Demon Box

(The group sprawls on the sun-dappled lawn. Above is the acetylene sky. Down the cliffs behind them is the foamy maw of the Pacific. In front, seated at a shaded table with an empty chair opposite him, is a man in his late sixties. He has a bald pate, peeling from sunburn, and an unkempt billygoat beard. A cigarette droops from his mouth and a pair of tinted glasses sits slantwise on his nose.

(He removes the glasses. His eyes move from face to face until the group starts to squirm: then he begins to speak. The voice is aristocratically accented, but an unmistakable edge of contempt rings under the words, like the clink of blades from beneath an elegant cloak.)

Dr. W: So. Before I inquire if there is a volunteer who is willing to interface with me, I want to clarify my position. First, I want you to forget all you have heard about “Super Shrink” and “Charismatic Manipulator” and “Lovable Old Lecher,” etc. I am a catalyst; that is all. I am not your doctor. I am not your savior. Or your judge or your rabbi or your probation officer. In short, I am not responsible for you. If I am responsible for anyone it is for myself—perhaps not even that. Since I was a child people told me, Klaus, you are a genius. It was only a few years ago that I could accept what they said. This lasted maybe a month. Then I realized that I did not much care for the responsibility required to be a genius. I would rather be the Lovable Old Lecher.

(The group giggles. He waits until they stop.)

So. I am not Papa Genius but I can play Papa Genius. Or Papa God, or Mama God, or even the Wailing Wall God. I can take on the role for therapy’s sake.

My therapy is quite simple: I try to make you aware of yourself in the here-and-now, and I try to frustrate you in any attempt to wriggle away.

I use four implements to perform this therapy. The first is my learning and experience… my years. Second is this empty chair across the table, the Hot Seat. This is where you are invited to sit if you want to work with me. The third is my cigarette—probably irritating to some but I am a shaman and this is my smoke.

Finally, number four is someone who is willing to work with me, here and now, on a few dreams. Eh? Who wants to really work with the old Herr Doktor and not just try to make a fool of him?

Bill: Okay, I guess I’m game. (Gets up from the lawn and takes the chair; introduces himself in a droll voice.) My name is William S. Lawton, Captain William S. Lawton, to be precise, of the Bolinas Volunteer Fire Department. (Long pause, ten or fifteen seconds. ) Okay… just plain Bill.

W: How do you do, Bill. No, do not change your position. What do you notice about Bill’s posture?

All: Nervous… pretty guarded.

W

: Yes, Bill’s wearing quite an elaborate ceremonial shield. Unfold the arms, Bill; open up. Yah, better. Now how do you feel?

B: Butterflies.

W: So we go from the stage armor to stagefright. We become the anxious little schoolboy in the wings, about to go on. The gap that exists between that “there” in the wings and here is frequently filled with pent-up energy experienced as anxiety. Okay, Bill, relax. You have a dream that we can work with? Good. Is it a recent dream, or is it recurring?

B: Recurring. About twice a month I dream of this ugly snake, crawling up me. Hey, I know it’s pretty trite and Freudian but—

W: Never mind that. Imagine that I am Bill and you are the snake. How do you crawl up me?

B: Up your leg. But I don’t like being that snake.

W: It’s your dream, you spawned it.

B: All right. I am the snake. I’m crawling. A foot is in my way. I’ll crawl over it–

W: A foot?

B: Something, it doesn’t matter. Maybe a stone. Unimportant.

W: Unimportant?

B: Unfeeling, then. It doesn’t matter if you crawl over unfeeling things.

W: Say this to the group.

B: I don’t feel this way toward the group.

W

: But you feel that way toward a foot.

B: I don’t feel that way. The snake feels that way.

W: Eh? You’re not the snake?

B: I am not a snake.

W: Say to us all what you’re not. I’m not a snake, I’m not—?

B: I’m not…ugly. I’m not venomous, I’m not cold-blooded.

W: Now say this about Bill.

B: Bill’s not venomous, not cold-blooded—