Read Online A Good and Happy Child by Justin Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Justin Evans
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like an Ivy Leaguer’s way of saying ‘good.’
George, are you good?”
“What?”
“I said, are you good?”
“I don’t know! Of course. I mean, no one would walk around thinking they’re not good. By definition . . . I mean, even Hitler probably thought he was good. Inside his mind. Wouldn’t he? So even if I were a monster, and you asked me that question, I would say the same thing. I would say I was good. So yeah, by definition, I think I’m good.”
You regarded me a moment. “Are you comparing yourself to Hitler?”
“No! I was just trying to make a point.”
“It sounded like a defensive response. I asked you if you consider yourself a good person,” you said, “and you immediately compare yourself to Hitler. To a monster. I’m just pointing that out.”
I brooded.
“You’ve been thinking a lot about your own father lately,” you said, changing tacks. “Your notebooks are full of very strong feelings about him.”
48
J u s t i n E v a n s
I was momentarily stunned.
I had handed over a half dozen small spiral memo notebooks to you the week before, but it never occurred to me you would even open them, much less work your way through them. Each page was filled with line after line of scribble, in ballpoint, felt-tip, roll-tip pen, in black and blue ink, and stained with rings from where they’d been used as bedside coasters. In the margins were geometric doodles and a page of hastily jotted phone numbers of divorce lawyers whom I’d called and consulted, but never called back.
“You read them?”
“Absolutely. In fact I’m patting myself on the back—this is an outpouring. They’ve obviously touched a nerve. In addition to the inherent satisfaction of being able to read someone else’s journal,” you said with a wry smile, “it’s a fast track behind the veil. I mean, look at you. You come into my office. You wear an expensive suit, you work at a Fortune 500 company. You care what other people think about you. Take your comments today—it kills you that your in-laws are angry with you, right? I bet you write thank-you notes after every Sunday dinner.”
“So what?” I said, embarrassed.
You laughed.
“See? You have no problem expressing socially appropriate feelings of affection,” you continued. “But when it comes to expressing anger, fear, confusion . . . What was the word you used before? Paralysis. Misery.” You paused and fixed me with a look. “Now, I read those journals and I said to myself: Aha. George used to have a way of coping.”
“When?” I said, confused. “You mean, when I was a kid?”
“Have you ever heard,” you said, “of the idea of the shadow self?”
Sure, I told you. It was one of the Jungian archetypes—one of the symbols of the collective unconscious. That was pretty much all I remembered from college.
“Not bad. Do you know what function it plays, in analysis?” you asked. I shook my head. You continued. “The shadow is a frequent figure in dreams. It can appear as a kind of doppelgänger; an evil twin. It a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d
49
embodies our repressed desires. The dark stuff. The shameful stuff. The you-want-to-fuck-your-mother stuff.”
“I get the idea.”
“Do you?” you said. “Now, look at the memories from your journals. How do you interpret the hallucinations you had? The ones you had of ‘your friend’?”
“Hallucinations,” I repeated, distastefully. “I really don’t know. This is the first time I’ve really reflected on them.”
“Fair enough. Let’s examine them now. When you saw your
‘friend,’ he was a little boy, just like you. Only he was—how did you describe him? Scruffy? Like Huck Finn?”
“Right.”
“Tell me about Huck Finn.”
Taken aback, I answered the question straight. “He’s an orphan in Mississippi. He runs away from home and lives on Jackson’s Island with Jim, the runaway slave. They go fishing, um . . . they kill rattlesnakes, and in the end . .
George, are you good?”
“What?”
“I said, are you good?”
“I don’t know! Of course. I mean, no one would walk around thinking they’re not good. By definition . . . I mean, even Hitler probably thought he was good. Inside his mind. Wouldn’t he? So even if I were a monster, and you asked me that question, I would say the same thing. I would say I was good. So yeah, by definition, I think I’m good.”
You regarded me a moment. “Are you comparing yourself to Hitler?”
“No! I was just trying to make a point.”
“It sounded like a defensive response. I asked you if you consider yourself a good person,” you said, “and you immediately compare yourself to Hitler. To a monster. I’m just pointing that out.”
I brooded.
“You’ve been thinking a lot about your own father lately,” you said, changing tacks. “Your notebooks are full of very strong feelings about him.”
48
J u s t i n E v a n s
I was momentarily stunned.
I had handed over a half dozen small spiral memo notebooks to you the week before, but it never occurred to me you would even open them, much less work your way through them. Each page was filled with line after line of scribble, in ballpoint, felt-tip, roll-tip pen, in black and blue ink, and stained with rings from where they’d been used as bedside coasters. In the margins were geometric doodles and a page of hastily jotted phone numbers of divorce lawyers whom I’d called and consulted, but never called back.
“You read them?”
“Absolutely. In fact I’m patting myself on the back—this is an outpouring. They’ve obviously touched a nerve. In addition to the inherent satisfaction of being able to read someone else’s journal,” you said with a wry smile, “it’s a fast track behind the veil. I mean, look at you. You come into my office. You wear an expensive suit, you work at a Fortune 500 company. You care what other people think about you. Take your comments today—it kills you that your in-laws are angry with you, right? I bet you write thank-you notes after every Sunday dinner.”
“So what?” I said, embarrassed.
You laughed.
“See? You have no problem expressing socially appropriate feelings of affection,” you continued. “But when it comes to expressing anger, fear, confusion . . . What was the word you used before? Paralysis. Misery.” You paused and fixed me with a look. “Now, I read those journals and I said to myself: Aha. George used to have a way of coping.”
“When?” I said, confused. “You mean, when I was a kid?”
“Have you ever heard,” you said, “of the idea of the shadow self?”
Sure, I told you. It was one of the Jungian archetypes—one of the symbols of the collective unconscious. That was pretty much all I remembered from college.
“Not bad. Do you know what function it plays, in analysis?” you asked. I shook my head. You continued. “The shadow is a frequent figure in dreams. It can appear as a kind of doppelgänger; an evil twin. It a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d
49
embodies our repressed desires. The dark stuff. The shameful stuff. The you-want-to-fuck-your-mother stuff.”
“I get the idea.”
“Do you?” you said. “Now, look at the memories from your journals. How do you interpret the hallucinations you had? The ones you had of ‘your friend’?”
“Hallucinations,” I repeated, distastefully. “I really don’t know. This is the first time I’ve really reflected on them.”
“Fair enough. Let’s examine them now. When you saw your
‘friend,’ he was a little boy, just like you. Only he was—how did you describe him? Scruffy? Like Huck Finn?”
“Right.”
“Tell me about Huck Finn.”
Taken aback, I answered the question straight. “He’s an orphan in Mississippi. He runs away from home and lives on Jackson’s Island with Jim, the runaway slave. They go fishing, um . . . they kill rattlesnakes, and in the end . .
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