Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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I talked to Dr. Pingitore several times before out first meeting. I wanted to make absolutely sure there would be no misunderstandings: like that I would learn at the minute that he didn’t do the type of evaluation I needed, after all. It was odd, though, because I kept giving him the land-line phone number for Leslie’s house, to contact me at. I repeatedly explained that my cell phone got poor reception up there on the hill. In fact, I drummed him with that information, all but shouting “please call the %4@&* land line, when you call”. But he never called on that phone. He always called my cell phone.
One must wonder about these muddled minds at work: these PPG evaluators with their instruments; these lawyers with their notes, and now these Psychologists, with their phones…
It was no surprise that he insisted on knowing the specifics of my case before we started. That meant that his would not be a neutral investigation either: that it seemed des-tined to buttress an agenda. So I put him in touch with Wally to get the paperwork on me.
Then I contacted Wally, to tell him that I didn’t think the court was entitled to know anything about my evaluation, except that I had completed it. I said that I had not contracted with the court or the prosecutor to tell them anything about my history or any specifics about the events with Corissa.
But he fired back a consternated e-mail to me, spinning some nonsense about how the court needed that information in order to see whether I was complying with my terms. But no they didn’t, I argued: they only needed to know that I had completed the thing.
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Back on the Internet, I came upon a picture of Dr. David Pingitore. I could not believe my eyes. I knew him! He was the guy I’d worked with in a restaurant in San Francisco almost twenty years before. I told you about him: the guy I’d recognized that day in the Bakery, when I’d been working there. Yes, he was that man who had become a Psychotherapist, while I had come to nothing— and who had told me that he had his own practice— “not too far from here”.
I saw that as a potential problem— because it might create a suspicious circum-stance to get my PS Evaluation from someone I once knew. But on second thought, my PIA agreement had not stipulated that it be from someone I didn’t know— but only that I not find him via Leslie’s connections. Ha! So I was safe again, perhaps: especially if no one ever found out.
Besides, I hadn’t even liked him when I knew him— so it would be difficult to argue that I’d sought him out for a favorable resolution.
But what if he should recognize me? What if he were to say “I’m sorry, but I cannot do this evaluation”— because it might look suspicious on his part as well. Oh shit!
But I was running out of time. I had to do my evaluation with him.
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So on the day of our first meeting I was nervous for two reasons. First was that I was about to have my whole profile delved into: my dysfunctions exposed, that is— all of them! And secondly was that he might recognize me, and call the whole thing off.
Well recognize me he did, as I walked in his office door. He squinted, and asked “Do I know you?” But thinking quickly on my feet— for once— I said “Maybe you’ve seen me down at Gaylord’s”. I told you that was one of the hip Oakland Coffee Houses I liked to hang out in— and it was right down the block from him. Fortunately to that he said “Ah, okay”, as he raised his brows in assent. So that was that— and I was safe.
I noticed that he waddled a bit, as he proceeded to his chair. It struck me as an affectation, though: like something that an old Viennese professor might have done. So perhaps he took it all too seriously, I decided.
We sat in his private office, in chairs that faced each other. But he said that before we got started he wanted to turn a video-recorder on. He said he wanted to have every-thing recorded— in case there was any question later about who’d said what to whom.
But I declined. I told him that the case was over; that nothing I said was of any further concern to the court; that it was me who was hiring him to do the testing— and not the state of Utah; that as far as I was concerned, all I’d contracted for with the State of Utah was to get the evaluation done— that the result of that evaluation was not even theirs to know. The only thing that was theirs to know, I asserted, was that I had completed it: that I had fulfilled my terms, I mean. Therefore, there was no reason to record our conversations.
He accepted that, and even seemed to respect it. Then he pledged to respect my privacy anyway. So that part done, and minus the video, we launched into our session.
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We had three face-to-face sessions, which lasted for a total of five hours.
In those sessions I disclosed many things: about my financial situation, of course— and about the injury I’d sustained to my arm. I said I would need surgery— and that for that, I might even go over-seas. I said that if all goes well with that, that I’d like to go back to Breck for the winter.
Then we got down to nuts and bolts. I told him all about myself— including that I’d written my autobiography already— which was true. I said that since everything about my life was already in that unpublished book, that I had no reason to hold back.
I told him about my family, my education, substance experimentations, social history … you name it. Sexual history? Well yes, of course I told him about that too. After all, that was the whole point. But there was nothing very shocking there.
