`And after I find out who the father is I'll have to let the dice decide whether I should leave Jake to be true to the father.'
`Uhh.'
`And then let the dice decide whether I'm to have more children.'
`Um, 'But before that they'll have to tell me whether I should tell Lil I'm having a baby.' Ahh.
`And whether I should tell Lil who the father is.'
'Uh.'
`It's all so wonderfully exciting.'
Silence.
Dr. Rhinehart took from his suit-jacket pocket a die and after rubbing it between his hands dropped it on the couch between himself and Mrs. Ecstein. It was a two. Dr. Rhinehart sighed.
`I'm happy for you, Arlene,' he said and collapsed slowly back in a heap against the couch, his blank eyes swiveling automatically to the blank wall opposite, on which hung only the ancient lithograph of Queen Victoria. Smiling.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Unfortunately for normal old Luke Rhinehart and his friends and admirers, the dice kept rolling and rolling, June turned out to be National Role-Playing Month and a bit too much. I was ordered to consult the Die regularly about varying the person I was from hour to hour, or day to day or week to week. I was expected to expand my role playing, perhaps even to test the limits of the malleability of the human soul.
Could there exist a Totally Random Man? Could a single human so develop his capabilities that he might vary his soul from hour to hour at whim? Might a man be an infinitely multiple personality? Or rather, like the universe according to some theorists, a steadily expanding multiple personality, one only to be contracted at death? And then, even then, who knows? At dawn of the second day I gave the dice six optional persons, one of whom I would try to be during the whole day. I was trying to create only simple, non socially upsetting options. The six were: Molly Bloom, Sigmund Freud, Henry Miller, Jake Ecstein, a child of seven and the old pre-diceman Dr. Lucius Rhinehart.
The dice first chose Freud, but by the end of the day I had come to feel that being Sigmund Freud must have been something of a bore. I was aware of many unconscious sources of motivation where I usually overlooked them, but having seen them I didn't feel I had gained too much. I tried to examine my unconscious resistances to being Freud and uncovered the sort of thing Jake was good at in analysis: rivalry with the Father, fear of unconscious aggression being revealed: but I didn't find my insights convincing, or rather I didn't find them relevant. I might have an `oral personality' but this knowledge didn't help me change myself as much as did a single flip of the die.
On the other hand, when I read of a man who killed himself by slashing his wrists I immediately noted the sexual symbolism of the cutting of the limbs. I began thinking of other modes of suicide: throwing oneself into the sea; putting a pistol in one's mouth and pulling the trigger; crawling into an oven and turning on the gas; throwing oneself under a train All seemed to have obvious sexual symbolism and be necessarily connected with the psychosexual development of the patient. I created the excellent aphorism: Tell me the manner in which a patient commits suicide and I'll tell you how he can be cured.
The next day I scratched Freud from my list, replaced him with a `slightly psychotic, aggressively anti-Establishment hippie' and cast a die: it chose Jake Ecstein.
Jake I could do very well. He was a real part of me and his superficial mannerisms and speech patterns I could easily imitate. I wrote half an article for the Journal of Abnormal Psychology analyzing the dice man concept from an orthodox Jakeian point of view and felt marvelous. During my analytic hour with Jake I entered so completely into his way of thinking that at the end he announced that we had covered more ground in this one session than in our previous two and a half months together. In a later article he wrote about my analysis `The Case of the Six-Sided Man' - (Jake's reputation will be eternal on the basis of his titles alone), he discussed this analytical hour in detail and attributes its success to the accidental discovery of a rarely read article by Ferenczi which he stumbled upon the night before lying open to a key page under his bathroom sink and which gave him the key `which began to unlock the door to the sixsided cube.'
He was ecstatic.
The dice rolled on and rolled me from role to roll to role in a schizophrenic kaleidoscope of dramatic play. Life became like a series of bit parts in a bad movie, with no script, no director, and with actresses and actors who didn't know their lines or their roles. I did most of my role playing away from people who knew me, for reasons which are obvious.
