ABSTRACT
Jack lurched through the door for our first session, walking like a man negotiating underbrush at twilight, lifting up his legs as if he feared falling down. He wore an old-fashioned brown suit set off with a bright yellow bowtie. His flattop haircut and thick-rimmed black glasses framing his pale face made him look even more like he’d stepped out of the 1950s. He plopped down awkwardly on the couch opposite me (Dr. Knafo),1 and his bright blue eyes slowly scanned the room; I had the impression he was taking in every detail. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands, first placing them on his knees, then alongside him on the couch, and finally deciding to hide them by folding his arms across his chest. After all this, he looked at me, forced a smile, and emitted a long sigh. “So, I guess we should start with my story,” he said, leaning back in his seat while looking anything but relaxed.