I told him I’d been a late bloomer: that in my life I’d had a half-dozen girlfriends, and a bunch of brief affairs— and that I’d never had a connection with an under-age girl— until I’d met Corissa; that I had no history of coercion, force, or threats, or any related thing. But along those lines I did tell him about a trio of experiences I’d had though: in 1984, 89, and ’92.
The first two were incidents in which the woman I was with thought I’d come on too strong. But that they had communicated that to me, and that I had therefore stopped. Yes, I remembered both their names. And in both cases I was sorry it didn’t work out. The third one, however, was a little bit different. In that case I came on strong again. But her protest was only cursory, and so I’d pushed the issue— and that in spite of that we’d ended up going out for a year. We became a couple, I mean, after that confusing heavy-handed beginning. Yes, that was confusing, I said: it had seemed to put the lie to many commonly claimed things.
But I told him that I’d been in a different era of my life for the last half dozen years— and that the women I was interested in were primarily in their forties, now. And that I wouldn’t even want to be in a situation where there was a question about whether I should be scheming to coerce them. I clarified that the whole issue had long since become moot.
Then I told him the story of Corissa, leaving nothing out. That meant I finally felt free to include the first part of the story— that I’d heretofore been expected to omit… about my suicidal musings, I mean. It meant I was free to tell the conclusion of the story, too—the part I’d been repeatedly told was not germane. On that note, I rhetorically asked Dr. P. “At what point in all of this was I supposed to be able to tell my story?”
I told him how I’d ejaculated when Corissa had tried to mount me— and about how I’d grabbed her in defense.
“What was the ejaculating about?” he asked me— which I thought was a strange question. My answer was “I was hoping you could tell me”. I’d been hoping that a sex specialist would bring me relief there—no pun intended— to assure me that that had happened out of fear.
Then, when I told him about our hike on the hill, and the hand-in-hand ascent, he asked “So your perception was that you were helping the young lady?” That stunned me because he asked it as though my perception should be in doubt there: as though others would be—or were— in the throes of a different opinion… and as though their opinion about that was somehow scored on a par with mine. “I WAS helping her”, I insisted. Hell: that wasn’t a matter of differing perceptions— I knew what was true! So I thought it was strange that he asked me that in quite that way. Unless…
Unless, of course, he’d been briefed about my case by Wally— and that the ascent upon the hill was still a sticky point… a point Wally still did not believe me about, that is.
Thinking that thought, then, I got a little paranoid again— because if that sudden insight was correct then that would suggest that the evaluation Wally claimed the court needed was not really necessary for the court at all. He wanted for himself, to see if I’d been lying about that.
(Yeah: why would Wally have been so interested in the “truth” about that ascent anyway? The case was over, and the information wouldn’t benefit him at all. So perhaps it was as I said: that he wanted to know whether I’d been lying…perhaps it was not only for himself. Perhaps it was part of some secret pact he had made with Eric Lind? Naah…)
Anyway, no sooner had I disclosed that nugget about the hike than Dr. P. steered me back to the part where she came outside the Library, and asked me for a ride. (Perhaps “they” hadn’t believed that either— “they” being the players who seemed to be in cahoots.) So I started to tell it again. But he interrupted me to ask: “Surely at point during all of this you became aware of her age?” His abrupt question there was more a scolding than an asking, though— and I felt cowed for a moment, before answering “Yes, I did”. Then, so as to not let the moment pass, I said “It felt like you were scolding me just then”. He apologized for the perception, and said that he had not meant to do that.
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In addition to just talking, Dr. Pingitore gave me a battery of tests: the MMPI, the Millon, and the Rorschach— the famous ink-blot tests.
The MMPI, or Minnesota Multi-Phasic personality Inventory, is something with which I will not bore you. Let me just say it is an enormously lengthy test: a number-two-pencil-color-the-dots test, of nearly 500 questions. I did not mind the idea of taking that test, though— because if something important were to be revealed by it, then I most surely wanted to know.
That desire did not prevent me, however, from questioning its results—and expressing my questions to Dr. Pingitore right after I took the test. That was because the test repeated the same questions many times. I already knew why that was, though: it was a “lie factor”, to catch the test-taker in any lies. But in my case any inconsistency wasn’t a matter of lies: it was that I had been so traumatized by the legal process that my percep-tions were in flux; some of the things I had heretofore held true of human nature I was actively questioning then— and I didn’t know how to “score” them anymore. Once again I was operating under the illusion that a good administrator would know how to factor such things in.
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The Millon test— which I had not heard of— was just more of the same— but with a lot fewer questions.
The Rorschach was much more interesting to me.