I can remember only vaguely what I did and said in those days; images are clearer than dialogues: I as Oboko the Zen master sitting mostly mute and smiling while a young graduate student tries to question me about psychoanalysis and the meaning of life: I as a child of seven riding a bicycle through Central Park, staring at the ducks in the pond, sitting cross legged to watch an old Negro fishing, buying bubble gum and ballooning out a big one, racing another cyclist on my bike and crashing and scratching my knee and crying, much to the bewilderment of the passersby: 240-pound crybabies being a rarity.
Despite all my efforts to limit my expanding personalities to strangers and to maintain a certain amount of normality ground my friends and colleagues, I always gave the Die at least an outside chance to undo me, and the Die, being God, couldn't long resist.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Once upon a time Dr. Rhinehart dreamt he was a bumblebee, a bumblebee buzzing and flitting around, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn't believe he was Dr. Rhinehart. Suddenly he felt that he had awakened, and he was old Luke Rhinehart lying in bed beside the beautiful woman Lil. But he didn't know if he was Dr. Rhinehart who had dreamt he was playing the role of a bumblebee, or a bumblebee dreaming he was Dr. Rhinehart. He didn't know, and his head was buzzing. After several minutes he shrugged: `Perhaps I'm actually Hubert Humphrey dreaming I'm a bumblebee dreaming of being Dr. Rhinehart.'
He paused for several more seconds and then rolled over and snuggled up to his wife.
`In any case,' he said to himself, `in this dream of being Dr. Rhinehart I'm glad I'm in bed with a woman and not a bumblebee.'
Chapter Forty
Dr. Abraham Krum, the German-American researcher, had in just five years astounded the psychiatric world with three complex sets of experiments, each of which proved something unique. He began by being the first man in world history able experimentally to induce psychosis in chickens, a creature previously considered of too low intelligence to achieve psychosis. Secondly, he .had managed to isolate the chemical agent (moratycemate) which caused or was associated with the psychosis, thus being the first man to prove conclusively that chemical change could be isolated as a crucial variable in the psychosis of chickens. Thirdly, he discovered an antidote (amoratycemate) which completely cured ninety-three percent of the chickens of their psychosis in just three days of treatment, thus becoming the first man in world history to cure a psychosis exclusively by chemical means.
There was considerable speculation about the Nobel Prize. His current work on schizophrenia in pigeons was followed, like stock market reports by large numbers of people in the psychiatric world. The drug amoratycemate was being experimentally administered to psychotic patients at several mental hospitals in Germany and the United States with interesting results. (Side effects involving blood clots and colitis had not yet been conclusively confirmed, nor had they been eliminated.) Dr. Krum was to be the guest of honor at a party given by Dr. Mann for his friends and certain luminaries of the New York psychiatric world. It was to be a major occasion, with the president of PANY (Dr. Joseph Weinburger), the director of the New York State Department of Mental Hygiene and two or three other extremely big deals whom I can never remember. The dice, imps of the perverse, ordered that I vary my person every ten minutes or so throughout the evening among six roles: a gentle Jesus, an honest dice man, an uninhibited sex maniac, a mute moron, a bullshit artist and a Leftist agitator.
I had created the options u
nder the influence of marijuana, which I had smoked for half an hour as the result of an option created under the influence of alcohol, which I had drunk because the dice - ad infinitum. My dicelife was getting out of control and the party for Dr. Krum was the climax. Dr. Mann's apartment manages to resemble both a funeral home and a museum. His servant, Mr. Thornton, a cadaver, opened the door that evening with all the warmth of a mechanical skeleton, removed Lil's coat, ignored her plunging neckline, said, `Good evening, Dr. Rhinehart,' as if Dr. Mann had just died, and led us down the hall - filled with portraits of famous psychiatrists - and into the living room.
Whenever I entered the room I was always surprised to find living people there. Jake was against a wall of bookcases in one corner talking with Miss Reingold (there to take notes for Jake), Professor Boggles (there because my dice had said to invite him and his dice had said to accept) and a couple of other, men, presumably world-famous psychiatrists. On an immense oriental couch in front of a Victorian fireplace sat Arlene, Dr. Felloni (who nodded her head rapidly at my appearance) and an elderly woman, presumably somebody's mother. Arlene was dressed as briefly as Lil and with a slightly more spectacular effect: her two luscious breasts made it look as if lovely white balloons had been stuffed into her dress from above but threatened to float out at any moment. In easy chairs opposite the couch were an elderly, retired big deal I vaguely knew, a chubby woman, presumably 'somebody's wife and a small man with a tiny pointed beard, slump-shouldered yet intense: the Dr. Krum I knew from photographs.
