Shrunk

                          by George Alec Effinger

                  Copyright 1989 by George Alec Effinger

     The psychiatrist looked up from his computer monitor.  "Well," he said
absently, "who haven't we heard from yet?"
     Mr. Lewis, the compulsive, raised his hand, brought it back down and
examined his narrow fingers for a moment, then raised it again.  "If you
remember, Dr. Gottlieb," he said, "at the end of the last session, I was
talking about my plan to regulate my behavior."
     "Were you really?" asked Dr. Gottlieb.  His attention was on his
monitor again.
     "I've been compulsive most of my life," said Lewis,  "ever since I was
twelve or thirteen years old.  Now I've drawn up a chart that I think may
help."
     The therapist frowned at the computer screen and shook his head.  "I'm
not sure I understand you fully," he said.
     "The chart is to keep track of how often I wash my hands.  To begin
with, I think I'll try to limit the behavior to twenty-five times per day.
Whenever I go into the bathroom and wash, I'll enter the time on the chart.
If I allow eight hours for sleep, that means that I must not wash my hands
more than once in any thirty-eight minute period.  If that works, then next
week I may try to reduce the allowance from twenty-five times to twenty.
And so on."
     Miss Rademacher, the phobic, was skeptical.  "I don't think you can
taper off neurotic behavior," she said.  "I mean, it doesn't work for
smoking, does it?"
     "What difference does that make?" said Lewis.  "There's no connection
at all.  I'm talking about compulsion here, not addiction."
     "I smoke, and I'm not addicted," said Mrs. Flink, the depressive.
     "You're kidding yourself," said Mr. Marshman, the kleptomaniac.  "If
you think you're not hooked, you're just kidding yourself."
     "That's all beside the point," said Lewis unhappily.  "The point is
that I'm trying to do something to help myself, something more than just
coming to group every Monday and listening to everyone else's problems."
     "Oh yeah, very commendable, Lewis," said Marshman.  He shook his head.
     "Do you think your little chart is going to help?" asked Mrs. Flink.
     "Of course I do.  Otherwise I wouldn't have put so much time into
making it."
     "You're sure?" said Miss Rademacher.
     "Sure, I'm sure," said Lewis hotly.  "Why aren't you people being more
supportive?  That's what we're all here for, isn't it?  Dr. Gottlieb, what
do you think?"
     "I don't know," he said, leaning far back in his executive's chair and
letting out a deep breath.  "I'm up to my armpits in quicksand and sinking
fast.  There's a tree limb high overhead, but no vines or anything hanging
from it.  Now there's a giant python slithering along the limb, looking
down at me hungrily.  I've tried everything.  The pocket lint doesn't work,
the package of Gummi flamingos doesn't work, I don't have the eight-track
tape anymore, and I can't get to the bottle of snake repellent on the other
side of the quicksand pool."
     "Shoot the python," said Miss Rademacher.
     Dr. Gottlieb turned his head to look at her.  "I'm surprised that you
play computer games, Miss Rademacher.  Anyway, I thought of that.  A
message came up saying 'Your puny .22 won't penetrate the python's thick
skull.'"
     "Shoot it anyway.  The bullet will stun the snake and it'll fall out
of the tree.  Then you can use it as a rope to haul yourself out."
     He leaned forward and typed in the command.  The computer played a
tinkly victory tune as it awarded him a few points.  Dr. Gottlieb smiled
broadly.  "Thank you, Miss Rademacher," he said.  "Thanks a lot."
     Lewis was getting angrier by the minute.  "I need to know if you think
my chart is a good idea, Doctor," he exclaimed.
     The psychiatrist glanced up.  "What?" he said.
     "My chart!  Is it a good idea or what?"
     Dr. Gottlieb shrugged.  "Whatever works for you."
     "Why can't you ever give me a straight yes or no answer?" cried Lewis.
"Why is it always--"
     "I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis," said Dr. Gottlieb, putting on his benevolent
doctor smile.  "We're all out of time for this week, but let's take this up
again at our next meeting.  It sounds as if you're connecting with some
genuine feelings here."
     "I'll show you genuine feelings!"
     "Next time, Mr. Lewis," said the therapist.  "Now if you'll all please
leave your payments with me.  Mr. Lewis, I believe you owe for last week as
well."