All I knew of the Rorschach was what is in the popular lore— that the amorphous shapes displayed there contain a lot of sexual images: penises, vaginas, and the like. So I expected to see those things there… And since I did not believe myself to be a deviant, I felt no need to pretend I did not see them— if I did. I did not feel a need to throw the test, is what I mean to say. Again, as with the PPG, if anything was truly wrong with me, then I really did want to know.
The proper way to administer the test is carefully circumscribed, I later learned. There are ten multi-colored cards in the Rorschach Ink Blot pack, and the administrator must show them to the subject in a certain order. In addition, he must hold them with a certain orientation as well. And that was exactly what Dr. Pingitore did.
As he showed them to me, he wrote down everything I said. Everything. Mean-while, I reported everything I saw. Vaginas? Yes: a trio of them. Penises? A single penis, yes. But the penis was appended to a big monstrous looking beast. And it did not appear to be an especially functional organ. It was barbed, and club-like— and if not for the presence of the appended beast, one might not think it looked like a penis at all.
I saw butterflies too (Hello, my old friends, and thanks for coming), and I saw all manner of little rodent-like beasts. I saw a number of other types of performers too— like dancing toasters, and cartoons. There was even an alligator snout, somewhere in there.
I can’t remember everything I saw— but there was quite a lot.
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When I got home after taking that test I got on-line and looked up the Rorschach test. What I found was quite instructive: for while the website claimed they could not show the actual colors of the cards— lest they be guilty of a copyright infringement— the outlines of the colored shapes were recognizably depicted there.
I assessed how I had fared. And my self-analysis was that I had fared quite well: that I’d noticed the obvious things, I mean. I had noticed the things that for not noticing I might have aroused suspicion— and I had ignored an “obvious” penis symbol that almost everyone ignores. What was more, my number of vagina sightings was within the normal range. In fact, almost everything I’d sighted there was fine— with one exception. It was that goddam alligator snout. Seeing the snout correlates with “hostility”, the Rorschach assessment said.
But hell— I was feeling hostile, and I’d even told Dr. P. as much. (Why would I not be feeling hostile? I’d had my life destroyed— over a misdemeanor. And I was still having to jump through hoops.) So even seeing that snout, I figured, was not bad for me!
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As we completed of our final session, Dr. Pingitore said two things. One was that he thought I’d had had “an acute depressive episode” on the morning I’d met Corissa. He concluded that I’d just said “To heck with the rules”, before I’d gone off with her.
But I did not cop to that, because I did not think that it was true. “I do not have a strong sense of having said to heck with the rules”, I told him.
I was not a depressive person anyway. I mean, I seldom got depressed— before this endless tribulation came my way. Okay: maybe I’d experienced some low level depression at times— but nothing that had resulted in any “episodes” before. That’s one of the reasons that my depression on the morning of the crime had been so significant.
The second thing he said was “I’m going to recommend you take three to six months counseling”. And at that I almost jumped with glee. That was great news! “We don’t want to make this too hard on you”, he added. He was deferring to my financial situation. Then I was done with Dr Pingitore— except for the report… Or so I thought.
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I hung out in Oakland for a month, again. Another month. What would I have done without them? Leslie and Jeff, I mean. I gush with praise— it’s true: but their generosity to me cannot be overstated.
Chelsea seemed to have forgiven me too: for having trashed their car.
I went to her eighth grade graduation, at the Julia Morgan Middle School. Joy-fully I watched a class full of lovely young women— teens and pre-teens— matriculating there. They were a delightful sight too. And even though they were on the cusp of young womanhood, I had no secret desire to have sexual relations with any of them— just in case you might be wondering. Instead I saw them as members of a different generation— as they were— with hopes and dreams that rightly belong there: with heartbreaks and joys yet to come— and that belonged to me only as a spectator— to their unfolding lives….And as it rightly belongs to an older person, thrilled, but for their sakes: for their youth and for the lives of hope they have before them— all poised to unfurl. So yes, I certainly appreciated their beauty— but only as a proud father might appreciate the same.
Nothing more was there. There never had been any more.
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There was another event at that time too, that called for my presence. It was the B’nai Mitzvahs. Chelsea had decided to have a Bat Mitzvah, and Jeff decided that he would go along as well, since he hadn’t had the Bar-Mitzvah ceremony in his youth. So it was to be a father-daughter affair. A Bar and a Bat: thus the plural: B’nai!
