Dr. Scalioni looked at me through a layer of skin that barely disgusied his contempt. I was convinced, and am still convinced to this day, that Dr. Scalioni held all of his patients in contempt.
I went to see Dr. Scalioni on Tuesdays. His office was in a brownstone on a tree-lined street, and in the winter, the sky shone in a deep red behind the houses as the city of New Haven slumped into twilight.
I began to see Dr. Scalioni because I learned that the Universe would someday become inhospitable to life. This was a traumatic moment for me.
My first meeting with Scalioni went something like this:
“So, Mr. Fishman, what brings you here?”
“Well, as I understand it, the Universe is getting colder, which means someday we’re all going to freeze to death.”
Scalioni’s eyes brightened in a manner designed to signify “encouragement.” “Really?” he said, leaning closer to examine his subject, “tell me about that.”
It was pretty much downhill from there. Over time, Scalioni and I grew to hate each other – I hated him because he could not stop the Universe from freezing, and he hated me because I exposed him as a fraud.
The universe is expanding, and the molecules that make up the universe are stretching further and further apart. The amount of energy in the universe is winding down, like a clock that has unwound, but there is no one to wind it up again. This means that the universe is getting colder. Someday, the universe will be nothing more than a sea of dead atoms shooting further and further into the black. Life of any kind, even the most extreme kind, will no longer exist. When life is no more, no one will be lef to marvel at the universe.
Needless to say, I was disturbed by this. This is how my first meeting with Dr. Scalioni began:
“So,” said Scalioni, “what brings you here?”
“I know the universe will end and I’m scared.”
“I see.”
“I’m really flipping out.”
“Tell me about that.”
Dr. Scalioni had thick belly and a scragly white beard. He looked like Santa Clause, if Santa Clause were a sex offender, or perhaps just a dirty old man. I was sitting in Sr. Scalioni’s chair now, talking about my problems. I did this every Tuesday at 4:00.
Scalioni’s office was in a brownstone not far from campus. Inside it was full of books and a strange yellow light that filled the room and made the doctor look even creepier than he already was. Behind his head was a large clock that was there to remind you how much time you had left. This much I’ll give Scalioni: he always called time, but he never seemed comfortable with it.
The beginning of my sessions with Scalioni always begin this way: I would sit down in the leather chair in his study, and he would sit in a chair directly across from me. Before he sat down, he would grab his foot and pull it under his rear-end so that when he sat down, he was sitting on one leg and it looked like a foot was growing out of his butt. It was one of Scalioni’s many eccentricities.
On this particular day, Scalioni was looking at me reproachfully. He didn’t look reproachful often – I think they are taught not to look that was in psychology school – but it happened on occasion.
“I havn’t seen you in a while,” said Scalioni.
“I know,” I said. It was true. “I went to see the Pope.”
This is true. Over spring break I’d gone to see the Pope. He lives in Kansas with his mother, Fran, in a small town called [] which is [xxy] miled away from Wichita. [
