The Day of Herman

What can we say.

The Day of Herman

I've just had, by far, quite the oddest experience of my life. I've had some weird ones, and this tops them all.

I'm always home by six-thirty. Tonight it will probably be nine, maybe ten. That depends on how long it takes me to record this account.

I'm a psychiatrist. I have a small private practice in a growing, affluent community. I've always considered myself to be very good at what I do, because of the wide variety of maladies I've seen and treated. After this evening, I have to say I feel inadequate; and, I suddenly have this uncanny compulsion to write. It seems, I'm not certain, but it seems to be something entirely new, and it also seems to be a direct result of a totally unplanned encounter. It ended, just minutes ago.

There's also something else. I feel really odd inside, as if someone else is in here now. Like, I'm two people in one. There's someone whose presence I'd been repressing for all of my fifty-two years, and who is now, strangely awakening. I do find it more than a bit....unnerving.

It's February. Late in the day and in fading light, it was snowing. The quiet seemed thicker than the snowfall, as I stood on my front stoop and locked up for the day. It's also a Friday evening at the end of a busy, and particularly stressful week. I'd seen my share of emotionally, shall I say, uncomfortable patients. After all, it's what I do. But as I turned to go, through the snow-filled air I observed a police car pulling up quietly, on the other side of my street. It was not a local police car. An officer got out. I realized he was advancing toward me, so I waited to see what was going on. In retrospect, I wish I'd hurried away, instead. I think.

The officer, a graying, heavy-set man in full uniform, stepped up and then explained in his deep voice, that he'd brought someone who needed a bit of my time. "He's not a criminal, and he's not under arrest, he's just my friend and neighbor. I'm worried about him. I've heard good things about you. Would you talk to him, please? He's got health insurance, and I'm sure you'll be paid. I was concerned enough that I wasn't sure this would wait for an appointment. What d'you say?"

I'm not sure whether I was intrigued or if perhaps I assented because of the uniform; probably the latter. The officer walked back to his car and got back in, then a man climbed out of the passenger side of the car. The police cruiser pulled out slowly and moved away, leaving a shadowy figure standing alone beneath the yellow streetlight, on the snow-covered sidewalk. I called out to him, and asked him to come in. Slowly, he approached my door, then he just stood there and looked me over. He said nothing. I was already beginning to think better of it, as he followed me inside.

I ushered the man into my consultation room. I'd deliberately designed it as a large and comfortable space, furnished to accommodate a small support group. The lighting is soft and gas logs in the fireplace provide a homey feeling, or at least, that was my intent. I motioned my unexpected patient toward a comfortable chair, and introduced myself. At last, he spoke.

"Just call me Ben," he said, simply. He seemed to me to be a little confused, and I realized he was looking around for something. "You're a psychiatrist?"

"Yes sir, that's what I do." I tried to smile, but I wondered what he expected to see. "Is something out of place?"

"Well, don't psychiatrists have couches? You know, the old-fashioned kind with no arms, that you lie down on?"

I laughed, which probably wasn't a good idea. "If you would be more comfortable, I'm sure I can drag something out for you to lie down on."

Ben reddened in the face, then folded his hands together and settled into the chair. "I'm fine."

"So what can I help you with?"

He straightened himself up a bit, and said softly, "Probably nothing. The cop who brought me here thinks I'm crazy, I guess."

"And why do you believe that?'

"Because of what he found me doing."

I realized then, finding out what he was even here for would take some time, unless we got right to it. Ordinarily, I would have waited him out and allowed him to speak. I probably shouldn't have done otherwise, this time. "Tell you what, Ben," I suggested, looking at my watch, "It's snowing outside and I should already be halfway home. I don't mind at all listening, and I'll do whatever I can to help you. But let's cut to the heart of the matter. Tell me what you were doing, why you were doing it and what led up to it." I reached over to the end table and switched on my recorder.

"I was cutting a pumpkin in my kitchen." Obviously, this wasn't going to be easy. But it is February, so that raised an obvious question.

"Wherever did you find a pumpkin, in the middle of February?"

