Free Empathy by Sarah Schulman

painful disasters that I did not see and had never heard of little more than a decade ago. Now they’re everyday life.
    The worst problem, back then, was that if people did not do something dramatic, immediately, the future would be awful. But they didn’t do it. Doc experienced this lack of action as a terrible personal embarrassment. It just reminded him, once again, of his and all human inadequacies.
    Now he couldn’t face himself because he didn’t know how to act. And spirituality wasn’t going to do it this time. The only leftover from Jewish theology in this doctor’s life was an aversion to Jesus Christ. He had no other religion. Not even the Shirelles.
    Then it was time for his next patient, the Complainer.
    â€œMexico was too hot,” he said. “The people weren’t fun. I’m tired of being poverty-stricken. I need money to buy new furniture for my apartment.”
    â€œHow did you get your apartment?” Doc asked, knowing it was his responsibility to pose probing questions.
    â€œMy parents paid for it. I had to do all the organizing. I had to work and work. I had to supervise the people who did the labor. It was terrible. I was a victim. My parents paid for it, but I deserved it.”
    The Complainer was utterly lifeless. He was the bland kind of guy they used to show on Alka-Seltzer commercials. His lips were
scrunched into a permanent sneer of distaste while his eyes looked puppy-dog-like and begged for sympathy. He wasn’t what you’d call a good time.
    â€œWho pays your dental bills?” Doc asked.
    â€œMy parents do. They have to because I don’t know how to work. I have no idea of what supporting myself really means. How am I supposed to get a job without experience? Especially in this economy?”
    â€œYou mean you’ve never worked?”
    â€œOf course I’ve worked. But, I’ve never been paid for it. That’s because an artist is the most undervalued person in this society. At least if I was black I could get a grant. But no one gives a shit about a white guy like me.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDoc, let me explain it to you. I am a victim. Get it, Doc? A victim.”
    The Complainer sat there. His name was John but Doc called him Cro-Mag because he was so unevolved.
    â€œDo you know what poor means?” Doc asked.
    â€œI am poor. I am poverty-stricken. I have nothing except for an eighty-thousand-dollar co-op. Do you know that means on today’s market? It means nothing.”
    â€œWell, what would give your life more meaning?” Doc asked, quietly, repressing his own desire to strangle this guy.
    â€œYou know, I’d like to do something heroic, have an adventure. Like Francis Ford Coppola making Apocalypse Now . I’d like to take a few million, go down to some Third World country, hire a couple thousand natives at a dollar a day and really take a risk.”
    â€œWhat risk did Francis Ford Coppola take?”
    â€œDoc, he mortgaged his house!”
    â€œWell, John, you can have life-shattering experiences in your own neighborhood. You could … well, you know … you could do something for … someone else.”

    â€œPolitics is boring,” Cro-Mag said in a drippy way. “It’s hopeless. I wouldn’t have any fun. Besides, I’m too poor. I don’t have time to be political.”
    â€œThere are people sleeping in the park in shelters made of plastic and cardboard,” said Doc. “There are people living around the park in co-ops and condominiums like Christadora House and Eastbeth. The police tear down the tents of the homeless. Now, I’m going to ask you a trick question.”
    Doc was using cognitive therapy.
    â€œWho are the victims?”
    â€œI am,” said Cro-Mag. “I am the biggest victim.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do tomorrow?” Doc asked.
    â€œTomorrow I will sleep till noon. Then I will go to a coffee