Klaus

By Bill Bernico

At first I didn't want to sit. I preferred to hover over the doctor, pacing occasionally past the window that overlooked San Francisco Bay . I sensed that the doctor found this annoying.

"Wouldn't you feel better on the couch?" The doctor asked, pointing to the tufted leather piece next to his desk. "You don't have to lie down if you don't feel like it, but we may be able to communicate better if you at least sit."

I hesitated before crouching and finally resting my butt on the very edge of the couch. My hands nervously grabbed my knees before wrapping themselves up in an interlocked finger position.

"Relax, Mr. Nightlinger," the doctor said. "No one's here to judge you. We just need to get to the bottom of your troubles. You can tell me as little or as much as you like."

I unlocked my fingers and sat back onto the couch a little further. My lips were dry and my throat seemed to close up before I could get any of my words out. I cleared my throat and tried again. "It's nothing, really," I said. "I understand millions of people feel the same way I do. I'm not the only… not the only…"

The word is claustrophobic," Mr. Nightlinger. "And it is a lot more common than you might think. You're right, there are millions of people in this country alone who suffer from claustrophobia, but there is help available. I hesitate to use the word 'cure' since a cure is not our ultimate goal. We strive to help the patient cope with their condition."

"But it's more than a condition, doctor," I said. "It's real. I can tell you in all honesty that I would probably die in some claustrophobic situations."

The doctor jotted notes in his book. "I don't doubt that for a moment, Mr. Nightlinger. The mind can work miracles and it can literally scare a person to death, but we all have it within ourselves to control those feelings to a certain degree if we know how."

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. "That's what I want, doctor. I want to be able to live my life normally."

"What's normal?" The doctor said. "What seems normal to one person would be totally out of character for another. What you need to do is find a middle ground that suits who you are."

"And how do I go about doing that?"

The doctor sighed and laid his book and pencil on his desk. "Mr. Nightlinger, suppose we take this one step at a time. What are some of your concerns?"

I ran my thumb and index finger over the hair on my chin, tugging at it. "Mostly it's crowded places," I said. "Elevators, small rooms, large crowds. My heart races and my palms sweat and I can't sit still or concentrate when I get in those situations. My friends tell me that there are other, more realistic things I should be afraid of in a city this size, but it doesn't seem to make any impact on how I feel. They tell me I could be mugged, run over by a streetcar, hit by lightning or squashed in an earthquake. They've even tagged a nickname on me. They're starting to call me Klaus."

"Klaus?"

"Klaus Trafobic," I said. "Real funny."

"And what do you tell them?" the doctor said.

"Well," I said, "I can see their point on some of those things, like the earthquake. That one we had yesterday still has me shaking in my boots. That was a big one."

"Mr. Nightlinger," he began, "most people would be afraid of an earthquake. That's a real danger." He caught himself as the words left his mouth. "That is, I mean, oh hell, I'm sorry, Mr. Nightlinger. I know your fears are just as real as any fear of an earthquake. I don't like them any more than the next guy. Especially those last few aftershocks."

"Maybe this was a mistake to come here," I said. "Maybe I'd better go." I stood and faced the door but couldn't seem to take any steps toward it. I turned around and sat again on the edge of the couch.

The doctor picked up his book and opened it to where he'd left off. "Let's take one of those at a time," he said. "Look at it logically, Mr. Nightlinger. What's the worst that can happen in an elevator?"

I sat up straight. "It could stop between floors," I said, almost indignantly.

"And…"

"And?" I said. "Isn't that enough? I could be trapped there for who knows how long."

"And…"

"And I don't like that," I said. "Trapped there in a small elevator, not able to get out."

The doctor rose from his chair and set his book back on his desk. He extended his hand out toward me and invited me to stand. "Follow me," he said, leading me out of his office and into the reception area. He stopped in front of one of the three elevators and pushed the button marked 'down.' In a few seconds the doors opened and the doctor stepped in. He turned around and faced me, beckoning me in with his finger. "Come on, Mr. Nightlinger. Stand next to me."

I hesitated and looked around, searching for the door to the stairway I'd come up. It was nineteen floors and I was puffing by the time I'd reached the floor with the doctor's office, but in my mind it was better than the alternative. The doctor made an exaggerated effort to show me that he'd pushed another button. "Come on, Mr. Nightlinger. I've pushed the emergency stop button. We're not going anywhere. We'll just stand here in the elevator for a minute."

I took small steps toward him and finally entered the car, staying just inside the doors. I quickly stepped back out into the lobby. "There," I said. "Are you happy now?"

The doctor stepped out after me. "Mr. Nightlinger," he said, "it's just an enclosure that goes up and down on a cable. Nothing more, nothing less. You're in no danger, Mr. Nightlinger. People use them every day all around the world. Come on, just stand next to me for a few seconds and we'll gradually work our way up from there. You have to make the first step toward your own recovery."

I felt a little silly now. The receptionist and two other people in the waiting area were starting to look at me. I followed the doctor back into the elevator and closed my eyes. I took deep breaths and opened my eyes again. The seconds felt like hours as I stood there next to my psychiatrist. My stomach was in knots, but I was doing it. I was actually standing in an elevator.

"Ready for step two?" the doctor said, looking me square in the eye.

"Step two?"

"It's simple, really," the doctor said. "We take a short ride, down one floor and back."

I jumped out of the car in one stride. "No."

The doctor tried to reason with me and pushed the emergency stop button again, releasing it. "Mr. Nightlinger," he said from within the confines of the car, "just wait here for a moment. I'll take that ride by myself. Then you can take the next one with me. Okay?"

I said nothing as the doors closed and the lights above the elevator flashed, indicating that the car was moving down one floor. It returned to my floor in thirty seconds and the doors opened again to reveal the doctor still standing there, peaceful as a sleeping dog.

"Nothing to it," the doctor said, urging me to join him. "Come on, Mr. Nightlinger. Once around the block?"

"I don't know, doc," I said wringing my hands and wiping them on the tops of my pants legs. "What if something goes wrong?"

"What can go wrong?" the doctor said. "It's perfectly safe." He beckoned again with his finger.

I edged forward one step and stopped. "Are you sure?"

"I'd bet my life on it," the doctor said.

The receptionist smiled at me and nodded. I took another step and stopped. The two people in the waiting room had been looking at me but both shifted their glances back to the magazines in their hands. I took another step toward the elevator. It was a big step for me. I wasn't sure I could do it, but I owed it to myself to try to get over my fears.

I started to take another step when I felt the rumble. The aftershock from yesterday's quake shook the potted plant off the receptionist's desk. It broke on the floor and scattered bits and pieces of the pot and black dirt everywhere. The receptionist screamed.

I looked toward the elevator. The doctor was still standing in the car, looking around at his surroundings. I heard the loud snap and watched as the elevator car plunged down toward the lobby. The doctor screamed all the way down. A few seconds later I heard the car crash to a stop.

I started for the stairway but stopped and turned back toward the reception desk. The doctor's appointment book was lying open to Wednesday's appointments. I grabbed a pencil and ran a line through my name. I didn't see the need for any more therapy. My fear of elevators was real enough and I'd just have to learn to live with it.

Just call me Klaus.