"It was a really big pumpkin, too."

"Okay, so tell me, where did you find it?"

"It was abandoned in a farmer's field, a couple miles from my home. If pumpkins aren't selling well, they don't even bother to pick 'em all, and old man Calder just plants 'em in amongst his sweet corn. If they don't sell, they just get plowed under in the spring."

"So you live in the countryside, right?" Ben nodded. "Nearby?"

He shook his head. "Not so close. Friggin' pumpkin had been frozen. After they're frozen, they're useless." Ben obviously thought this was a conversation; he fell silent. A minute passed, so as I was quite curious, I prodded him a little.

"What were you doing with it, when your neighbor arrived? Why did he show up while he was on duty?"

My patient's forehead furrowed, and an angry scowl appeared. Now we would be getting somewhere. "When Jon showed up at the back door, I was making little fucking pieces out of it. Jon would want me to tell you about the lawnmower wheels, too. But the whole thing wasn't even me! It was Herman!"

Again, silence. A dozen questions presented themselves to me, but I remained quiet, waiting to hear more. Then, I guess, he got the idea. "The nosy old woman who lives across from Calder's sweetcorn patch saw me taking a pumpkin, and she called in my plate number. So they broadcast my ID out over the police radio band, and since he knew me, Jon volunteered to check it out. He knew Calder wouldn't care. But I guess he was curious."

Ben paused again. The pause grew long.

"Tell me about the pumpkin. Were you slicing, or hacking it?"

"Hacking. Most definitely, hacking."

"Why?"

"I was mad at Herman!"

"And Herman is...?" I wanted to know where the damned pumpkin fit in, but first things first. People over vegetables...you understand. Lawnmower wheels!

But it wasn't half as strange as it was going to get.

I had plenty of time to think, because Ben was staring at his feet, and he wasn't answering. It can be hard, but I have to give people time. Finally, without looking up, he spoke.

"Herman is my alter-ego, I'm afraid. He's the power behind my writing. Although I hate to admit it. I'm sure he won't let me forget I said that, will you, fucker?" Ben's voice grew louder with the epithet.

I hesitated. "He's here now?"

Ben tipped his head up to look at me, and I noticed thankfully that his hands were still folded in his lap, though clenched. "Sonuvabitch is always with me. Alter-ego, did you hear me say that?"

"Yes."

"Don't change the subject! It seems, I must be writing what he wants me to write."

Another long pause.

"Does he talk to you?"

"Shee-it! All the time! And it's worse than being married, sometimes. You can't get away from it, not even by going out. Jon doesn't even know about Herman. I'm only telling you, because I think I need drugs. You can get me those, can't you?"

Oh, so that's what this was...or so I thought. Damned drug addicts! There was an excellent chance it was only about that. I'd have to remember to get all of his contact information, so I could turn him in when we got finished, and he left. But, a cop brought him here...I decided to try and trap him. If this was made up, he wouldn't have answers to everything, or he would hesitate before responding. And he had been hesitating.

"Why do you think you need drugs?"

"Because I have to be sharp when I write. And that's when Herman is right there. At all other times, I want him to be gone. So I figure if I can dull my thinking, he'll shut up, at least. It would suck if I did take drugs, and he was still there!"

"So, Ben, do you take drugs?"

Ben hesitated again. Not a good sign.

"No." More silence.

"Sure about that?"

"Well, one day one of my kids, all of whom are grown now, brought home a homework assignment. I was reading it, and the class was being instructed that sugar was a drug!"

"That's it? Sugar?" I pictured him sitting there, spooning sugar into his mouth from a cereal bowl.

"I take sugar in my coffee. And I smoke cigarettes, mostly when I write. I step outside and have a smoke, and I think about what I'm writing. And once in a while, I'll have a drink... but that's Herman. He complains about the cheap stuff I bring home. If it was up to me, I wouldn't even take a drink. Just makes me drowsy."

