"Do you know what "safe" means?" The question is necessarily blunt, obviously important, yet I don't answer. Minutes of silence tick by. I get up, pace the small room. He just looks and waits. I sit on the floor in a corner, lean against a bookcase, pick up a small stuffed Curious George, and almost give in. "I know what unsafe means."

He laughs, sips his coffee, "That's not the question." Outside the parking lot is still empty, except for our two cars. The sky is only starting to lighten in the east. He's cheating to work with me, he's supposed to just be the staff psychiatrist, meeting with the patients of cheaper therapists once a quarter to review meds. For reasons unknown to me he's decided to tackle whatever haunts me. Which, for other reasons, other people have attempted to tackle from time to time,. So I sneak in at 6:30 each Tuesday morning, and am gone just before the secretaries arrive.

The subterfuge raises my sense of obligation. I attempt to be much less surly than I usually am in therapy situations. So I say, "No, it's not, but, I thought I did." And he just says, "C'mon," and I say, "OK, no, and no."

If you give rats food every time they push a lever they'll do fine. If you give them a shock every time they push a lever, even then they'll do fine. But if sometimes they get food and sometimes they get a shock from the same lever, they go crazy, and sometimes they die.

Or they'll think that's the way life should be.

"How committed to chaos are you?" I look up at him. "What?" "How committed to chaos are you?" "Pretty committed." "Bullshit answer." "Very committed?" "Still bullshit, but at least accurate." "What?" "You're right, of course, but you're not actually admitting it." "I don't want to admit it." "No you don't."

"You seem to pick women based solely on their ability to thrill. You pick woman who have already told you that they will break your heart. You respond to every relationship step by over-reacting one way or the other. You do the same sort of shit at work."

"I guess," I answer because that seems like a question, "I swim in insanity."

"Tell me," he says, "about a time when you felt totally safe." "Totally safe?" "Totally safe." "For how long?" "Doesn't matter." "Totally safe?" "Totally safe." I climb off the floor, stand up, go back to the couch, sit down. "I remember," I begin, "I remember being about ten and spending a weekend with my aunt and uncle. I think we were out in the woods somewhere at a little house my aunt's mom had owned." I haven't thought about that in almost twenty years. I'm surprised by the weight and detail of the memory. It now rises up in all of my senses, from the morning chill on my skin to the smell of goats from a nearby farm. He rolls a pencil around his fingers but says nothing. "It was both so quiet and so open," I finally add, "I think I was just comfortable."

He asks me to describe the weekend and I let it all roll out. Swimming with my cousins in a damned stream, listening to my aunt play the piano at night, running through the forest, eating dinner on a screened porch.

I think he will ask what makes it safe, but he doesn't. He just listens. I don't think he even writes a note. When I'm done he picks his watch up off the table, looks at it, puts it back down, and I say, "Someone should write a book, you know. I should've had a book." "What book?" "Safety for Boys," I say, "you know, a guide, the rules."

"Go home," he says. "Or to work?" I ask. "Wherever," he says, "and start writing it. Not for yourself, because you won't think that way. Write it for some other boy, some boy now, who's only made a few of the mistakes so far." "Why?" "Because you need to. Because someone should have written it down for you." "Would that have helped?" I'm up, on my feet, pulling my jacket on. "Not at all," he says. "You won't even read big flashing warning signs, much less a book."

I walk outside, get in the car. As I pull from the driveway into the street the secretary is turning in. I drive to work, which is the way most of my days begin.

Ira Socol