Chimpanzee Read Free Page A

inevitable. The country demonstrated and protested, full of sound and fury, until, eventually, we just didn’t anymore. We were exhausted and hungry. And still unemployed. The only way to eat was to get in line and shut up. The government was sorry about all this—it really was. They all were.
    Had we really cared, we would have simply burned everything. The factories, the offices, the servers and routers. Everything.

    In therapists’ offices, like this one, a hand always comes first, dowsing through the just-open door while the therapist conveys whatever very-necessary , last-minute instructions on the other side—to the receptionist, or the insurance rep, or the previous client, who won’t stop having issues even as he’s signing papers at the front desk.
    This is called “priming,” and it sources a particular subject role for the therapist. It’s nothing strange. Consciousness takes form in the situation around it. Identity is context. I tried to explain it to Sireen, over beers one afternoon in the bar at the edge of campus. We were with her math friends, and they laughed and called me a nihilist. Liberal arts. Sireen laughed, too. I realized then that it was funny, and she laid her fingers across the back of my hand. We weren’t married yet, and I was trying too hard.
    So, I sourced a new me that day. I remember. One amused by myself. Later, drunk, we lay on the flattened carpet in her tiny living room, smoking and listening to obscure bands I pretended to know.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Someone was singing in Norwegian. I kissed her, and she tasted like apple vodka. We slept there, under some aunt’s afghan, and Sireen muttered vowels at her dreams.
    I am both subject and object in this office because that’s how this works. I have been primed to recognize time limits (55 minutes), authority (the therapist), and slight sexual arousal (manicured fingers and a panty-hosed kneecap).
    We could also call this a “hook.” It defines and sustains my interest in this encounter. Everything begins by making your audience pay attention.
    â€œDr. Cade?” the therapist says, her hand once more leading the way as she commits to entering the office for good. She extends it to shake.
    This is the same gesture we use to keep assailants at bay. But then, she would be more object than subject. A victim-to-be.
    â€œYes,” I say.
    â€œI’m Cynthia.”
    She wears her hair down. Which helps.
    â€œCan I get you anything?” she says. “Are you comfortable?”
    â€œNo.”
    That stops her just enough. She should know better, cramming those two questions together.
    When she sits down, she is careful to tug her skirt toward her knees.
    â€œFirst of all,” she makes eye contact—a professional, “thank you for coming.”
    I smile. “Of course.”
    â€œHave you read the introductory literature?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan I call you ‘Benjamin?’”
    â€œYou may.”
    â€œWell, Benjamin, today we won’t begin therapy. This is a chance to get to know each other.”
    I want to say this is my chance. She’ll have to get to know me all over again. Each time, as there is less of me to know. Blocking my education is going to take a few memories with it. Situations and contexts and exactly what it was like to learn this, or this, or this thing. Did a theory click for me in the shower, on a walk, during sex? It will take with it anything that pertains. My life, on borrowed time.
    â€œLet’s begin with questions,” she says. “What can I tell you? About our office? The process? Me?”
    â€œLet’s talk about value,” I say.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œLet’s discuss how repossessing my education recovers the government’s lost investment.”
    â€œBenjamin, the investment isn’t lost