     The others were scribbling in their checkbooks.  Lewis glared at Dr.
Gottlieb for a moment, but soon felt helpless.  He couldn't successfully
assert himself against an authority figure.  That was one of the reasons he
was in the group to begin with.  He clenched his teeth and wrote out a
check to Dr. Gottlieb for fifty dollars.  He wondered how much longer he
would passively submit before he worked up the nerve to leave therapy.  He
was sure that the only reason he came back every week--and paid twenty-five
dollars for the privilege--was because he was afraid to hurt Dr. Gottlieb's
feelings.
     "Thank you, Mr. Lewis," said the psychiatrist, taking the check and
hiding it under the keyboard of his computer.  "Now remember, please try to
sell all the rest of your candy before your next private appointment on
Thursday."
     "Dr. Gottlieb," said Lewis, "I have several friends in therapy, and
they tell me that none of their doctors makes them sell candy."
     Dr. Gottlieb shrugged.  "There are many different schools of
psychoanalysis, as you know."
     "I hate ringing doorbells and telling total strangers that I'm selling
bars of candy for my psychiatrist.  It makes me feel foolish, like I'm back
in high school or something."
     "Hold that thought until Thursday, Mr. Lewis.  Maybe you'd like to
examine that area more closely."
     Lewis saw that Dr. Gottlieb was booting up another computer game, and
that further argument was useless.  He turned away and took a chair in the
waiting room.  Usually after the group meeting he gave a ride to Miss
Rademacher, but he had to sit in a chair and read a magazine or two until
she overcame her agoraphobia and could leave the doctor's office.
     "I'll be ready in a minute," said Miss Rademacher.  She already had
her coat and gloves on, but she sat down on an upholstered couch across
from Lewis.  She perched on the very edge of the cushion, tightly clutching
her purse in her lap with both hands.
     Lewis glanced at her, then picked up a magazine from the coffee table
and began browsing through the classified advertisements in the back.  The
pages were printed on coated stock, and they had a funny, slick feel as if
they had been oiled.  He frowned and looked at his fingers, then stood up.
"Sorry," he muttered, "just be a second."  He hurried down the short
hallway to Dr. Gottlieb's lavatory and washed his hands thoroughly three
times.
     When he came back into the waiting room, Miss Rademacher's face was
covered with a bright sheen of perspiration.  "Maybe we can go now?" she
said in a soft voice.
     "It's just down the elevator and out to my car," said Lewis.  "You'll
be home in ten minutes."
     "I should get some work done this afternoon," she said.  Miss
Rademacher was an attorney.  She took a deep breath and let it out
haltingly.  "I don't really feel like working, though.  I think I just want
to go home and soak in the tub for a while."  She mopped her forehead with
the back of one gloved hand and stood up.
     "I'll drop you wherever you want," said Lewis.  He opened the door to
the outside corridor, then examined his fingertips.  He fought down the
urge to run back and wash his hands again.
     "Then take me home, please," said Miss Rademacher.  "I've confronted
enough horror for one day."
     "But you barely said a word in group today."  Lewis walked with her to
the bank of elevators and pressed the call button.
     Miss Rademacher shrugged.  "For me, the accomplishment is just in
showing up.  Everything else is beside the point."
     The elevator arrived, and they stepped in.  Lewis pressed the button
for the first floor, then held his hand up to his eyes.  "I wish they'd
clean these things once in a while," he said.
     In the car on the way home, Lewis talked about his dissatisfaction
with Dr. Gottlieb, but Miss Rademacher was too terrified to keep up her end
of the conversation.  She sat pressed against the passenger door, making
small whimpering sounds.  After Lewis pulled into her driveway, she got out
and ran up the front stoop and into her house.
     Sometimes Lewis felt almost as much a prisoner of his own neurosis.
It was worst when, like now, he was still three days from his next private
session with Dr. Gottlieb, and he had almost run out of medication.  Dr.
Gottlieb refused to refill prescriptions at the Monday group meetings, and
somehow Lewis always came up short.
     Lewis thought about this as he put his car in the garage and went into
the house.  Could it mean that he was becoming dangerously dependent on Dr.
