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"No," I corrected her, "You're on time."

"Why are you so ... tense?"

"I almost threw your book in the East River today," I blurted out.

Allison's face went pale with panic. "You what?! Where is it? I'm going to need it back, Nancy!"

"It's right here," I urged her, patting my bag. "It's not safe for me to hold it anymore."

She glanced at my bag as though it were a dear lost relative. What an irony! Just two months ago, she was asking me to burn it -- to appease her boyfriend, Zack.

"What do you mean -- not safe?" she asked. "Did Matt find out something -- about your business?"

"Allie, I don't let my boyfriends meddle with my professional life the way you do," I snapped. We were heading for the elevator. "I'll tell you later."

With miffed, averted eyes, Allison stood on the other side of the elevator, but when we reached the second floor, she changed her tune -- I had zeroed in on a spot near the docent, who was gearing up for the guided tour. An irate woman with a cane gave us both a dirty look as Allie shoved her way toward the front. The docent, motherly and middle-aged in a cotton pantsuit and glasses, gestured toward the home movies of Sigmund Freud playing on the wall behind us. After shepherding us through his early years, she added, "Questions? Don't ask me any questions!" in a self-deprecating tone. Allie gazed at the great man's couch -- "It's so small!" she whispered, reminding me that other people's couches have become her specialty these past few months as she waits for her subletter to move out.

"Now, Freud never set out to cure anyone," the docent was telling us. "This is a misconception. He once said that he was very happy, he considered himself successful, when a patient was able," she paused and said, in a firm, gentle voice: "to work -- and to love."

A hush stole over the crowd, as the docent clasped her hands together. I felt Allison's hand on my sleeve and, when I turned, she was weeping quietly, searching in her handbag for a tissue.

We walked down Fifth Avenue toward Liane's apartment -- we were both wearing our museum-friendly flats, after all. Somehow, the trees in Central Park looked so much greener. There were small groups of fresh-faced Carnegie Hill schoolgirls, wearing bizarre, incomprehensible ensembles, walking in pairs and threes.

"Is it the first day of school?" Allison asked in a dreamy voice.

"I had no idea," she added, quietly, "that I was a Freudian success."

I was tempted to say something flippant but stopped as the tissue- rummaging began again. We stood in front of the Frick while Allison dabbed her face. When we got to Liane's building, I handed Allison her client book, neatly packed and sealed in a new envelope. "Don't worry," she assured me, "I won't do anything stupid with it. I still love Zack -- and I wanted to change for him -- but he's never coming back. Even if I stopped hooking, forever, he would never believe me. So what's the point?"

When I got home, I checked all my messages -- one from Milt, on my business line, very playful, confirming tomorrow's appointment -- and another from Randy, more businesslike, on my personal phone. I guess his boss was hovering when he called. I changed the water in the flowers Matt sent after our weekend together, and snipped the stems.

And then I cried at the thought that I might be -- like Allison -- just another Freudian Success.
salon.com | Oct. 25, 1999

Episode 32 The Hookergram

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