passive.
If it means that much to you, we can get together and talk... and let me fuck your ears off.
It means a lot to me.
I clawed the page free from the paper, crumpled it, and threw it across the room.
Closing my eyes, I tried to let myself cry. For her, for me, for Robin. For families that fell apart, a world falling apart. Little boys who watched their fathers die. Anyone in the world who goddam deserved it.
The tears wouldn't come.
Wait for the beep.
Pull the trigger.
LATER, AFTER some of the shock wore off, I realised that I'd rescued her once before.
Perhaps she'd remembered it, had constructed a time-machine fantasy of her own.
The fall of '74. I was twenty four, a brand-new Ph.D., caught up in the novelty of being addressed as Doctor but still as poor as a student.
I'd just returned to L.A. from the Langley Porter Institute in San Francisco to begin my fellowship at Western Pediatric Hospital. The position came with a jawbreaker of a title: National Institute of Mental Health Postdoctoral Scholar in Clinical Psychology and Human Development, jointly appointed to the hospital and its affiliated medical school. My job was to treat children, teach interns, do research, and come up with a paper or two the chief psychologist could co-author.
Page 38
My pay was $500 a month, which the IRS had just declared taxable. There was barely enough left over to cover rent and utilities on a dingy Overland Avenue bachelor flat, plain-wrap food, discount clothing, thrift-shop books, and ongoing life support for a moribund Nash Rambler. Not covered was an eight-year accumulation of student loans and debts Tiled too long under Miscellaneous. A number of bank creditors delighted in dunning me monthly.
In order to earn extra money, I took on nighttime gigs playing guitar in dance bands, the way I'd scratched by in San Francisco. Irregular work with spotty pay and all the bar food I could get down between sets. I also let the University psych department know its illustrious graduate was available for free-lance teaching assignments.
The department ignored me until one afternoon in November when one of its secretaries had me paged at the hospital.
"Dr. Delaware, please."
"This is Dr. Delaware."
"Alice Delaware?"
"Alex."
"Oh. It says here Alice. I thought you were a woman."
"Not the last time I checked."
"Guess not. Anyway, I know it's short notice, but if you're available at eight tonight, we could use you."
"Use away."
"Don't you want to hear what it's about?"
"Why not?"
"Okay, we need someone to supervise Course 305A— the clinical practicum for first- and second-year graduate students. The professor who runs it was called out of town and none of the usual substitutes are available."
Barrel-scraping time. "Sounds fine to me."
"Okay. You're licensed, right?"
"Not until next year."
"Oh. Then I'm not sure... Hold on." A moment later: "Okay. Because you're not licensed the pay is eight dollars an hour instead of fifteen and subject to withholding. And there's some paperwork you'll have to fill out first."
Page 39
"You've twisted my arm."
"Pardon?"
"I'll be there."
In theory, clinical practicum is a link between book learning and the real world, a way to introduce therapists-in-training to the practice of psychotherapy in a nurturant environment.
At my alma mater, the process started early: During their first semester clinical-psych graduate students were assigned patients—undergrads referred from the campus counseling service and poor people seeking free treatment at the University health clinic. The students diagnosed and treated under the supervision of a faculty member. Once a week they presented their progress, or lack thereof, to peers and instructors. Sometimes things stayed on an intellectual level.
Sometimes they got personal.
Psych 3O5A was held in a windowless garret on the third floor of the Tudor mansion that housed the clinical program. The room was bare of furniture, painted a grayish
If it means that much to you, we can get together and talk... and let me fuck your ears off.
It means a lot to me.
I clawed the page free from the paper, crumpled it, and threw it across the room.
Closing my eyes, I tried to let myself cry. For her, for me, for Robin. For families that fell apart, a world falling apart. Little boys who watched their fathers die. Anyone in the world who goddam deserved it.
The tears wouldn't come.
Wait for the beep.
Pull the trigger.
LATER, AFTER some of the shock wore off, I realised that I'd rescued her once before.
Perhaps she'd remembered it, had constructed a time-machine fantasy of her own.
The fall of '74. I was twenty four, a brand-new Ph.D., caught up in the novelty of being addressed as Doctor but still as poor as a student.
I'd just returned to L.A. from the Langley Porter Institute in San Francisco to begin my fellowship at Western Pediatric Hospital. The position came with a jawbreaker of a title: National Institute of Mental Health Postdoctoral Scholar in Clinical Psychology and Human Development, jointly appointed to the hospital and its affiliated medical school. My job was to treat children, teach interns, do research, and come up with a paper or two the chief psychologist could co-author.
Page 38
My pay was $500 a month, which the IRS had just declared taxable. There was barely enough left over to cover rent and utilities on a dingy Overland Avenue bachelor flat, plain-wrap food, discount clothing, thrift-shop books, and ongoing life support for a moribund Nash Rambler. Not covered was an eight-year accumulation of student loans and debts Tiled too long under Miscellaneous. A number of bank creditors delighted in dunning me monthly.
In order to earn extra money, I took on nighttime gigs playing guitar in dance bands, the way I'd scratched by in San Francisco. Irregular work with spotty pay and all the bar food I could get down between sets. I also let the University psych department know its illustrious graduate was available for free-lance teaching assignments.
The department ignored me until one afternoon in November when one of its secretaries had me paged at the hospital.
"Dr. Delaware, please."
"This is Dr. Delaware."
"Alice Delaware?"
"Alex."
"Oh. It says here Alice. I thought you were a woman."
"Not the last time I checked."
"Guess not. Anyway, I know it's short notice, but if you're available at eight tonight, we could use you."
"Use away."
"Don't you want to hear what it's about?"
"Why not?"
"Okay, we need someone to supervise Course 305A— the clinical practicum for first- and second-year graduate students. The professor who runs it was called out of town and none of the usual substitutes are available."
Barrel-scraping time. "Sounds fine to me."
"Okay. You're licensed, right?"
"Not until next year."
"Oh. Then I'm not sure... Hold on." A moment later: "Okay. Because you're not licensed the pay is eight dollars an hour instead of fifteen and subject to withholding. And there's some paperwork you'll have to fill out first."
Page 39
"You've twisted my arm."
"Pardon?"
"I'll be there."
In theory, clinical practicum is a link between book learning and the real world, a way to introduce therapists-in-training to the practice of psychotherapy in a nurturant environment.
At my alma mater, the process started early: During their first semester clinical-psych graduate students were assigned patients—undergrads referred from the campus counseling service and poor people seeking free treatment at the University health clinic. The students diagnosed and treated under the supervision of a faculty member. Once a week they presented their progress, or lack thereof, to peers and instructors. Sometimes things stayed on an intellectual level.
Sometimes they got personal.
Psych 3O5A was held in a windowless garret on the third floor of the Tudor mansion that housed the clinical program. The room was bare of furniture, painted a grayish
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