Gottlieb, that their relationship had crossed the line from patient-
therapist to something more distinctly wrong?  Lewis went into the bathroom
and looked at his unhappy reflection in the mirror on the medicine cabinet.
Then he opened the door and took out the small brown vials that represented
his first line of defense against the whole polluted world.  Two of the
vials were empty, and when he shook the third, two round, white
antidepressants made a lonely rattling sound.  He knew they wouldn't do
anything to help his immediate discomfort--they weren't tranquilizers,
after all--but he took one anyway.  It made him feel weak and a little
foolish.  He tossed the two empty vials into the wastebasket and tucked the
one with the single remaining pill in his shirt pocket.  Then he turned on
both taps and scrubbed his hands slowly and carefully.
     That night before bed, he had an argument with himself.  On one hand,
he might have a difficult time falling asleep if he didn't take the last of
the antidepressants.  Bedtime was when he was supposed to take them;
without them, he sometimes tossed and turned uncomfortably until dawn.  On
the other hand, if he took it now, he'd have nothing at all to rely on
through Tuesday and Wednesday.
     "I'll save it for an emergency," he said.
     "This is an emergency," he answered himself.  "This is just as bad as
anything that might happen tomorrow.  Take it now, or everything will just
get worse, so tomorrow's emergency will start at a higher level and turn
into a real horror."
     "No, it won't."
     "Yes, it will."
     He took the last pill, felt guilty about it, and drifted off into
restless sleep and uneasy dreams.  Tuesday was an anxiety-filled,
handwashing nightmare, and Wednesday was so terrible that Lewis had
difficulty even getting out of bed.  He had to bring a basin of water and a
bar of soap from the bathroom and put them on the bedside table.
     On Thursday, he arrived at his private session with Dr. Gottlieb in a
distraught state of mind.  Lewis felt that it was time to sever his
relationship with the psychiatrist.  Surely there were other therapists in
town who would be more attentive, and who would also be at least as
generous with their prescription pads.
     "I've brought back the rest of the candy," he said, sitting in the
black leather armchair facing the doctor's desk.  "I just can't sell it."
     Dr. Gottlieb was working on a large, detailed model of a World War Two
airplane.  He was frowning in concentration, and his fingers were covered
with glue and enamel paint.  "If you can't sell it," he said, not looking
up, "then you're responsible for paying for it yourself."
     "And I think it's time that I left therapy.  I should be getting more
out of this."  Lewis shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
     "Cement floor assembly into fuselage as shown," muttered the
psychiatrist.  He struggled with the plastic pieces.  "More?"
     "We don't seem to be working well together."
     "I'm not sure I understand you."
     Lewis took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to relax.  "It's
getting so that I dread coming to these sessions."
     "Can you elaborate on that?" asked Dr. Gottlieb.  The response sounded
automatic.  He searched through the box of parts.  "Machine gun mounts 42A
and 42B.  I just had them here a minute ago."
     "I'm beginning to have doubts about your competence."
     The psychiatrist smiled as he located the pieces.  "Are you saying
that for some special reason?"
     Lewis felt his stomach beginning to hurt.  "It's just that you never
seem to be listening to me."
     Dr. Gottlieb held the two machine gun mounts in one hand and opened a
bottle of gun-metal blue paint.  He dabbed a small paintbrush into the
bottle.  "You prefer to think that I never listen to you, don't you?"
     "Well, you haven't once looked at me since I've come in.  And my
compulsive behavior hasn't gotten any better at all."
     Dr. Gottlieb dropped the paintbrush and set the gun mounts down to
dry.  "Cement retainer 105 to pin on ring 74."
     "Would you help me find another therapist?" said Lewis softly.  He
winced as soon as the words were spoken.
     "You're determined to draw me into a confrontation."  The therapist
scattered unpainted parts on his desk, hunting for ring 74.
     "I want to leave therapy."
     "What would it mean to you if I agreed that you should leave therapy?"
     Lewis felt as if he were floundering in deep water.  "I just think
I've gotten all that I can from working with you.  And besides, I just
can't afford it any longer."
     "No?"
     "I don't have the money."
     "You really don't have the money?  Is that the real reason?"
     Never had Lewis wished so much that the hour would come to an end.
"Also, I'm moving to another city far away."
     "Apply cement to wings as shown.  Position engines on wings."
