Most December 31s lately I’ve spent on my couch or my bed, and the mammal I’ve kissed has been my dog. It only resembled a date, though. It was William. And while it’s true that he’s male and single and self-described as straight, while it’s also true that he seemed specifically to ask me to be with him at the Palmers for New Year’s Eve, it was William. There’s never any physical contact (except the chaste hug and cheek-kiss goodbye) or any personal comments with William. It’s only the complete absence of any flirting or glancing touches that makes it seem that maybe, somewhere deep in him, there is a spark of chemistry toward me. As if the gentleman didth protest too much…

We left here at 6. I returned home at about 3 a.m. In the intervening nine hours I had no good food, no decent drink, and no kisses.

I wore fun clothes (black tunic, tights, boots, rhinestone earrings) and I brought a bottle of quality cognac which I looked forward to drinking with champagne. No one commented on my outfit and I never got any cognac. Instead I was fed cold artichoke leaves that had been sullied with mayo and roe, tepid baked veggies consisting of squash, eggplant and fennel, horrible bouillabaisse, and American pie. Dessert, that is. Something called Ritz cracker pie. It was supposed to mimic apples, but not on my tongue.

There was mediocre wine, too (pale reds, and one Raymond chardonnay). There was William at the piano, doing New Year tunes, with Madeleine and Ina caterwauling over him like crazed cats. Everyone else seemed to think their singing well and improved.

And there were the people. I like 80-year old Ina, and I enjoyed talking to Officer Agatha from Juneau, but Charlie and Madeleine were stupid and pale, respectively, and the Palmers were as usual.

We could have used some other music at times. A bowl of nuts and a bottle of dry white would have been thoroughly appreciated. And I think it would have been interesting to drink our champagne with bottoms of cognac.

However. It wasn’t my party. If I threw a party I’d do it differently, but I’m unlikely to throw one. And it wasn’t without interest. For the final hour, I sang out of self-defense. There wasn’t anything else to do. The music had shifted to show tunes then. I got into it.

And there was Charlie’s story. Charlie describes himself as a part-time therapist and a part-time contractor. That means he works as a psychologist a few days a week, and otherwise supervises the remodel (reconstruction?) of their Fairfax house while they stay in their San Rafael place.

With a few early comments to William and me, Charlie revealed that his deal is all about his father. Narcissistic and controlling. He let us know that he, unlike most of the folks there, watches TV, and he also owns guns. And he beat his chest about what a good therapist he is, which was probably just horn-blowing, but may have been boyish show-off, too.

He said doctors send the hopeless cases to him. He claimed he can do what no one else can. Just recently, for instance, he’s been working with a 31 year old Jewish female patient. The woman is lovely and very well educated, but she’s failing at everything she tries. Charlie discovered that the patient was an unwanted baby. Her mother married a much older man and tried to seal the union with an infant. That was the older sister. But the mother only needed one union-sealing baby, and never wanted or loved the second child, the patient. Charlie said he discussed this unlove with the mother, and she confessed he’s correct. She is puzzled as to how he discovered her secret.

Here’s how Charlie told us he engineered the breakthrough for the patient.

In their most recent session, the patient described having stomachaches as a kid. She remembered going to her mother. She recalled that her mom used to give her a hot water bottle, and she’d lie down on the floor with it, and be comforted.

Charlie responded with a little (white) lie. He said he also had stomachaches as a child. Like the patient, he used to go to his mother with his complaint and she gave him a hot water bottle, too. But she’d then bring him into her bed with her, and cuddle him until he felt better.

Well, as soon as the patient heard that, she saw how pale was the comfort she received. She understood that her mother hadn’t loved her. She discovered the nature of the problem that was making her fail at her life.

And then Charlie leaned back against the couch, fingers laced at his nape and elbows out, with a satisfied, rather attractive grin. I sighed aloud or otherwise expressed sadness for the patient, and sympathy. But Charlie was very upbeat. He said now that they’ve reached this place, they can start to fix the problem.

I’m still astounded. Fix the problem. That would be almost like giving Helen Keller sight. There can be some improvement, but there isn’t any real fix for a baby unloved.

The evening was a little crazy for me. It was more than feeling like a reporter. There were too few points of agreement between me and the others, about food, music, Charlie . I felt like an anthropologist.

I’ll say this, though. William got some of it. The man is observant, if sometimes catty, and he has a good vocabulary. We agreed about Charlie. “Execrable,” he said.