and New Montgomery Streets, and the gargoyles came into view. Soon the entry was before me, the whiteness of the lobby: a bleach against the stain of my dark thoughts.
But then there came a shock.
A guard was stationed in the lobby!
The marble reception desk had been empty all these months, and now suddenly there stood a tall, well-built black man, wearing a black suit and tie, no insignia on him, but his stance and demeanor leaving no doubt that he was a security officer.
He turned as I entered; he stared at me. His skin was dark brown and smooth, his face absurdly handsome: a doo-wop crooner’s face, a teenage-idol sort of man. At the same time, there was something menacing in his look, all the more frightful because I could not precisely locate the threatening feature in his almost-pretty face. Perhaps it came from his bearing, which was erect and muscular, or his powerful-looking hands, which he held clasped before him.
You will sign in, sir, he said to me in a commanding bass, indicating the sign on the desk that said, “All Visitors Must Check In at Reception.”
But I am not a visitor, I replied. I am the tenant in Room 807.
I pointed to my name on the building roster that hung behind him.
He turned to it, then back to me, his face absolutely impassive. And for several seconds we stood beneath the ogling cherubs, he towering above me, as he weighed my veracity.
May I have identification, sir? he said.
I was affronted, yet frightened. I retrieved my university identification card. He looked at it, at me, then finally handed back the card.
Go on, sir, he said, his face still showing no emotion, waving me toward the elevator that had just arrived, which I entered guiltily, as if I truly were an imposter invading the building for illicit purposes.
My hands shook as I performed the delicate act of opening my office. I could barely control my breathing as I took my customary seat at the desk. My haven, my welcoming lobby with its whiteness and goodness—assailed! A hostile force had arrived without warning. I would have to pass by the man every day, twice in and twice out, including the luncheon I normally took in a nearby cafe. Perhaps I could arrive very early and leave very late, and not go out for lunch. But what were his hours? Did he come on duty at four in the morning, five, six, seven? Leave at four, five, six? And for what reason had he been hired in the first place? Perhaps there had been an incident, a robbery, a shooting—a murder!
In this manner did I prosecute my madness, pursuing it vigorously, for the fearful stories that had emanated from my radio seemed to have followed me to the office, where, in my absence, a sudden need for security had apparently appeared: murderers circling us, bombers plotting, kidnappers tracking their prey. With only the fiercest self-control could I calm myself. I told myself that all downtown buildings of any size had guards or receptionists; ours had been the odd one; and now we were simply like everyone else.
No sooner did I still myself when there arose yet another impediment to my peace. The sound machine was whirring; above its rustle came the clicks and hushes of Dr. Schussler’s Germanic speech—but what image of her should I hold? Again I was horridly double-minded, as I had been with the patient. Was this Dora a young woman of little experience, or the woman of a certain age I had first envisioned? Was there a long skirt or a mini; flat shoes or heels; flowing hair or bun? The two visions, each the inverse of the other, flashed in my mind like those double neon signs lighting one set of words, then another. I would go insane, I thought, if I could not pick one image—or perhaps construct a third possibility—in any case be released from this migrainous flashing in my head.
The old one! I decided. Nylon stockings—young women no longer wear nylon stockings. The slish and slide were the evidence! As for the consultation she was seeking, that did not mean she was a beginner, a young woman starting her practice. A therapist can be incompetent at any age—I, of all people, should know that. And slowly the old Dora Schussler reestablished herself, from the shoes and stockings up: sensible heels, nylons, mid-length skirt, blouse, face of a decent-looking woman of sixty, gray hair, bun.
I