Dave- y

Dave- y

I remember clearly the first time I met Dave- y. It was the first day of September and the first day of my year-long internship at the Thorndike Institute. Although the temperature outside was hot and clammy, it was even more uncomfortable inside where I was sweating in the climate-controlled environment. I perspired, not from the heat, but from nerves. I hadn't known what to expect . . . and I certainly didn't expect what I found.

That day had already started off on the wrong foot. First, my car broke down causing me to be two hours late. When I arrived at the Institute, I discovered my supervisor, Dr. Stilwell, had been called away. Not knowing anyone or anything, I felt helpless. Eventually, I was able to coerce one of the professional staff, Dr. Theopolis, into giving me a nickel tour of the Institute. I was sorry almost immediately.

Dr. Theopolis droned on and on in a monotonous and less than enthusiastic, recital of the various facilities. Occasionally he would break his militaristic stride to pause in front of a room and provide an extremely concise and bland description of its contents. Icy stares discouraged my questions or hopes for elaborations. Soon, his drab words barely filtered into my consciousness as I realized the shallowness of their content.

In looking back, I think we must have presented quite a pair. He was a tall, balding, and slightly overweight man, about 55, who wore an unbuttoned white lab coat over plaid pants and a striped shirt, which appeared to be put on in record time. I, on the other hand, was an impeccably dressed and, I hope to say, attractive young woman, nearly 26, who was 5'2" tall in my flat heels and weighed 12O pounds drenched and fully dressed. I also had long, straight brown hair at the time, which people said set off my soft blue eyes. Although the contacts were bluer than my irises.

The bored expression on the elder's face indicated the extent he was enjoying his task. Mine probably revealed traces of anxiety, curiosity, guilt, disillusionment and no little fear. After all, he was an internationally famous neuropsychologist, whose vita must fill a room; whereas I was the naive intern, fresh from graduate work in clinical psychology, who held only an M. A. as I still had to defend my dissertation.

As Dr. Theopolis continued his solitary discourse, I found myself staring at all the closed doors, wondering what lay behind them, curious as to the sources of the strange gurglings and whisperings I heard. Behind many of those doors resided my new clientele; patients who had serious enough psychological problems to require hospitalization. Many of them would never leave in spite of whatever efforts I could put forth. The thought filled me with apprehension, as I felt terribly incompetent to handle the situation.

As we turned the corner to enter another of the seemingly endless clones of corridors, my daze was shattered by a piercing scream erupting from one of the closed-door rooms. Reacting with more instinct than intelligence, I immediately ran over and threw open the door. Inside, I expected to see a pair of slashed wrists, or a body wracked with agony, Instead, I was greeted with a soft chuckle coming from a young man who sat cross-legged on a bed on the other side of the tiny room.

As I stared at him, all of my self-doubts welled to the surface. In spite of all the experience I had working in the Psych Clinic at school, I felt totally unprepared for this. At school, I always felt somewhat in control of the situation. But here, I felt at the complete mercy of the place and the people, especially the one I found myself facing.

The young man cocked his head from side to side slowly examining this new person who so abruptly intruded upon his life. His dark eyes seemed to jerk from right to left, never lingering very long at any one place. He seemed intrigued, not so much by my presence as my appearance, for I did not have on the white coat everyone else wore.