     "Minneapolis."
     "Uh huh," said Dr. Gottlieb.  "Well, you've made considerable
progress.  Would you like me to give you a referral in Minneapolis?"
     "Sure," said Lewis unhappily.  He wasn't moving to Minneapolis or
anywhere else.
     "Why don't you write your check for your final payment while I find
the referral?"  The psychiatrist glanced at his hands and frowned, then
wiped them on an old, paint-smeared rag.
     "Germs," whispered Lewis, as he filled in a check for $75 and put it
on the edge of Dr. Gottlieb's desk.  Then he stood up and idly began
reading the framed diplomas on the wall over a low bookcase.  Something
about one of the diplomas struck Lewis as odd.  For a few seconds he
couldn't put his finger on it, but then his eyes opened wide in surprise.
He left the office and went into the waiting room.  "Mr. Lewis?" called the
psychiatrist.  "Don't you want this address?"
     Lewis found the magazine he'd looked at after the Monday group session
and paged to the classified ads in the back.  "'College degrees given for
life experiences.  Class attendance not required.  Send for illustrated
brochure.  Neidert-Scowcroft University.  12544 N. Bulkley, Suite 154, Eau
Claire, Wisconsin.'"
     He was so furious that he forgot about how dirty the magazine had made
his hands feel.  He rushed back into Dr. Gottlieb's office and thrust the
magazine in his face.  "Neidert-Scowcroft University!" shouted Lewis.
"Your diplomas are from Neidert-Scowcroft University!"
     The psychiatrist slowly raised his eyes from his half-finished bomber.
"I got my B.S. from Neidert-Scowcroft," he said.
     "And this!" cried Lewis, pointing to another framed certificate.
"Neidert-Scowcroft School of Medicine.  You didn't actually go to any
classes, did you?"
     Dr. Gottlieb only shrugged.
     "All you did was send some money to Suite 154, right?  How long did
your college career last?"
     "I was in a special accelerated program," said the therapist.  He
didn't seem particularly upset by Lewis' discovery.
     "HOW LONG?"
     "I allowed four to six weeks for delivery."
     "You're a fraud!  You've conned me out of thousands of dollars!"
     "A fraud, Mr. Lewis?" said Dr. Gottlieb gently.  "May I point out that
you're expressing your anger very well.  When you first came to me two
years ago, you could not have reacted this way."
     Lewis was so furious that he frightened himself.  "I'll show you
reaction!" he said.  "You're in a lot of trouble now.  I'm going to tell
the others in the group about you."
     Dr. Gottlieb picked up Lewis' last payment, folded the check, and
slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit coat.  "That is your
privilege, of course," he said.  He turned his attention back to his model
airplane.
     Lewis turned and left the office.  His hands trembled as he gripped
the steering wheel on the drive home.  The first thing that he did was run
to the bathroom and wash his hands.  He felt as if there were an invisible
muck on his skin, and even after three stiff scrubbings he still didn't
feel clean.
     Finally, exhausted, he lay down on his living room sofa to rest.  He
remembered that he'd provoked the scene with Dr. Gottlieb before getting
refills on his prescriptions.  Well, he would have to learn to get along
without the medications.  At least until he found a legitimate therapist.
     Lewis found it impossible to relax.  He reviewed the scene with Dr.
Gottlieb, muttering improvements on his feeble condemnation.  Finally, he
got up and went to the telephone.  He called Mrs. Flink, the old woman in
the group who suffered from semi-annual neurotic depressions.
     "How nice of you to call, Mr. Lewis," she said warily.  "I have just
enough to get me through today and tonight.  I don't have a thing to
spare."
     "I'm not calling about that, Mrs. Flink."
     "You think you've got a worse problem than me.  Well, you just try
functioning in the real world, breaking down and crying for no reason every
other minute."
     "I know about depression, too, Mrs. Flink, but that's not why--"
     "You sit there in the group judging everybody.  You think the rest of
us should just pull ourselves together and act our age.  _You_ got
compulsive behavior, while _I've_ only got a mood disturbance.  That's what
you think.  A lot you know."
     Lewis held the receiver away from his ear for a few seconds and glared
at it.  "Mrs. Flink," he said finally, "I've got some rather disturbing
news."