Dr. Mann greeted us wineglass in hand, his face slightly flushed with glory, worry and booze, and led us toward the women and Dr. Krum. I shook the tiny die in a specially built watchcase in my pocket, eased it out and glanced at the result to discover which of the six roles I was now to play for ten minutes or so.
`Dr. Krum, I'd like you to meet a former student and colleague of mine, Dr. Lucius Rhinehart,' said Dr. Mann. `Luke, this is Dr. Krum.'
`Dr. Rhinehart, a pleasure, a pleasure. Your work I have not read but Dr. Mann says highly of you.'
Dr. Krum shook hands with short emphatic stabs and bared his teeth in an exaggerated grimace as he looked confidently up into my face, looming nearly a foot above him.
`Dr. Krum, I'm speechless. I never hoped to meet a man who'd done such work in my own lifetime. I'm deeply, deeply honored.'
`It's nothing, nothing. In a few years, then I will show you my dear, delighted, delighted.'
He bowed slightly to, Lil and clicked his heels as he shook her hand with two quick pumps. He looked up at her and then at me with a pleased, flushed face.
`Such lovely ladies this evening, lovely ladies. I regret verking with chickens.'
He laughed.
`Dr. Krum, your loss is the world's gain.'
As I said this, Lil glanced briefly at me, raised her eyes ceiling-ward and turned to talk to Jake, who had edged to the outskirts of our group. Arlene was sunk into the couch smiling up at me and I smiled broadly back at her.
`You're terrific, Arlene, you really are. You look sexier every time I see you.'
She flushed prettily. `Who are you tonight?' she asked nonchalantly, sitting up a bit straighter and inflating her balloons.
`Just terrific, Arlene, you really are. I don't understand, Dr. Krum, these women, why they try to distract us when we want to talk about your work.'
Dr. Krum, an elderly has-been named Latterly and I were all looking with dazed grins at Arlene until I turned to Dr. Krum and said: `Your ability to isolate variables amazes me.'
`My verk, my verk.'
He turned to me, shrugged his shoulders and stroked his tiny beard. 'I'm verking now with pigeons.'
`The whole world knows,' I said.
`Knows what?' asked Jake, joining us with a Scotch for me and some purple something for Dr. Krum.
`Dr. Krum, I trust you know my colleague, Dr. Ecstein.'
`Of course, of course, the accidental breakthrough. Ve met.'
`Jake is probably the finest theoretical analyst practicing in the United States today.'
`Yoah,' said Jake without expression. `What were you talking about?'
`Dr. Krum has moved to pigeons and the whole world knows.'
`Oh yeah. How's it going, Krum?'
`Good, good. We haven't induced schizophrenia complete yet, but the pigeons are nervous.'
He laughed again, a quick ratatat-tat hehheh-heh.
`Have you tried injecting 'em with that chicken stuff - that psychotic stuff - you discovered?' Jake asked.
`Oh no. No. It has no effect on pigeons.'
`What methods of inducing schizophrenia in your subjects have you tried after the failure of your cubical maze?'
I asked.
`Presently ve teach homing pigeons to find home. Then ve move pigeon long vay avay and move the home. Pigeon gets very vorried.'
`What problems have you encountered?'
I asked.
`Ve lose pigeons.'
Jake laughed, but when I glanced at him he cut it short and squinted nervously at me. Dr. Krum stroked his beard, focused his eyes intently on my knees and went on.
'We lose pigeons. It is nothing. Ve have many pigeons, but chickens could not fly. Pigeons are smart but ve may have to remove their vings,' he frowned.
Dr. Mann joined us, glass in hand, Jake asked a question and I removed my watchcase and glanced at the single die for a second role.
The tall, gaunt Mr. Thornton arrived, dispensing tiny hors d'oeuvres, crackers with minute pearl-like deposits on them like fish eggs waiting to be fertilized. Each of my three colleagues mechanically took one, Jake downing his in a swallow, Dr. Mann briefly holding his under his nose and then chewing it for the next ten minutes and Dr. Krum taking an intense experimental bite, like a chicken pecking at seed.
