Doc: Hello William. Always a pleasure to meet with you. Write anything since our last meeting?

Bill: Just checks to you.

Doc: I suppose that’s a start

Bill: So I’m cured then? Can I leave? I’m in desperate need of a drink.

Doc: No, you have to stay at least 30 minutes or I get to report you and you’ll be thrown in jail again. 

Bill: Is that how it works?

Doc: Yes it is.

Bill: Would you rat on me?

Doc: Of course I would….with relish actually. I get a bonus for everyone that runs off.

Bill: You enjoy your job don’t you?

Doc: Only because of people like yourself. Now sit down and relax.

Bill: I don’t want to sit down. I sit all the time. I’m a writer, remember?

Doc: I read somewhere the Hemingway wrote standing up.

Bill: Really?

Doc: Yes…standing up he wrote with pencils.

Bill: I wouldn’t put too much stock in that. Hemingway was a crazy bastard.

Doc: So…what is it you do for a living again?

Bill: I’m a playwright.

Doc: I’ve heard something to that effect. The last play you wrote was in 1963 was it not?

Bill: Good play…

Doc: Can’t say I’ve had the privilege

Bill: What?

Doc: Never seen it

Bill: You’re kidding

Doc: No 

Bill: Read it?

Doc: Sorry, no

Bill: You’re my analyst!

Doc: Yes….so they tell me

Bill: And you’ve never seen my most famous play?

Doc: No

Bill: It won all kinds of awards

Doc: Congratulations

Bill: It might help if you read it.

Doc: Help what

Bill: Help you to understand me

Doc: Really?

Bill: Don’t you think?

Doc: You wrote it 40 years ago…I’m sure you’re a different person by now

Bill: What if I’m the same person. It’d save us a lot of time.

Doc: If you were the same person you would have written another play.

Bill: How’d you figure?

Doc: The person who wrote that successful play was a playwright…and apparently a good one.

Bill: ….and?

Doc: The man in front of me is an alcoholic has-been looking at real jail time for throwing airline food at the back of a stewardess’ head.

Bill: That bitch. Don’t get me started on her. 

Doc: That’s an interesting story I’m sure….

Bill: I’m gonna write something about that…set the record straight.

Doc: Let me know when that baby opens in New York…..

Bill: That doesn’t mean I’m not still a playwright! I’ve got awards on my wall!

Doc: No, you don’t. According to the notes I have you sold all your awards for booze money.

Bill: Did I?

Doc: Yes, about 10 years ago.

Bill: Well….they’re only pieces of paper anyway. It’s still in the history books.

Doc: Ok, sure, but the fact that you haven’t written a thing since 1963 tells me at least that you have ceased being a writer of any kind. 

Bill: I’ve written plenty

Doc: Like what?

Bill: I’m in the middle of a new play right now.

Doc: I want to read it.

Bill: Why do you want to read this and not my first one?

Doc: I don’t want your new work to be tainted by the past….

Bill: It’s not done.

Doc: When will it be done?

Bill: Soon. Half way there.

Doc: How many words in a full length play?

Bill: Wha?

Doc: How many words in that 1963 play of yours?

Bill: About 12,000 or so.

Doc: Ok (getting calculator). So that’s about 14,600 days since 1963….and you are half done with another play. That means you’ve written about a half a word per day since then…..and I can expect the finished play by 2043. Interesting work ethic you have. Catholic I presume?

Bill: Well, I never worked weekends….but there’s more to it than that!

Doc: Is there?

Bill: Yes, there is!

Doc: What then?

Bill: My first play is being performed somewhere in the world all the time. Money keeps coming in.

Doc: Rolling in eh?

Bill: Yes.

Doc: Small wheels if you have to hoc your awards for booze.

Bill: Yea well….you get the occasional dry patch. The theater is in trouble you know.

Doc: Really? Why?

Bill: A lack of new plays. Same shit being done time after time.

Doc: What about your next play?

Bill: It’s not finished. I told you.

Doc: I don’t want to talk about your first play.

Bill: That’s only because you’ve never seen it.

Doc: Were you spoiled by your Mother?

Bill: What?

Doc: Your Mother….you know. The one who is responsible for your being here giving me a headache.

Bill: We’re gonna talk about my Mother now?

Doc: You’re in therapy. It’s part of my checklist.

Bill: My mother is dead.

Doc: Yes, so is mine.

Bill: Sorry to hear that.

Doc: It’s ok. No one here gets out alive you know.

Bill: My mother was a saint.

Doc: Did she spoil you?

Bill: Yea…I guess so. Why?

Doc: Just wondering.

