"Ceremoniously Sent To My Room"

It happens once a year.

Maybe twice.

Dr. M offers our house for a small gathering of psychoanalytic colleagues, hosting an event in which a“Presenter” delivers a “Case History” of one of their “more interesting” patients – “more interesting” in quotes, because, come on! – followed by an “illuminating” discussion.

Some quotes are gratuitously sarcastic.  To be honest, I don’t know if the discussion’s illuminating or not because, according to therapy rules about strict confidentiality,

I am not permitted to attend.

It’s a funny feeling hearing that, for a few of hours at least, a portion of my longtime domicile is “Off Limits” to my personal presence.  No “run of the house.”  No “going anywhere I please.”  For the duration of the gathering, I am persona non grata on my entire Ground Floor.

Suggestions of leaving the house and coming back later are dismissed by the event’s hostess.  What if I return too soon and my ill-timed reentry jostles the proceedings?

Or more “Terrible!”, I actually hear something as I pass.

It is a household tradition that when these secret sessions occur,

I am summarily banished to the bedroom.

An exile.

An outcast.

A leprous “Unwelcome” at my personal address.

Except for dinner, where I am permitted downstairs to fill a paper platter with ordered-in food, then return to my cave, dining alone in segregated silence. 

I am actually invited for the eating part.  But hey, if they don’t want me for the talk, they don’t get me for the casual chatter.  (At which I have talents.)  Besides, I have socialized with therapists before.  No juicy tidbits about patients.  More talk of travel, and upcoming surgeries.

When the “Good Stuff” begins, I am back in my chamber, quarantined to the upper reaches of my abode.

Me!  Who ran shows.  Who won Emmys.  Who worked with recognized superstars, not all of whom are currently in prison. And with whom I currently identify.

The mind plays strange tricks when you’re in “Stir.”  Shunned and secluded, I see myself maneuvering towards the voices, crouched behind the railing, eavesdropping on contraband debate.

But I am listening too loud and they notice I’m there.

“Come down here, young man!”

is how it sounds, though I am officially 74.

As I descend to face the music, I determine to mess with their psyches.  (You get the irony?  Delicious, eh wot?)

THE PRESIDING “PRESENTER”:  “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

“I know who you were talking about.”

“That’s mpossible.  I used a pseudonym.”

“A transparent telltale pseudonym.  I know exactly who it is, and I am telling that you blabbed about him to strangers.”

“I changed the name.  Altered salient specifics.  You could sit right here amongst us and you would not learn who it is.”

“I wouldn’t?’

“No.”

“Then why was I banished upstairs?”

I always get “the last laugh” in my fantasies.

If not there, where?

What actually happened that evening?

I grabbed some grub, watched a ballgame, and turned in early.

Not as much fun as what I imagined.

(It is also not how it felt.)

That is a common conundrum around here:

A good story that didn’t happen or a boring story that did.

In truth, my temporary exile wasn’t so bad.

Even better,

I had time to write about it.

Not entirely accurately, but still.