It was a lovely ceremony, at a historic site in Oakland. But I will not elaborate…
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The garage-razing project was put on hold for one more year, because of some red tape about the accessibility of the streets: fire-trucks had to be able to get up there, of course, so there were issues involved with adding new in-law apartments. It seems that every part of the route from the Fire House to that new addition had to be twenty-four feet wide. And if there was a narrower part, then that had to be posted with “No parking” prohibitions. That was the snafu.
On the whole, that sounded like a sensible law— especially after the devastating fire of ‘91, which I’d been around for. But why did they aim the restriction just at in-law apartments: especially when off street parking had to be provided anyway? But I digress. I guess I had a newer awareness of the law then: of stupid and arbitrary ones especially.
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I called Salt Creek in the middle of June, reaching Don, and asked if I could come back. But he said they were about to reopen already, and already had their summer crew.
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Back in my San Francisco days one of my above-bar residences had been near Mel Belli’s office, and I would see him walking around the neighborhood from time to time. Once I’d even had an amusing brief exchange with him. At the time of the events with which this account deals, however, Mel was long since dead— but his office was still up and running. So I called it, reaching an Attorney there.
I felt a bit silly, and apologized in advance for the information I was seeking— since I was basically asking the man to help me locate someone who had reportedly sued his office for $22 million. Yes, I was searching for Paul Brookstein Well the man on the other end of the phone chuckled, in acknowledgement of the oddness of what I’d asked. But he did not sound curt, nor malicious, nor annoyed. He merely told me that he had never heard of Paul. And he denied having been on the receiving end of any such lawsuit.
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Around that time I happened upon a Jane Fonda television interview, conducted by Tim Russert. I say I happened upon because that wasn’t the sort of thing I would normally watch. Tim Russert, yes: Jane Fonda, no. But there it was, and there I was too: enraptured, even, by what Fonda was saying. She was speaking about sexually abused young women—and she said such women exude a “certain luminosity.” Wow!
Her words really struck home— because they described Corissa, on the morning when I’d met her. They had identified a quality in Corissa that I had never been able to describe: the glow about her, I mean— the energizing effervescence, that in her presence I had so acutely felt. Yes, Jane Fonda had nailed it: it was “a certain luminosity”!
And just how strange was that? How, I mean, should that new information affect my understanding? It had certainly introduced another wrinkle into the equation: because Fonda had spoken to a glaring but yet unexplored facet of our encounter.
I still don’t know quite what to make of that— but I hope someday I will find out!
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Since I’d hurt my arm, my parents invited me to stay with them for awhile. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to work anymore— ever again. I wasn’t as upset about that as I might have been, though— because I’d just finished going through so much worse. Okay, so I’d have a lame arm for the rest of my life? Big fuckin’ deal!
But I wanted to get the arm fixed, so I decided to check the hospitals around the Bay Area, to see if there was some kind of an Indigent Care program where I could get it fixed for free. I’d already contacted some private clinics, which wanted ungodly amounts of money.
Anyway, I hadn’t had a prolonged visit with my folks since I’d had the Guillain-Barre’ Syndrome eight years before. They were getting “older” too, so I thought a long visit would be a good idea in any event. So I went down to Belmont, and stayed for a month.
Both long-since retired, my father had been a Stockbroker, and my mother an Office Manager. My mother had for years been doing volunteer work, though— in the Redwood City hospital where I’d been born. She’d slowed down a lot though, and so had my father— ever since he’d had the prostate cancer.
I did a bunch of chores around the house while I was there. And they fed me and gave me a bed— so it was an agreeable arrangement. It was a very nice experience, really, which I am grateful to have had.
I twitched uncontrollably, while I was there, though… Still twitched, that is— only worse. But neither of them mentioned it. It was not my parents who were exacerbating that tic anyway. It was Dr. Pingitore. I was wondering what he would have to say. I told you my folks knew I’d been through something heavy— though neither yet knew what it was. And during the month I lived there, I still didn’t tell them. I was still too ashamed.
I went to Chope Memorial Hospital in nearby San Mateo, where there was an Indigent Care. But there were some things I did not like about their program: one was that I had to pay a couple hundred dollars just to get onto some list… I don’t even know exactly what it was anymore, but it was bullshit to me. The other was that I would have to sign a form agreeing that if I ever came across some money— and was thus able to pay them back— that I would have to do so. On the whole, I really don’t think that’s too bad of a condition. But I was not ready to do that. I didn’t want this era to have repercussions extending so far into my future.
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I visited some other old folks while I was in my old neighborhood. Like the next-door neighbors, the Zellmers, who were about the same age as my folks. As I visited with them their television was on because the Michael Jackson verdicts were coming in.