     There was silence on the line for a moment.  "It isn't war again, is
it?" she asked in a hushed voice.
     "No, it isn't war, Mrs. Flink.  It's Dr. Gottlieb.  I found out today
that he isn't actually a doctor.  He's never really been to college or
anything."
     "Oh."  The old woman sounded greatly relieved.  "Well, then, I think
it's amazing how he's overcome a great obstacle."
     "You don't understand," said Lewis patiently.  "He's been swindling
us.  He doesn't know any more about therapy than we do.  He's probably been
doing all of us great harm."
     "I wouldn't say that.  I think he's a very nice man."
     Lewis glared at the phone again.  "It doesn't make any difference if
he's a nice man.  He's an impostor and a criminal.  I think we should take
him to court to recover the money we've paid him over the years."
     "What, are you crazy?" said Mrs. Flink.  "After all he's done for us?"
     "He hasn't done a damn thing!  That's the whole point!"
     "Are you sure you're just compulsive, Mr. Lewis?  Sometimes you sound
too violent to be just compulsive."
     Lewis struggled to get himself under control.  "I think we should all
get together and discuss what actions we're going to take.  I want to see
this Gottlieb guy behind bars."
     Mrs. Flink clucked her tongue.  "Well," she said airily, "do it
without me.  Dr. Gottlieb has never been anything but nice to me, and I'm
much happier since I started seeing him."
     "It's no wonder, Mrs. Flink.  He writes you so many prescriptions,
you're barely conscious.  Just think about what I've said."
     "I don't have to, young man.  I'm very grateful to Dr. Gottlieb, and I
won't have any part in hurting him."  She hung up the phone, and Lewis
stood there listening to the dial tone.  He set his own receiver down and
looked at his hand.  Somehow, talking to Mrs. Flink had left him feeling
soiled.  He went into the bathroom and soaped up his hands and forearms,
then rinsed in steaming hot water.
     When Lewis came back into the living room, he tried calling Miss
Rademacher next, but her line was busy.  Instead, he dialed Mr. Marshman's
work number.  "Yeah?" said Marshman.  He sounded annoyed.
     "This is Lewis, from the Monday afternoon group.  I've got some
information about Dr. Gottlieb that I think you should hear."
     "Listen, Lewis, I'm up to my armpits in receipts and excuses right
now.  I've got a guy in my office trying to tell me that for the last
twenty years, he's never heard of Self-Employment Tax.  Can you call me
back later?  In about six days, maybe?"
     Lewis had never liked Marshman, and he suspected that the feeling was
mutual.  He thought that Marshman might be a fake, seeking attention in the
group therapy sessions, rather than the resolution of his personality
problem.  After all, Marshman claimed to be a kleptomaniac, but Lewis had
never seen any evidence of it, not even some stupid little useless
knickknack from a dimestore.  "I'll be quick, but I really think you'll
want to hear what I've got to say."
     Marshman sighed.  "All right, Lewis, just a second."  He must have put
his hand over the mouthpiece, because Lewis heard only some distant,
muffled noises.  Then Marshman's voice returned.  "Now, what's so
important?"
     "Do you know where Dr. Gottlieb got his degree?"
     "Are you kidding?  What do I care where he got his degree?"
     Lewis was beginning to feel soiled again.  "From some mail-order
outfit in the back of a magazine.  He's not a real psychiatrist.  All these
years, he's been bilking us out of our money.  Not to mention the trust we
put in him."
     To Lewis' surprise, Marshman laughed.  "Trust, what trust?  I couldn't
care less."
     "Aren't you appalled?"
     "I don't see what you're getting so wild about, Lewis.  I'm getting
what I want from Dr. Gottlieb, even if he's never set foot on a college
campus.  And as long as I get what I want, it doesn't make any difference
to me what his background is."
     "What _do_ you want from him, Marshman?"  Lewis felt an anxiety attack
threatening, creeping up on him like a childhood monster from the closet.
     "Hey, he confirms that I'm a kleptomaniac, right?  That's what I want.
Suppose I go into a nice store and pocket a watch or some jewelry.  If they
don't catch me, fine, I'm ahead one expensive wristwatch.  If they catch
me, bingo, I'm not a thief, I'm a certified neurotic under a doctor's care.