Bill: Does it mean something?

Doc: What?

Bill: My mother spoiled me. Does it mean something…you know…analytically?

Doc: I have no idea.

Bill: Well what did you ask me for then?

Doc: Curious. 

Bill: You must have finished at the top of your class…

Doc: In the middle actually. Did what I had to to get by. I know some who were at the top of the class not doing half as well as I am now.

Bill: Funny. I know guys who couldn’t hold my fucking pen making millions in Hollywood.

Doc: How does that make you feel?

Bill: Why are you asking….’cause if you’re just curious and ain’t gonna write down my answer then I’ll save my breath.

Doc: I don’t write anything down really. I just try to listen.

Bill: Where is the couch anyway?

Doc: Couch?

Bill: Aren’t I supposed to by lying on the couch while you show me naked pictures or something?

Doc: Nah….that stuff only happens in the movies. Writers like you are responsible for perpetuating that stereotype.

Bill: I already told you…..I never wrote for Hollywood.

Doc: And how does that make you feel?

Bill: You are good…you know that? But first you tell me that I’m no longer a writer, and then you say "writers like you". Can’t have it both ways Doc.

Doc: You are pretty good yourself.

Bill: I’ve got some brain cells left.

Doc: Do you want to be famous?

Bill: What?

Doc: Is that your ultimate goal…or would you rather just do good work?

Bill: To be famous in Hollywood means legalizing prostitution in your soul.

Doc: Whoa…

Bill: What….

Doc: That’s something only a writer would say.

Bill: I keep telling you. You should see my first play…

Doc: Ok, one step forward, 2 steps back. Do you enjoy living in the past?

Bill: Vices were cheaper 30/40 years ago.

Doc: Gas was cheaper too….but you couldn’t find any. Why harp on the past so much?

Bill: I was somebody then…a respected playwright.

Doc: What are you now?

Bill: Err…I’m still a respected playwright….but..

Doc: No, you’re not. You’re the town buffoon.

Bill: That’s a bit harsh. Am I paying for this?

Doc: Respected playwrights write plays. Arthur Miller has written dozens and dozens of plays. Albee the same.

Bill: Did you ever see any of their plays?

Doc: Yes.

Bill: But you never saw mine?

Doc: No, I waiting for your new one…..if I live that long.

Bill: I’m every bit as good as them.

Doc: You’ve only written one play. 

Bill: I’d love to talk to you about it….but apparently you’ve been too busy kissing Arthur Miller’s ass to see it.

Doc: Did your father ever hit you?

Bill: What?

Doc: With a belt…or a fist maybe?

Bill: This part of the checklist too?

Doc: I gotta ask.

Bill: Yes, he used to hit me when he was drinking sometimes.

Doc: Your father drank did he?

Bill: He was a Jesuit.

Doc: Churchgoer?

Bill: Of course.

Doc: See any inherent contradiction there?

Bill: Where?

Doc: A pious churchgoing drunk who beat you because he was jealous of the attention you got from your mother.

Bill: I never said he was pious. I just said he went to church!

Doc: Sorry.

Bill: He didn’t beat me. I just said he’d hit me sometimes when he got drunk.

Doc: He get drunk as often as you do now?

Bill: I haven’t had a drink in 27 days.

Doc: How many stints in rehab have you done?

Bill: Seven or eight, not sure.

Doc: You plan on drinking when you get out of here?

Bill: Of course. 

Doc: Most drunks are liars. I applaud you for your honesty.

Bill: That’s what critics used to say about my writing. That it was so honest.

Doc: Why aren’t they saying that now?

Bill: What?

Doc: You said that’s what critics used to say. Why aren’t they saying that you’re writing is so honest now? Could it be because you’ve written half a word a day for the past 40 years?

Bill: If my father was here with a bag on he’d kick your ass right now.

Doc: Where is your father?

Bill: Dead and buried. The prick.

Doc: What did he die of?

Bill: Drank himself to death really. His liver turned into a watermelon.

Doc: What do you suppose your liver looks like these days?

Bill: Not sure. Can’t see the liver from the outside. Didn’t you learn that in school?

Doc: Your Dad see your play?

Bill: My first play?

Doc: I’m sorry, is there another?

Bill: Oh….er…no he didn’t.

Doc: Was he alive then?

Bill: Yea, he was.

Doc: Why didn’t he see it?

Bill: I don’t know. Maybe he was over watching "Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf" with you instead.

Doc: Still pissed about it eh?

Bill: I don’t care.

Doc: How about your Mom. Did she see it?

Bill: My mom was dead. She never took a drink in her life and that prick outlived her by 10 years. Believe that shit?

