I had done all I could to ready myself for the longest, most trying day imaginable.
In truth, none of my estimations about the taxing nature of the coming hours could have prepared me for what actually lay ahead.
Immediately upon having canceled my other appointments, I was hit with heavy regret.
Pondering the loss of my day’s regular Normals, I paced the short length of my office as if willing myself to walk some nearby plank.
I half expected no one invited to even show up.
Already beyond flustered, it suddenly occurred to me that I had no experience whatsoever approaching or managing multiple clients at once.
Had I really failed to consider how my Method might fare in the face of such added mechanics as group dynamics/politics?
And in those squeamish moments beyond too late, I had something of a frightful vision: this mob of hellish, bird-like clients all surrounding me to fight and peck as if competing for the same woeful worm.
Impossible to wrangle or make sense of in the least, their vicious squawking distorted in my mind to an undecipherable, mechanical screech.
Everyone arrived early; I had no time to practice Faum’s or peruse my notes at all—no further opportunity for mapping out some course to approach the daunting debacle I had unwittingly committed to.
Rolman spoke first, before I could, injecting his own brand of impassible confusion like a human spanner thrown deliberately just to mangle up my cogs.
Grinning like a crocodile, he uttered something slow and enthusiastic about “the pain being gone.”
I asked how it had happened (having no idea what pain he was referring to).
His response was as cryptic and unhelpful as ever.
ROLMAN:
“I’m just glad to be out roving around again, chasing after my boy at the park.”
I recalled at least one male Normal having equated himself to a family dog.
Had that been Rolman?
Seeing myself failing already to make such basic connections, the stiff air in the room began to feel overwhelmingly muggy and hot.
My skin seemed about to peel off under the weight of so many sets of eyes, all fixed on me.
My awareness was locked to the immense monetary waste of each idle moment passing by in painful stillness and silence.
So many clients, all watching and waiting for me to fix them as I was being paid to.
I had to press in and at least try to deliver on my implied promise.
Then shifting my gaze from one to the next, Rolman, Ray, and all the rest appeared for a split second to morph into the most bizarre clutter of robots with control switches, all spazzing about together on the floor.
I blinked, and everyone was back in their chairs, staring at me again.
Or, had I been the glitching robot?
Terrified, I resolved to just start over.
I had to find the right questions by which to properly employ my Method, that was all.
How many clients were there in the room?
Why was I unable even to count?
All but Rolman were Outliers, no?
Yet my overarching impression was of having stumbled upon someone else’s game—that ever since my realization about how this all might not be real, whoever could be using me for whatever unknown ends has simply leapt forward several steps to keep me contained and in the dark.
In short, I felt completely broken.
My only hope was my belief that my Method should prove impervious to even shifts in whichever realities it gets used.
I had to find a way to identify the blurred individuals in the room.
Were two (or more) Normals like family dogs?
ME (to Rolman):
“Tell me about your son.”
The dimwitted smile widened a hair.
ROLMAN:
“He’s a funny little guy. He started punching me the other day. And I got mad. We were both just sitting there in the living room. He was playing a game on the iun. When I got mad, though, I remembered what you said. And I didn’t want to just yell or make him feel bad. So I waited until I wasn’t mad anymore. Then we talked about why we shouldn’t yell or hit other people.”
I had no memory of discussing anger with Rolman.
ME:
“Would you say that both you and your son act immaturely at times?
“Maybe this time you realized you were headed that way again but changed course before you let yourself do something you knew you’d regret.
“I think that’s great.”
I was mostly happy with my initial attempt at re-establishing control.
Yet an unmistakable note of condescension had begun to creep its way into my voice, surely due to having heard my words and tone shift to mirror the likes of Rolman in both sincerity (for me, insincere) and lack of irony (for me, most ironic).
I made the impossible mental note to come across as less intentional.
I was glad when Rolman spoke again, freeing my focus from its inward paradoxes.
ROLMAN:
“It’s like we both act younger than we are sometimes, yeah.”