I give back the watch and go home.  Either way, I can't lose."
     For a few seconds, Lewis couldn't think of anything to say.  He just
shook his head.  "Then I suppose you're not going to help me see that
Gottlieb is punished."
     "What," said Marshman in an astonished voice, "and kill the golden
goose?  Look, Lewis, I got to go.  This guy in my office is crying and
wiping his nose on his sleeve.  I'll talk to you some other time."
     Lewis hung up the phone and stared across the room, thinking.  For
some reason, he wasn't making the others see Gottlieb's crime as he saw it.
He dialed Miss Rademacher's number, but it was still busy.  He went to the
bathroom, washed his hands carefully, then went outside to the garage.
Maybe if he spoke to Miss Rademacher in person, he'd have better luck
making her see things his way.  He got in his car and drove to her house.
     He rang the bell for some time, but she didn't come to the door.  He
guessed that she was still at home, because her car was in the driveway and
Miss Rademacher was not the kind of person to get up on the spur of the
moment and take a leisurely walk through the neighborhood.  "Hello?" he
called, knocking loudly on the front door.
     When at last she came, she only opened the door a couple of inches.
"Is that you, Mr. Lewis?" she asked.
     "Yes," he said.  "I've got something important to discuss with you.  I
was wondering if I could come in for a few minutes."
     She swung the door open wider and let him in.  "I suppose it's about
Dr. Gottlieb," she said.
     Lewis went past her, into her front room.  "How did you know?"
     "I just got off the phone with him.  Oh, please make yourself
comfortable.  Can I get you anything?"
     "No, thank you."  Lewis sat at one end of a sofa, and Miss Rademacher
sat opposite him in a wing chair.
     "His name isn't Gottlieb, you know," she said.  "It's Wimbley.  He
thought Gottlieb sounded more like a psychiatrist's name.  He was probably
right about that."
     "Did he tell you everything?  About his phony degrees?"  Miss
Rademacher nodded; Lewis was relieved that he didn't have to explain it all
to her.  "Then I'll just mention what I had in mind.  I think we should
file suit against him, to recover all our money.  I know that I've paid him
over $7000.  And there should be punitive damages, too."
     Miss Rademacher nodded.  "Dr. Gottlieb--Mr. Wimbley, I mean--told me
that you'd probably say that.  He mentioned possible legal action, and he
asked me to represent him."
     Lewis goggled at her.  "He had the nerve to ask you that!" he said.
     "Yes," she said.  "And I agreed."
     He exploded.  "How could you possibly--"
     She raised a hand.  "But let me finish.  I'm willing to make a deal
with you."
     "Miss Rademacher, I gave you credit for higher professional
standards."
     She gave him a brief, tight smile.  "He knows that you are the only
member of the group who will go ahead with a lawsuit.  I told him that I
could guarantee that he'd win, and that he wouldn't have to pay a nickel in
damages.  I also told him that I could protect him from any criminal
charges as well."
     Lewis could hardly believe what he was hearing.  "What kind of power
does he have over you?" he said sadly.
     "No power at all," said Miss Rademacher.  "If I'd told him anything
different, he'd flee, change his name, start all over again somewhere else.
I'm willing to make a deal with you, Mr. Lewis.  If I deliver Dr. Gottlieb
to you--if I lose the case and you are awarded damages--would you be
willing to split the money with me, fifty-fifty?"
     "Sure, I guess.  Isn't that unethical, though?  I mean, aren't you
supposed to do your best for your client?"
     "Oh," said Miss Rademacher, opening her eyes wide, "I will!  I surely
will do my best for him; but, you see, the one thing that Dr. Gottlieb
doesn't realize about me is that I've never actually passed the state bar
exam.  I've failed it three times."
     Lewis sat back, stunned.  "And how will you defend him from the
criminal charges?" he asked.
     "I can't," she said, shrugging.  "No one can.  He's broken enough
local, state, and federal laws to put himself away for a long time.  He
just thinks he's safe now, with me on his side."
     Lewis thought about all that for a moment.  He realized that even
though he had come into a stranger's house and touched her furniture, he
didn't feel the slightest urgency to wash his hands.  He felt better than
he had in many months.  "You know, Miss Rademacher," he murmured, "without
your glasses, you're beautiful!"