`Dr. Rhinehart?'
Mr. Thornton asked, holding the silver tray and its obscene deposits up toward my chest where I could see it.
`Ununununun,' I vibrated noisily, my lower lip hanging sloppily and my eyes attempting an animal vacancy. With my huge right paw I swept up and clutched six or seven crackers, almost upsetting the tray, and stuffed them into my mouth, pieces falling in a splendid dry waterfall down my shirtfront to the floor.
A flicker of human surprise crossed for a millisecond the erased face of Mr. Thornton as he looked into my vacant gaze and watched me chew ineptly, a bit of moist semi-chewed cracker dangling briefly from my lip before falling forever to the deep brown rug below.
`Unununun,' I vibrated again.
'Thank you, sir,' said Mr. Thornton and turned to the ladies.
Dr. Krum was emphatically stabbing the air in front of Dr. Mann's stomach as if performing some magic rite before making an incision.
`Proof! Proof! They do not know the meaning of the verd. They raise money with bribes, they are bankers, barbarians, businessmen, beasts, they-'
`Shit, who cares?' interrupted Jake. `If they want to get rich and famous, let 'em. We're doing the real work.'
He squinted at me; or was it a wink? `That is true. That is true. Scientists like us and businessmen like them have nutting in common.'
'un unun,' I said, looking at Dr. Krum, my mouth half open like a fish gasping wide-eyed on the deck of a ship. Dr. Krum looked up at me seriously and respectfully and then stroked his beard three, four times.
`There are two classes of men: the creators and the - how you say - drudges. Is possible to tell immejetly creators. Immejetly, drudges.'
`Ununununun.'
`I do not know your verk, Dr. Rhinehart, but from the moment you speak to me, I know, I know.'
`Unnh.'
`Dr. Rhinehart has the brains all right,' Dr. Mann said. `But he's got a writing block. He prefers to play games. He expects every article to surpass Freud.'
`He ought, he ought. Is good to surpass Freud.'
`Luke's got a book in the works about sadism,' said Jake, `which may make Stekel and Reich read like Grandma Moses.'
; It was a wink.
They all three looked up expectantly at me. I continued to stare vacant-eyed, mouth agape, at Dr. Krum. There was a silence.
`Yes, yes. Is interesting, sadism,' Dr. Krum said, and his face twitched.
`Unnnnnnnh,' I vibrated, but steadier.
Jake and Dr. Krum looked at me hopefully while Dr. Mann took a graceful sip of his wine.
`You have been verking lung on sadism?'
I stared back at him.
Dr. Mann suddenly excused himself and went to greet three more arrivals at the party, and Arlene took Jake's arm and whispered something in his ear. He turned reluctantly to talk to her. Dr. Krum was still looking at me. I was only half conscious of the conversation; I was focused on the crumb in his beard.
`Unununun,' I said. It was a little like a faulty transformer.
`Vunderful - I thought myself of experimenting with sadism in chickens, but is rare. Is rare.'
Dr. Mann returned with two other people, a man and a woman, and introduced them to us. One was Fred Boyd, a young psychologist from Harvard I knew and liked, and the other was his date, a plump, pleasant blonde with a creamsmooth complexion - a Miss Welish. She reached out her hand when she was introduced to me, and when I failed to grasp it, she blushed.
Looking at her I said: `Ununununun.'
She blushed again.
`Hi, Luke, how's it going?' asked Fred Boyd. I turned to him blankly.
`How did Herder do with his grant application to Stonewall?' Dr. Mann asked Fred.
Not so good,' Fred answered. `They wrote that their funds are tied up this year and '
`Is that the Dr. Krum?' a voice asked at my elbow.
I looked down at Miss Welish and then over at Dr. Krum. The crumb was still in his beard, although better hidden now.
'Blnnh,' I asked.
'Fred thinks so too,' Miss Welish said and she turned us aside from the other conversation. `He says one reason he admires you is that you don't stand for any nonsense.'
Impulsively I lifted one great paw and dangled it loosely over her shoulder. She was wearing a silver, high-necked dress and the shimmering scales were rough against my wrist.