I was becoming intrigued. It seemed certain I was dealing with a split personality, and I realized I might be seeing a lot more of Ben. Split personalities are rare, I think. But is it the same as an alter-ego? I'd seen one such case before, but it was just by observation, somebody else's patient.

"Herman's part of me, like it or not. And frankly, I don't. Like it."

Ben leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him, and looked me right in the eye. I could see he was going to tell me why.

"I'm just an average guy. I'm not special at all. And I'm reserved, not obnoxious or outspoken. I respect people, and I wouldn't ever threaten anybody. But Herman!" He hesitated.

"Herman is obnoxious! He's strong, and smart, and good-looking, and he knows it. He's younger than me! He's overconfident, and thinks he knows everything, even though, to do a good story, I have to check reference materials all the time. But he's the source of the action in my writing, and always, the fire. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to write effectively, without him." Ben sniffed and sat back. "But I think I'd like to try. It'd be like trying to brush your teeth without using your arms."

There was yet another long silence. I decided to take a chance.

"Think I could talk to Herman?"

I was prepared to have a discussion with Ben's alter-ego. What I was not prepared for, was for the two of them to have an argument.

The next series of exchanges was, taken directly from my digital recorder, exactly what was said. His facial expressions changed instantly, depending on who was speaking; during the "conversation," he stood up and began to pace.

Ben reached into his shirt pocket, took out a pair of dark sunglasses, and put them on.

"So Doc, whatta y' wanna know?"

"Dammit, Herman. I did not give you permission to speak!"

"So who the fuck asked for it?"

"See, doctor, this is what I have to deal with! At first, he was nothing more than a feeling! But now, the bastard is trying to take over!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Doc, just hear me out. I don't do anything but inspire Ben. If not for me, his characters would've died, but with me, they're heroes. Real men. Together, Ben and I can actually be someone...someone he's not! By himself, that is."

"Well today proves that wrong. And it's not the first time! You wrote The Little Brown Ducky completely on your own."

"Yah, but you sent it to that major magazine. Signifying your agreement."

"Well alright, but I don't always get the chance to agree! And today was like, the worst! If this gets any further out of control..."

"Okay, I see your point. But it's just the fact that you're always in control. You'd know how I feel if you had to experience it. Somebody needs punched, and you damn well know it, because of me! And I try my best to lift an arm and clench a fist, and I can't do it!"

"Well that's a good thing! Because the day you succeed, I'll be in jail! Try smoking a cigarette, or drinking the booze you complain about, or writing something creative, in there!"

"People do it. We'd have more time to write."

Ben tore off the sunglasses, stuffed them into his pocket and sat back down, plopping unceremoniously into the soft chair. I was completely taken aback.

"I'm done with that sonuvabitch!"

"It doesn't quite seem that way," I replied, softly.

"Well I didn't want to do the pumpkin thing! When I get home, I'll have a huge pile of pumpkin seeds and slime to clean up, a rotten pumpkin to throw out, and wheels to put back onto my lawnmower! And I could have been writing, instead! And I've got bills to pay, and food to prepare, and I have to get ready for Monday morning! This weekend is already about shot, and it's only Friday night!"

"You couldn't do anything to prevent it?"

"Well, yeah, I probably could have." Ben looked down and rubbed his nose with the inside of his thumb. "But when you write, you have to open up your imagination. Anything becomes possible. You have to work just to keep it believable, and I admit, I couldn't do that without the influence of my inner writer. That's what Herman really is."

Again, Ben was quiet. This time, I was grateful for the silent spot. I glanced at the window. Full darkness had fallen, and by light from the nearby shopping mall parking lot, I could tell the snow was coming faster. I spoke.

"How did Herman get his name?"

"Tell him, fuckle-face."

"Shut up, asshole! He thinks I should call him Tyler. After that movie, Fight Club. He thinks he's that good. But I don't care to please him, because he tries to manipulate my writing, and I resent it."

"Why do you think he's trying to take over? I have to admit, from what I've heard, that would be a negative."

"Hear that, Herman? Doctor, can I tell you about the conversation we had today?"

"Most definitely."

That conversation, again, taken from the recorder, follows. I can see I won't be done by ten o'clock...