I also visited Larry and Edith Walpole, in the adjacent town. The parents of my brother’s closest friend, I’d known them since I’d been about ten. I never knew a great deal about Edith, unfortunately, but I was always fascinated by Larry. The man deserves a book unto himself. But until I write that, he will not be my story.
I’m mentioning these visits because having been confronted with the fleeting aspect of time, through all of this, I’d been motivated me to visit the old folks. The short-ness of life was another thing I’d been forced to face, in my traumatic reconfiguration.
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Dr. Pingitore’s bill arrived in the middle of the month. For his testing, consulting, interpreting, and compiling, he charged me $2000! The bill was sent to Leslie’s house, of course, and dated the thirteenth of the month—but because I still hadn’t paid it on the twenty-third, Dr. Pingitore got pissed off and sent Wally an angry note. He threatened to take legal action against me, and even threatened to talk to the Judge. To that, Wally responded in kind, by sending me an angry missive of his own. It was an email lecture: “What are you thinking?” was both its title and its tone. And it related all that I have just said— about the threats, I mean.
I responded to Wally immediately. I said that the bill had gone to Leslie’s house— and that I didn’t think ten days to pay was a terribly long time. What was more, he was asking for a great deal of money: far more, in fact, than I thought I’d understood that it would be… and that all that notwithstanding, the check was in the mail. So Dr. Pingitore could cool his heels, I said. (Well I did not actually say the doctor could “cool his heels”— but the rest of that was true)
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
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Soon after that I got the Doctor’s report in the mail. Leslie called from Oakland, to tell me it was there. So I drove over and fetched it— stopping, of course, at Gaylord’s on the way.
The report was very official looking: very formatted: with sections and subsections, headings and subheadings. It was 17 pages long!
Rest assured I will not reprint it in it’s entirety, because much of it is repetitious— both to you and within itself. And much of it is written in a technical techno/psycho-babble. Finally some bits of it are personal stuff that has no bearing on this…report.
But I will cull large passages out from what he said.
My comments will be couched between parentheses.
He described me as a middle-aged man of above-average height and thin build. (Yikes: middle-aged?! But I guess that’s what I am!) He commented on my grooming, saying it was adequate and presentable. And he commented on my dress, saying that I wore clean and appropriate, though somewhat old clothes. He also said that I had appeared nervous, at our sessions, but that— given my legal status— that anxiety was understandable. And he characterized me as having been frank and honest, about all these things: in relating all the aspects, that is, with which this report deals.
He included a “History of the Incident”, in which he summarized what I have already told: the story of Corissa and myself, that is. But he got some things wrong there. (Don’t worry- I will get to them!)
He gave my criminal and legal history, which as you know, was very short- being limited to this incident. And he included sections on Family History, Social History, and Substance Abuse. I’m not going to go into these things- and I do not think they matter to this story- except to tell you that there was no violence or sexual abuse in my family history.
He reported that I had been in Therapy before. And he didn’t neglect to include— I’m very glad to say— that it was always on my own volition.
Dr. Pingitore also highlighted my interaction with Dr. Maram. He reported that I had slept in my car the night before the test. He said that Dr. Maram did note however, that I did not appear unkempt. But Dr. M. too had expressed that I had seemed mildly anxious. And he too characterized that anxiety as “appropriate— for this type of assessment.” (You’re damned right it is! And there’s that word again).
He reported that Dr. Maram had asked me why a 47-year old man would want to have sexual relations with what I reported was an 18 year-old girl. He said that I was unable to answer the question. (Patience: I will get to that one too)
And he related what the purpose of the plethysmograph test was: “…to assess age, gender, and violent versus nonviolent sexual preferences”. (Riiigght!)
Dr. P averred that the plethysmograph presentation had included both audio and visual stimuli. (That was not correct.)
Finally, for that section, and under the sub-heading “Results”, Dr. P reported these findings— made by Dr. Maram, about me:
“His responses to non-violent sex with females of different ages were primarily to adult females. He achieved significant arousal for sexual vignettes involving a male and female child and an adolescent female” (Male and female CHILD?). “However, his average response was greatest to co-operative sex with adult females.” (I will also get to this)
He said: “According to Dr. Maram, Mr. Burton’s arousal pattern does not fit the usual profile for a pedophilia index”. (And there was no goddam surprise there!)
