“Who am I?” I asked Dr. Shrinx, flopping down on her leather couch.
“Who do you think you are?” she asked, crossing her legs so that her bright red size 23 high tops with rainbow laces pointed directly at me.
The therapist dresses like a clown and entertains children at hospitals. That’s what she tells me anyway. I assumed she was going to another performance after our meeting.
I glanced away from the window and saw that she was applying white makeup to her face.
“There was a story recently about a commissioner and a councilman and his helper. And they all said something—”
“What do you do again?”
“—I’m an editor—really interesting. The commissioner was not supposed to talk to the helper about something but he did and he said it was OK since he was talking to him as a person and not a councilman’s helper.
“And the helper said he was at the same event as the commissioner not as a helper but as a businessman. The councilman agreed, said his helper wasn’t there as his representative.
“Which I guess makes sense since they’re all part-time. But it got me thinking. When are we who we say we are?
“If I’m a part-time council person when am I representing my constituents? Eight to 12? Monday through Wednesday? Is that the sort of job you can really not do? Are there ever times when a doctor is not a doctor, a cop is not a cop? And if that council person is also an executive, when is he the bossman and when is he the councilman? Does our identity depend on the number of hours we devote to our title?”
“You seem to be troubled by this,” she said. Her red wig was almost in place.
“Not troubled. Intrigued. Where does one identity stop and the other begin? Can you take your representative hat off and put your citizen hat on and then take it off in favor of your representative hat again within the same five minute span?”
“Are you an editor right now?” she asked.
“No. But that’s different. I’m not an elected official. Or an appointed one. Or a legislative aide. I’m not getting paid by the public to perform a certain task.”
“Are you suggesting that those people should be on call 24/7?”
“No. Not if they’re part-time. But that’s the question. Can you hear or see something as an individual but not process it through the filter of what you do, be it a cop, a reporter or government official? Who are we? And when?”
“When you look at me, what do you see?” she asked.
“I see a clown.”
“But I’m still your therapist.”
“Yeah.”
“And who have you been talking to for the past 50 minutes: a clown or your therapist?”
“My therapist.”
“So there you go,” she said.
“There what goes? You still didn’t tell me who I am. Or who they are.”
“Time’s up,” she said, indicating it was time for me to leave. “We are who we say we are but who we are sometimes depends on who sees us.”
What a clown, I thought.
