During that Christmas/New Year season Joan took me to meet two special friends and professional colleagues who lived in a large red brick house on Birchwood Lane, near the Philadelphia Main Line.
They were Larry and Michael, both psychiatrists in residence at Temple University Hospital, who had been lovers for something like twelve years. Larry cheerfully, unselfconsciously, assumed the role of housewife as he cleared the table and washed dishes and glasses and silverware in the sink of an enormous kitchen with exposed ceiling timbers and brick walls. We all continued the conversation that had started at the dinner table.
"Barbara Striesand," Larry chirped. "An enormously talented woman, a Jew, who makes it in Hollywood. She's not only a singer, but also a shrewd businesswoman, doesn't take shit from anybody. She's aggressive, isn't ever afraid to speak her mind, and what do they call her? A bitch! If she were a man, well…"
Larry raised a wet glass in his yellow-rubber-gloved hand, inspected it carefully, and put it back into the soapy water for a more thorough scrub.
Michael, thoughtful with his pipe and crossed arms, nodded. "But nevertheless she's a total bitch. I can't stand her. What was that movie she made? Funny Girl or something? It was nothing but an unending succession of extreme close-ups of her ugly face."
"She's a delight, I don't care what you say," Larry said.
"James, have you seen the movie American Buffalo?" Michael asked.
"No, not yet," I replied.
"Don't bother. It's a horrid piece of shit, based on Mamet's play, which we both walked out on. Most of the dialog consisted of the word 'yeah.' The rest was nauseating, affected theatrical speech. Do you know what I mean? The way ACTORS often carry on?"
"Yes."
"Well, Dustin Hoffman wanted everyone to know he was doing really serious drama, and was desperately trying to wrest some legitimacy from Mamet's stilted, forced language. But Mamet did absolutely nothing to make his play into a real movie. Like Arthur Miller just did with The Crucible."
Joan excused herself, said she needed to use the bathroom.
"So how long have you known Joan?" Michael asked.
"I'd say it's been about a month."
"You make a good looking couple, I must say."
"Thanks. But I'm noticing that the down side of being hooked up with a psychoanalyst is…"
"She's not a psychoanalyst," Larry cut in. "but a psychotherapist. A big difference."
Yes, he was right. Both Larry and Michael were physicians. Joan was not.
"Well, whatever it is that she's called. The down side is that she just loves to analyze every move I make, every word I utter."
Larry rolled his eyes.
"For instance?" Michael asked.
"The other day she said I was manic and hyperverbal. She wanted to know why. And I said to her, didn't you notice the huge piece of chocolate cake that I just consumed? And the two cups of strong Columbian coffee that I washed it down with?"
Michael smiled. "Tell me, James. Are you manic and hyperverbal without such external stimuli?"
We all laughed. The whole thing was entirely light-hearted.
But then Michael got serious. "Be careful. You must never give Joan that kind of power over you. It's inappropriate. She's an expert--but only with her patients."
I nodded.
Later we four sat together on the couch in the high-ceilinged living room. A roaring fire was going, and the stereo was playing Beethoven's Diabelli Variations. I had to smile. Could I ever have imagined that one day I'd be wedged between a couple of sophisticated gay psychiatrists and that labyrinthine Joan Rosenberg?
Suddenly Larry reached down and pulled Joan's leg into his lap, unzipped her suede boot, pulled it off, and handed it to Michael. With comic exaggeration Michael caressed the boot, put it to his nose. Larry made a big show of massaging Beth's black-stockinged foot.
"I wish I had my camera," I said.
"Use mine, it's over there on the cabinet," Michael said grinning.
I took a shot of my Joan between Michael and Larry. The foot fetishist on her left, the leather fetishist on her right. And me, the detached objective observer. A perfect picture.
Looking back I think that fun-filled little episode marked a turning point in my stormy, convoluted relationship with Joan. Until then I was more or less holding my own. Things weren't ideal, of course, but they hadn't yet reached a wholly intolerable level. I wanted to make it work. Joan still intrigued me. At the very least, she gave me a hell of a lot to write about in my journal. And you know what they say about writers. They'll put up with virtually anything for the sake of a good story.