Doc: Why didn’t your Mom leave your Dad if he beat you?

Bill: I told you, he didn’t "beat" me. Stop watching TV would ya. He’d get drunk and smack me sometimes. Besides…the parish priest was armed back then and would shoot any couple that tried to separate.

Doc: Was that a Jesuit thing?

Bill: What the fuck now! You go from my drinking buddy to Sigmund Freud and back again. You’re supposed to help me and all I want to do is kill you and drink a bottle of scotch.

Doc: That’s good.

Bill: Which part?

Doc: Your anger has to come out. Anger at your Father for his sins…at your Mother for not protecting you. It’s all got to come out….even if you have to kill me. The scotch part is not my problem.

Bill: All of this is in the play

Doc: Your new play?

Bill: No, my first one. 

Doc: You write about your parents?

Bill: Not directly….but they’re in there

Doc: Maybe that’s why your Dad didn’t see it. Maybe he didn’t want to see himself..warts and all…onstage.

Bill: Or maybe he was piss drunk and never made it to the theater.

Doc: Why didn’t you take them on head on?

Bill: What do you mean?

Doc: You said you wrote about them indirectly. Why not go for the jugular?

Bill: This is drama. You never write what you mean.

Doc: You lost me.

Bill: Like your butt buddy Arthur Miller. He wrote "The Crucible" right? About the Salem witch trials. But it was really about the McCarthy witch hunts of the 1950s. He used the Salem trials as a metaphor.

Doc: Why did he do that?

Bill: Ask him. 

Doc: I can’t. He’s not stuck in a rehab clinic and forced to come see me under penalty of jail time.

Bill: Better press agents is all….

Doc: If he wanted to write about McCarthy and communists why didn’t he just write about McCarthy and communists?

Bill: They probably would have thrown him in jail if he did.

Doc: Did the play win any awards?

Bill: You mean awards like my play did? No, it didn’t.

Doc: So based on that….your play was better.

Bill: Yes…based on that….yes.

Doc: You ever meet Arthur Miller?

Bill: Yes, I did.

Doc: What’s he like?

Bill: He’s married Doc. Sorry. Maybe I can get you a glossy though.

Doc: You jealous of him?

Bill: Only that he banged Marilyn.

Doc: You never banged Marilyn?

Bill: No….she died before I could get to her. 

Doc: What about your kids?

Bill: My kids? If I didn’t bang Marilyn, do you really think my kids could have?

Doc: No no, tell me about them.

Bill: What do you want to know?

Doc: Do they love you?

Bill: Oh Jesus…I think I will lie down.

Doc: How old are they now?

Bill: They’re both grown.

Doc: Do you see them?

Bill: When they’re broke I see them all the time.

Doc: How often are they broke?

Bill: Not very often anymore….thank God.

Doc: So you’re glad that you don’t have to see them?

Bill: No!

Doc: That’s what you just said.

Bill: And you people wonder why I drink. It’s hot in here. Turn the heat down.

Doc: I don’t control the heat in here.

Bill: Who does?

Doc: The office down the hall controls the heat for the whole floor.

Bill: So my analysts’ comfort is at the mercy of some bureaucratic flunky?

Doc: Very well put actually.

Bill: Jesus Christ, they’ve sent me to the second team.

Doc: That’s not very nice.

Bill: Sorry Doc.

Doc: What do your children do?

Bill: You mean work?

Doc: Um…yea, I guess so.

Bill: They don’t work. They’re actors in New York.

Doc: You don’t consider acting work?

Bill: Are you kidding?

Doc: Just wondering.

Bill: Gravedigging is work. Reading someone else’s lines while trying to not knock over the furniture is eternal adolescence.

Doc: Interesting.

Bill: There you go again.

Doc: What?

Bill: Acting like the shit I’m saying is so fucking enlightening.

Doc: Maybe it is.

Bill: Well tell me what it means then.

Doc: What what means?

Bill: What I just said about actors.

Doc: It means you don’t like actors.

Bill: And?

Doc: And what?

Bill: What else?

Doc: This isn’t a tarot card reading. How the hell should I know what it means?

Bill: I’m not sure I ever sobered up.

Doc: You had to deal with actors with your first play….

Bill: Yes, they are a necessary evil.

Doc: They must have represented you well then.

Bill: Oh please…..you sound like you write for the New York Times. Represent me. They didn’t give a shit about me. They’re all a bunch of wankers.

Doc: Your sons are wankers?

Bill: I didn’t say that.

Doc: You said actors are wankers….and your sons are actors too. Very interesting.

Bill: Now cut that shit out!