Ben sat back, obviously in story-telling mode, and began. According to my unscheduled patient, all of this was from this morning. As an attempt at clarity, Ben's portion is presented without quotes. The quotes mark the portion of the dialogue contributed by his alter-ego.

*********

It's a typical Friday, and I'm parked as usual in front of my computer, my hands flying over the keys. There's much I need to do that isn't getting done, also as usual. But I've got a novel in process, I have a great short story with potential to really be something, and that's nearing completion. Several more ideas are pushing their way to the fore. It's frustrating. Only when I run out of food will I stop and make a trip to the store. Only when some undeserved and unforeseen pain becomes too insistent, will I get up and move about, to try to relieve it.

And then, on top of it, I have to deal with an increasingly persistent alter-ego, whom I have named Herman. I did that because I don't care for the name. See, I don't have much respect for him.

"Now that's a mouthful. Tell it like it is, dingley. Tell the world. There should be federal assistance for those of us who are deprived of a full and meaningful existence. It isn't fair to have to feel like the third wheel on a wagon."

That's the third wheel on a bicycle, jackass. Or the fifth wheel on a wagon. Who asked you to speak?

"And there we have it. Go for it, insult me. I'm a ‘jackass.’ This internal conflict has got to stop."

Oh, I agree. So why don't you shut up, and stay scarce?

"I don't believe I will! I think it would be more appropriate for you to be in charge for one day, and for me to be in charge the next. How 'bout that?"

You see? It started out as just an idea, I thought. My inner writer. It just felt so...special. But now I'm seeing things quite differently. There's a genuine conflict here. The real 'me' is a nice guy. An honest, decent guy. One who doesn't drink, or lie, cheat or steal. I don't beat people up. I run the vacuum cleaner, wear clean clothing, and take regular showers. I open doors for women.

"Hey! I open doors for women!"

Yeah, and then you watch their asses as they walk through.

"So?"

And there we have it.

"I beg to differ. I don't do all of those things. At least, not often."

Shower?

"You know what I'm sayin'. What d'you think your writing would be like, without me? No guts to it. Even your music is schmaltzy. That's the word Linda used, remember? 'Let her cryyy, 'cause she's a laydayeeay...'"

Yeah. I have to smile. But if you'll recall, Linda was different. She had a big bike, and nobody else got to take it out.

"Leave it to you to only notice her big bike! Linda was really somethin', man. And you blew it."

We blew it.

"Oh sure! After you blow it, you blame it on both of us! I never woulda blown it! That was you!"

Alright. I have an idea.

"This should be good. Linda was long ago, I'd like to know how you plan to fix that!"

No. I mean, since you've come right out into the open, challenged who we are and you're bitching about it, lets give you a day. You can run things, for the rest of this one day.

"Deal! On one condition."

You're not in a position to lay down conditions. I'm still in charge, here.

"That's your problem. I should be in charge."

Life is too short to wake up in jail. No way.

"Do ya wanna hear the condition, or waste my single day for a while longer?"

Okay. What is it?

"If I do better than you, you let me have every other day."

And who will be the unbiased judge?

"I'll convince you."

Ha! This oughta be good! Okay, I'll go along with that.

"Alright! The first thing we do is go for beer."

Hey, I can't afford...

"Shut up! My day! Stand down."

Crap.

"Helpless feeling, isn't it?"

One hour, a case of Coors, a six-pack of malt liquor and two double cheeseburgers later, we're finally back home. Herman has parked himself in front of the computer and is punching keys with two fingers. Do you have to drop ashes on the keyboard, asswipe? You smell like a brewery, and let me remind you, when you're driving, there's an open container law. Not to mention, you don't drink when you drive. What'd I tell you about waking up in jail?

"Cool it. My day."

How do you expect to see what you're writing with that pair of scratchy sunglasses between you and the screen?

Herman takes off the sunglasses, never looking away from the screen. He's not typing, must be proofreading.

"Ha! I'm proofing, all right! Check out these bazongas!"