ME:
“What game was your son playing on the iun?”
ROLMAN:
“Oh, we both were. It’s this free game where you have to save 2,000 coins to get a helicopter. It took us about two days. Or, we could have paid for the coins with real money.”
ME:
“How much would that have cost?”
ROLMAN:
“99 cents for 10,000 coins.”
Ray chose that moment to chime in, out of turn, infuriating me—his interruption serving as a timed trap sprung to throw me from my hopeful progress.
RAY (to Rolman):
“Would that teach your kid the value of a dollar?”
Willing myself to confront Ray’s derailment like a sheepdog nipping at straying edges of its flock, I set about working to salvage my therapeutic vision for Rolman.
Ray and the rest would have to wait.
ME (to Rolman):
“Tell me more about you and your son.”
ROLMAN:
“Oh! Well, get this. Now I know I’ve seen real magic at least two times. When I was a kid, I think about five, this girl told us guys she could do real magic. We didn’t believe her. We started teasing. But she made this little plastic soldier arm appear all by itself in her hand, from nowhere! I saw it! I still remember exactly what it looked like.
“Then one day at the park, my son was telling me everything about this robot he wanted to make. And right then, I saw a tiny robot piece on the ground. It looked just like how he was saying!”
Rolman’s answer was entirely vacuous and surely detrimental to the lines of reasoning I was fighting to construct (as if from nothing).
I blamed Ray.
Caught speechless in another wave of the horrible silence and watching, I frantically considered how I might best keep my mounting inner turmoil hidden from the group.
Ray spoke up again as if to highlight my lack of control.
RAY (to me):
“You never saw anything magic? I’m sure I did. Just the way we saw things.”
I felt myself begin to cringe, but then watched, already relieved, as I fell reflexively to the first deeper breaths of my Faum’s sequence.
ME:
“But it wasn’t really magic, right? Whatever you saw?”
RAY:
“Yes. I mean, it’s all happening, y’know? All of this . . . all of it . . . together.”
Silently angling my way through Faum’s, I was met by more waves of the calm aloofness I had grown accustomed to reaching and maintaining—much akin to a welcome visit from a trusted colleague or old friend.
There was a definite sense of release from my compulsive need to maximize the increased value of session time spent with multiple clients.
I even found myself able to almost bypass my indignation at our careless lapse into magic.
For no obvious reason, I began to consider again the matter of the similar, chaotic dreams that Ray, Bing, and I had seemed to share.
Now, let me clarify something I believe perfectly illustrates my strange and evolving inability to differentiate clients: I know Bing was not there today—I am 100 percent certain of this fact; and though for some reason I cannot bring to mind whether or not Bing had even been invited, I know for sure I did not see his somehow oafishly lanky form pass through my door at any point before, during, or after our big session.
Yet I also clearly remember Bing being present as Ray harped on about magic.
Perhaps it was just Rolman, since Bing can come across as such a Normal at times.
But why would I have not invited Bing?
I had definitely wanted Bing there.
Anyway, the notion of the connected dreams gave me an idea I hoped would at least keep the conversation from continuing to spiral.
ME:
“Well, okay, you could say everything seems magical.
“But how would you respond if I were to ask, ‘Can I still dream the same way if I know exactly why I’m dreaming?’
“What if you could understand the reasons behind it all—behind everything that happens?”
The questions were intended to prove just unexpected and rhetorical enough to quiet Ray for a moment so I could further regroup.
Yet he answered almost before I had finished asking.
RAY:
“But you still don’t know why.”
ME:
“Perhaps you don’t understand.
“What if we could explain exactly what happens, both chemically and psychologically, to cause my specific dreams?”
RAY:
“Yeah, then we’d know just what happens when you dream. But the why for everything is always magic.”
ME:
“I see no reason for magic in . . . the why.”
RAY:
“Magic doesn’t explain things. But it does explain everything. And it explains nothing.”
ME:
“It’s not magic.”
RAY:
“What’s not?”
I don't know anything 