Doc: Tell me….why do you drink?

Bill: Because heroin is too expensive.

Doc: Even your bitterness is contrived.

Bill: Now we’re getting somewhere!

Doc: It’s the root of all your problems you know.

Bill: Bitterness?

Doc: Drinking.

Bill: So if I didn’t drink I wouldn’t be so bitter?

Doc: Precisely.

Bill: I would also be the world’s most boring human being.

Doc: What’s wrong with that? It’s better than being the world’s biggest asshole isn’t it?

Bill: Everybody notices when you’re an asshole. Nobody does when you’re boring.

Doc: Everybody would notice if you wrote another prize winning play too…or are you saying that you have to be an asshole to do that?

Bill: Have you known many writers?

Doc: Actually, you’re my first.

Bill: Little slip there Doc. You admitted I was a writer. Anyway, we’re ALL assholes.

Doc: In that case I’m glad you’re the only writer I’ve had to deal with.

Bill: Oh, cmon. You must get assholes in here all the time.

Doc: Actually, most of the folks I talk to are genuinely nice people who are desperately trying to put their lives back together. You’re the first asshole I’ve had in a while.

Bill: Glad I could break up the monotony for you.

Doc: Why are you so afraid?

Bill: Afraid of what?

Doc: A first year psych student could tell that you fear failure as much as you fear success.

Bill: How can you tell then?

Doc: Your initial success has paralyzed you. You’re like a deer caught in headlights.

Bill: I wish I was…then this Freudian bullshit would end with the roadkill.

Doc: Professionally, you’ve never failed. You struck gold right out of the gate. You’re like Chuck Berry now.

Bill: Chuck Berry?

Doc: Yea…Sweet Little Sixteen. Johnny B Goode. The man is pushing 80…..singing the same old song. He never HAD to write anything else….so he was creatively dead in his 30s. He figured he could never top Johnny B Goode…so why even try? Especially when there was money to be made. What if he tried something new? What if he pushed the envelope some? We might not remember him for the right reasons anymore. We might remember him as the has-been who released a disco record or something.

Bill: Chuck Berry never drank.

Doc: No, but he put hidden camera’s in the woman’s bathrooms of restaurants that he owned. It’s the same thing. 

Bill: Really? That’s interesting.

Doc: When you’re not working, you have to fill your time up somehow. Rock and Rollers go for the women…and ex-writers go for the booze. It’s all so cliché-ish. Makes my job easy. It’s like playing connect the dots.

Bill: We like the woman too ya know.

Doc: I suspect finding booze would be less work for you.

Bill: You’re getting warmed up now aren’t you?

Doc: You an only child?

Bill: What do you think?

Doc: Of course you’re an only child. Anybody who had to share toys would not act like you.

Bill: My mother wouldn’t have had any love left over for anyone else.

Doc: You were that irresistible were you?

Bill: Truth hurts don’t it?

Doc: If you were so damn lovable why did your father use you as a punching bag?

Bill: He was a drunk asshole.

Doc: You’re a drunk asshole and you don’t beat on your kids.

Bill: How do you know?

Doc: Because you would have told me. You couldn’t keep something like that from me. It has too much dramatic potential.

Bill: You’re making me uncomfortable now.

Doc: Good. You’re a damn drama queen you are. Like Joan Crawford. "look at me look at me look at me". If you were born an animal you’d want to be in the zoo.

Bill: Yea? What animal would I be?

Doc: What’s your favorite?

Bill: Dogs

Doc: They don’t keep dogs in zoos. You’ll have to pick something else. How about a gorilla? They’d stick a banana up their ass to get people to stare at them….but once they’ve got your attention, they don’t know what to do. That sound familiar?

Bill: Somehow I never thought I’d be compared to a gorilla by a licensed therapist.

Doc: Welcome to the 21^st century. It ain’t 1963 anymore.

Bill: Were you happier back then?

Doc: I don't remember the 60s at all really. Drugs you know......

Bill: No, I mean generally like……when you were younger.

Doc: I don’t think about it much.

Bill: Well think about it now. We’ve got 10 minutes or so left.

Doc: I don’t want to think about it. It’s useless thought. That’s what worry is.

Bill: Who said anything about worry?

Doc: The only time we think about the past is when we’re worrying about something now. And we idealize the past….as if when we were there we never thought about anything but the present. You get my meaning?

Bill: No.

Doc: Yes you do.

