And this one was a face. Bald dome, tan, eggshell shiny. Ears like a pair of dangling socks. Pouchy eyes that were shrewd and sly and stained-wood brown. Wide bristle moustache. But a face, my God. Dr Krass had pendulous jowls that looked like a Macy's Parade balloon before they add the helium.
If only a mother could love his face, who can say? He was already old when I met him, so his mother must had gone out with high button shoes. But I'm sure his wife loved his face.
He'd been my shrink, the only one I ever had. Dr Krass. A friend recently said only I could have a shrink with that name.
He had an office out of an old house, the sweet type that from the outside looks like doilies are underneath everything. It was knocked down years ago. I was about 8 or 9, changing schools and perfectly maladjusted.
Like they say on cop shows, I'd been brought in for questioning. Well, for testing, to see if I should repeat a year in school. He tested me. I didn't repeat a year. But it was thought that I was a little undercooked, so why not leave me in the oven since I was already in there?
When you walked in the old house, clacking on an electric typewriter behind a grey metal desk, sat his secretary. Given a century, I could remember her name. I know she looked like Ichabod Crane's less jovial sister. But she kept a hell of a desk. Stacks of documents at right angles, pens at all the same lean, no dust. She even wore a cardigan in August against the hum of the air conditioner. Curt but kind, she'd remember your name and signal you to wait in the room beyond. The waiting room was tidy, and down some little steps.
WQXR was always lilting through the air, the elegant slicings of strings. Bach, Beethoven. Maybe even Rachmaninov, if things were getting wild. Being restless, I'd scope out magazines.
New Yorker or People. Some choice. The first one was dry as hell, with type small enough to make the page look grey. The cartoons could only be funny to folks who laughed with their mouths closed. The other magazine though was glossy spreads of Gods, bronzed and grinning, and each looking unconcerned about anything. I was always concerned about everything, so they were refreshing. I wondered where they lived that nothing mattered.
Then Dr Krass would appear atop those waiting room steps. A little tubby, glasses like a truck windshield. Usually in a well worn brown tweed jacket, indifferent red tie. A cheery, thick-lipped smile spreading those jowls. Bach squaring and zinging in the background.
He'd shake my hand, it always surprised me. For one thing, wasn't he like a principal or a cop or a disapproving teacher? Weren't you here because something was wrong? Why would that person shake your hand? You're not his friend. With friends, you have a choice. Also the handshake surprised me because I suspect he had no bones in his hand. It was like trying to grip a down comforter.
Into the office. Double doors, they broke in the middle and were padded with thick carpeting. Absorbing sound, you had to figure. Not that Miss Ichabod gave a damn what she heard, even if she could. Straying spouses, mixed up kids, the occasional glum alcoholic. Maybe she sought refuge in People Magazine too.
Dr Krass's office was a wide rectangle of cherry wood paneling. The carpet was tamped down thin, red and blue zigzags. There was handsome cabinetry custom built for the office, and in truth I think he'd built it himself. Woodwork was a hobby of his. A circular conference table by the street windows, and on the wall, in frozen flight, a stuffed pheasant. No wonder old kings and rich people like pheasants. The damn bird looks like them.
Dr Krass had shot it, had it mounted. I recall being fascinated by it, though not ever wanting to kill one or keep its carcass. Still it was fun, if you weren't the pheasant.
We would sit on the opposite end of the room. Either in a pair of blue leather wingback chairs, facing each other, or at his desk and with me to the side. I think it depended mostly on whatever cue I gave without realizing it. Maybe some days he just indicated one or the other and I just sat. Usually the desk though. It was a beauty. Ornately carved and glass top, with high baronial chairs. At his chair behind the desk, Dr Krass would be framed by three alcove windows. He'd slouch a bit and gain paunch. His forearms would land on the arm rests for the full perch and then he'd say with a wry sigh, "Alright, kid. Talk to me."
I didn't at first.
So Dr Krass sensed I was holding back. He might also have glanced at the gushing cracks in a dam and suspected there was water on the other side.
He went to the cabinetry. Some days he'd pull out a blue plastic ball and have me stand a few feet away from him and we'd bounce this blue ball between us. Juvenile. I thought so even then. A toss, a thud off the carpet, a fap as it landed in his squishy palm. Now the other way. Repeat. All the while, his windshield glasses trained on the blue ball, Dr Krass would talk about his own life. Growing up Jewish in Brooklyn, going to NYU, girls, learning to sail, girls on the sailboat.
Sometimes the ball stayed in the cabinet. He had a toy gun in there that shot flimsy darts with suction cups. It wasn't like more modern toys, where the tip was orange to distinguish it as a toy. This one all black and metal and had a gratifying click. We'd set a window pane as a target and take turns like it was a tournament. Dr Krass would talk about meeting his wife, his three sons, the dogs they'd had over the years.
Then again on some sessions, he would just pull a deck of cards from his lordly desk. A rapid deal, a light game. Go Fish, he called it. We would play at his desk. A give and take game, and when he didn't have a card I needed, Dr Krass would keep his eyes on his hand and drawl, "Go fish."
He never sounded sorry at all that he didn't have my card. It was more like a chummy go-to-hell. And I would laugh. I'd really laugh, and have to find my card elsewhere.
I never felt as if I frustrated him. I can't remember thinking he was just killing time until my mother picked me up, or working some psychotherapist's trick. I always felt as if he was playing cards with me.
And I started talking to Dr Krass.
Years later, and probably one of the last times I saw him, he was still behind that desk. A little saggier, a little lower in the baronial chair, and some more droop in the jowl balloons.
We were talking, long past the need for cards. He removed his windshield glasses and reached for the ever ready bottle of Windex. As he looked down and doused his glasses in blue cleaner, he seemed to stare deep into the fleshy welts beneath his own eyes. He sighed and pursed fat lips, and started wiping the glasses with a paper towel, in small efficient circles. Dr Krass hoisted them back on his nose. Then he wagged a chubby finger in my face and said, "Don't be a schmuck."
I laughed then too, but it was some of the best advice I've ever had. Covers a lot of ground.
Today Dr Krass came to mind and I've no clue why. So I looked him up. Last I knew he was still practicing, no interest in retirement, and was working on tests for early diagnoses of Alzheimer's and ADHD.
Today I found out Dr Krass died 2 years ago. He was 83.
That's how it goes I guess. It was a reflexive pang, after reading his obituary. You never like to find out someone you knew well has died, even if they did have a pretty long and productive life.
No. He knew me well, better than I knew him. But that was the deal. Right?
Even so. Dr Krass. It saddened me. Maybe I thought we had one more talk in us. Maybe I'd have thought that but never done it.
Oh, and one last thing. An important one though. Dr Krass is a hard-sounding name. It's what I always called him. But his first name was Alvin, and an Alvin can be your pal.
Dr Krass helped me when I was a kid, but I think it was Alvin who taught me Go Fish.
© Eric Yves Garcia 2014
Extraordinary. He'd be proud of you.
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