Free The Visible Man by Chuck Klosterman Page B

the bottom line, Vicky: You are an Internet. What the Internet did for Bruce, you do for me. You are the bridge through which I mind the gap between my exterior and interior life. Now, judging from what you’ve told me, you don’t believe my exterior life is real. You think my exterior life is my interior life, and that I’m making up a delusion to compensate for some other problem. Personally, I don’t care that this is what you believe. You don’t need to believe what I tell you. My self-esteem doesn’t hinge on whether you think I’m a reliable patient. I don’t care what you think of me and I never have. I never will. But right now, I need this experience . I need to have you in my life, because you act as the control. I want to upload these images into someone who isn’t me. And if the only way to make this happen is to meet with you inperson, face-to-face … well, then I will do it. I will come to your office, because I want to keep talking and I don’t want to start over with someone else.
    Give me your address.
    END OF PHONE SESSION 3
    NOTES: On balance, I’m classifying today’s conversation with Y____ as a success (albeit a strange one). He is coming into my office next week, or at least that’s what he claims. That was my goal, and my goal was achieved. But this does not feel like a win. My confidence is shaken. I should not admit this (even to myself), but it’s the truth. I feel uneasy with Y____’s casual aggression. Was Y____ describing himself when he told the story of Bruce? That’s my gut feeling, but such a diagnosis seems imperfect. Did he make the whole thing up? His details oscillate between unnaturally specific and uselessly general. Was I wrong to accuse him of lying? It seemed like the honest move, but perhaps I’ve lost his trust. In general, I’m losing my grip on this process. Y____ is either fabricating his story out of whole cloth or completely believes these falsehoods to be true—I must keep both of those possibilities at the front of my mind at all times, and I need to keep them intellectually equal. He’s articulate, but I can’t let his articulation bully me. Perhaps I need to accept that I’m scared of this patient. I still look forward to talking with Y____ every week, but part of me is frightened. I don’t think I’m very good at my job. Does Y____ know this? I fear that he does. I should have made different choices with my life. This is not something I’m good at. 7

PART 2
     

THE SECOND INTRODUCTION
     

I was physically introduced to Y____ in the most standard of ways: There was a knock at my office door, and I told the knocker to enter. The entrance swung open and a man stepped into the room. I knew who he was before he told me. There were no surprises.
    He was a man. A strange-looking man, but nothing more.
    He was tall and he was thin. Cadaverous. Perhaps six feet five or six feet six, but no more than 175 pounds. His head was a skull on a stick; it was shaved to the skin, but I could see a subtle shadow where his hair would sprout. The hairline was receding. He wore an oversized black T-shirt, khaki pants, and garish white tennis shoes. His arms were wiry and unnaturally long. His nose was large, as were his Adam’s apple and his ears. His teeth were jagged and yellow. “Ichabod Crane,” I thought to myself. “He looks like an actor auditioning for the role of Ichabod Crane.” It was a sweltering day in May, but he was barely sweating. I can recall this because I asked him where he had parked his car (at the time, I was in the midst of a minor parking dispute with a neighboring office building and lived in constant fear that my patients might get towed). He mentioned that he had arrived on foot. I could not imagine how a man in a black T-shirt could walk any distance in the 90-degree Texas heat without perspiring, but Y____ was immune. When he shook my hand, it was cool and dry, like a brick from the cellar.
    I turned on the tape recorder.
    When I