Bill: But you got to idealize something….don’t you Doc? I was on top of the world back in 1963. Some punk kid from some shit town…still wiping my nose on my shirt….I get plucked off the ground by the stork and dropped in the middle of Broadway…a newborn. I started spending time with people who were just getting dressed to go out when I was getting ready for bed. I started ordering something other than a burger and fries from the menu….not because I wanted to….but because I couldn’t find burger and fries on the menu. It now had a different, fancier name…..and I was too scared to ask what it was.

Doc: Oh Jesus, you’re not gonna tell the "seduced by New York" story are you? Why isn’t anybody ever seduced by Des Moines?

Bill: People like you are seduced by Des Moines. 

Doc: But I’ve never had anybody seduced by Des Moines come to my office for throwing food at the back of a stewardess’ head. So I guess it works both ways. You’re terrified that people may forget what you were…..by finding out what you’ve become. Look at you. You’re a drunk…..living off the past like some broken down prizefighter. 

Bill: Living off the past is pathetic Doctor. Living in the past is something else entirely. I prefer the latter. All my friends are there.

Doc: A thought just occurred to me.

Bill: Really? 

Doc: Yes.

Bill: You gonna share it with me?

Doc: You’re probably too water logged to process it.

Bill: Is it about me?

Doc: Yes, it is.

Bill: Well, then I want to know.

Doc: That makes sense. If it was about anybody else you wouldn’t give a shit.

Bill: You always get nastier at the end of a session.

Doc: Do you believe in God?

Bill: I was raised a Jesuit

Doc: I didn’t ask you about your politics….

Bill: Of course I believe in God.

Doc: He gave you a gift…..an ability to shape people’s thoughts by the way you shape your words. And for one brief moment, you used that gift….and actually changed people’s lives. I know it….because you changed mine.

Bill: What?

Doc: I’ve seen your play. Once off-Broadway in New York, and in a local production around here. It was devastating. You were every bit the equal of Arthur Miller..and probably better. You know….the more I think about the play, the more I think that it’s the most autobiographical thing I’ve ever seen…..it was like watching you undress or something. It made me question everything. I walked out of that theater with my head spinning. And every character you created…well I’ve seen them all today…you’re like some sort of sybillian composite.

Bill: Sybillian?

Doc: Yes. Sybil. Sissy Spacek. You know. Made up the word myself.

Bill: Met her a few times. Prettier in person. Good word. Can I use it for my next play?

Doc: Help yourself. Pity you couldn’t use it for your first.

Bill: That was a long time ago.

Doc: Not for you.

Bill: What if…..what if that gift you talk about is not a lifelong thing. I mean…couldn’t he take it away as quick as he gives it?

Doc: By turning you into a drunk, for instance?

Bill: That’s not what I meant.

Doc: This tortured artist thing has gone on for centuries. If you think it makes you some sort of lovable rogue….you’re wrong. You walk down the street, and people cross to get to the other side. You raise your glass in the barroom…maybe quote Shakespeare for all the other assholes…..and buy round after round. Your eyes twinkle but if anybody looks closer they’ll see that they’re just bloodshot. And when you finally keel over somewhere, they’ll all come and piss on your grave because they figure you’d take it as some sort of Shakespearean compliment.

Bill: You make it sound like self flagellation.

Doc: Well, that’s a Jesuit thing isn’t it?

Bill: You don’t think I’m smart enough to know what you’re telling me? Listen….being a drunk is easy. My father was one, and the man could barely tie his own shoes. It’s something to be good at when you’re not good at anything else. My mother watched someone she never really loved fall down and not even try to get back up. You know…(as father) "I’ve fallen and I can’t get up"….(now as mother) "Yea? Tell it to someone who gives a shit!" (now himself again)… because now she had me. She put all her faith in me….kept living for me….and then right when I was going to shine the light on her for all to see…..God took her. And so I said….."to hell with God". Screw him, you know? She was everything to me. And all of a sudden I’m the toast of the town with no rudder. The Jesuit boy went and hid in the closet somewhere…and I indulged myself in vices that you’ve never even heard of. And believe me….you can’t find what I found in Des Moines.

Doc: So what you want to know is……are you being spiteful in intentionally squandering your talent….or have you genuinely used up all that you were given?

Bill: You deduced that without taking any notes?

Doc: I’m as good at my job as you are at yours.

Bill: And what’s my job Doctor?

Doc: William…..you’re a writer.

Bill: Thanks Doc.

Doc: Well…that’s all we have time for today boys and girls. Same time next week?

Bill: Will I get arrested if I don’t show up?

Doc: Yes, you will.

Bill: Ok…will you have the answer for me then?

Doc: I wouldn’t count on it…no.

Bill: Ok. Well, I’ll see you then.

Doc: Stay busy.

Bill: You bet…
 
 

End of Play