You're surfing porn??

"Nope. That's not porn." Herman taps some keys and reaches for the mouse. "This is porn! Whoa!"

I'm done for a while. I shrink back into my shell. I'm experiencing more than a slight buzz, after all, we're the same person. Damn it Herman, stop that. I don't wanna save that. Stop it!

Herman turns around, dons his sunglasses and grins, with the filter of a totally burned-out cigarette butt still between his teeth. "You know you want it." He turns back to the computer screen.

Several minutes pass.

"Shit! Shit!"

What?

Herman is pressing one key rapidly, over and over. "Didja ever download somethin', then open it, and then ya feel like ya just gotta delete the fuck out of it? I did."

And there's the problem with this, you see? If you saw that, I saw it too. And I don't want...

"Who cares what you want. It's my..."

I know, I know. It's your day. What happened to "I'll convince you?"

Herman at last removes the totaled cigarette butt from his teeth and drops it. On the floor.

"See, here's the problem. If you didn't have me to keep things interesting, nobody'd read our shit. You'd sit there like a wimp, and write fairy tales."

So? Something wrong with fairy tales? They're good fiction, a lot of them.

"I don't see that." Herman turns back to the screen and starts typing in something about sharks.

"That's not it, idiot. Look."

Holy crap! Enough is enough! I'm ending this now! I am not convinced! I am not amused!

"Alright, alright. Take the damned chair. Write some silly shit. You wanta write fairy tales, I think I'll let ya. Know why they don't work for me? I read Cinderella."

I'll bite. Why did that make a difference, in your perception of fairy tales?

"Because of the damned carriage!"

The carriage?

"Damned right! I was never fooled! It was never a damned carriage! It was always a fuckin' pumpkin!""

*************

Ben was finished. I couldn't help it, I laughed out loud. I know it was unprofessional, but I couldn't prevent it. I'd been so wrapped up in the tale, I'd been right there with them. With him. Whatever. And there's why it's important to remain professional, no matter what the circumstances: Ben frowned, got up from his chair and walked out. And I still don't know his last name, which means there's no chance I'll get paid. It's okay I guess, because I didn't help him at all.

Ben was getting his coat from the waiting room coat tree, and I knew I'd made a serious mistake. But I had to know; "Ben, just tell me one thing. What were you doing with the pumpkin?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Ben looked angry, but not threatening. "I went out and took the wheels off of my lawnmower, and brought them into my kitchen. Then, I went out and found a pumpkin, and brought it inside, still frozen. I was gonna make a carriage from a big pumpkin! The bastard was trying to prove two things! One, he has enough control to make me do it! Two, reality doesn't change just because someone tells a story! So it has to be plausible, in the real world!"

"Glad you got the message, fuck-oh."

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Hey, Doc!"

I knew from the address, it was Herman speaking.

"Yes?" I know I was still grinning.

"Everybody's got an alter-ego. If you're really a good shrink, there's another shrink inside of you. Chances are, he's smarter than you are."

"We're leaving, asshole! Right now!"

"Yeah. I could walk the thirty or so miles, but dingley here'll no doubt call a cab. Sure ya don't wanna wait for Jon?"

"No! I want to get the kitchen cleaned up, and forget this day ever happened. Never ask to be in charge again!"

Someone, obviously Herman, turned and looked at me as he hitched up his overcoat and adjusted the lapels. Then he took out his sunglasses and put them on. The smirk on his face fit perfectly with the cigarette he stuck in his mouth. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was taller, he was younger, he was definitely far more virile and handsome than the man I'd been trying to help. How was this possible? I can't bring myself to say which Hollywood actor he looked like! Life is too short to be committed on the basis of one...less than plausible experience.

"Doc, I've just got one thing to leave you with."

"What's that?" I was no longer smiling.

"You should try writing. Maybe that's what you really are. A writer." Then he donned a gray stocking cap. "You should join our club. You, and your friends."

As I watched, he opened and stepped through the front door. Descending the front steps, he walked away, into the shroud of darkness, and heavily falling snow.

*********************************