But he said that his consultation with Dr. Maram had revealed that my test results suggested that I “exhibit the potential for generating ideas of forcible sex with children and adolescents”. (Yeah: bollox and bullshit to that. And what does “potential to generate” mean anyway? Is that like saying that every one of us is capable of murder?)
Then, having reported Dr. Maram’s findings, he expostulated his own:
Regarding the MCMI-III, and the MMPI-2, he outlined the personality traits they tested for. But it was all highly technical, and I did not understand those. I could, however, understand his comments upon their validity:
Regarding the MCMI-III, he said: “Mr. Burton’s responses to this test were likely valid. There was no significant evidence of an effort to present either social desirability or social debasement”.
And regarding the MMPI, he found that my profile is “probably valid”. Maybe “probably” is as much as they dare assert.
Anyway, here are some of Dr. P’s conclusions, culled in turn from MCMI, the MMPI, and then at last the Rorschach:
MCMI:
“The following paragraphs refer to… enduring and pervasive personality traits …Rather than focus on…transitory symptoms…this test concentrate(s) on… more likely habitual and maladaptive methods of relating, behaving, thinking., and feeling.
Most notable (are Mr. Burton’s) feelings of dejection, interpersonal anxiety, a marked deprecation of self-worth, and a willingness to be demeaned and placed in an inferior light.” (Ouch! But on the other hand— how could I not feel those ways!) “Although he may be pained by the fact that others seem to exploit and mistreat him, he persists in desiring closeness and affection, and he may achieve the latter through acts of self-sacrifice.” (Interesting! I had certainly achieved a kidnap charge through self-sacrifice!)
“His thinking may be occasionally distracted and confused, and there is a pervasive concern with social rejection and humiliation that may be often intensified by his tendency to elicit rejection from others”.(Wow!) “Characteristic traits may include… a general tendency to undermine constructive opportunities.…he may assume a passive role in which he inadvertently provokes difficulties and then justly feels mistreated”. (Okay: who has he been talking to?) “His self-image of weakness, fragility, and ineffectuality may often make ordinary stresses and responsibilities seem excessively demanding”. (Hey: what happened to all the “somewhat”s?) “Moreover, he may spend time re-collecting past misfortunes, and he may be disposed to anticipate future difficulties.” (He hit that one on the head!) “His air of martyrdom may be a deceptive façade, however; (I would have used a colon) it may overlie a dysphoric mixture of inhibited resentment and anxiety.” (Ummm???. Well I do have a lot of resentment and anxiety!) “Consequently, self-destructive acts may occur”. (Such as?)
“…he may be frequently self-absorbed, lost in daydreams, and distracted by inner thoughts that intrude on his social communication.” (Self-absorbed, lost in daydreams, and distracted by inner thoughts… Boy, you’d think any two of those would be plenty!) “…he may stir up fractious encounters in which his shortcomings are exposed, a rather perverse form of expiation.” (I would have used a colon again— or a dash!) “Such discordant acts preclude a socially rewarding and consistent lifestyle… As a result, he may drift further into (a) self-sabotaging and ineffectual life pattern.” (Oh, like my future hasn’t already been destroyed?)
MMPI:
“The resulting clinical profile is an adequate indication of his present, rather than longstanding, personality functioning”. (Thank you Doc, for that.) “(The) profile suggests that he is experiencing chronic psychological difficulties characterized by personality traits of impulsivity combined with compulsive behavior. His symptom pattern is somewhat contradictory, reflecting a tendency toward acting-out behavior along with feelings of guilt and concern about his actions. Mr. Burton is probably somewhat anxious and had doubts about him (sic) at this time, but this does not seem to control his impulsive behavior. There was no evidence of a thought disorder or of delusional thinking.” (Well I’m happy about that, at least.)
“…he experiences some conflicts regarding his sex-role identity and may be somewhat passive in his orientation about life.” (Maybe. But aren’t most of us similarly conflicted?) “He may appear somewhat insecure in a male-oriented role, and may be uncomfortable in relationships with women.” (Ouch!) “He tends to be somewhat submissive in interpersonal relationships.” (That’s an awful lot of “somewhat”s.) “In addition… he may feel somewhat estranged and alienated from people” (Damn right). “He is suspicious of the actions of others, and may tend to blame them for his negative frame of mind”. (Bingo!)
“…Mr. Burton’s scores are similar to (those of) individuals who are somewhat dependent, tending to manipulate others, perhaps in a passive-aggressive way. He may also disregard others’ feelings, although he may express superficial remorse over his actions”. (And what, exactly, did he mean by that?)
RORSCHACH:
“The results…suggest that (Mr. Burton) demonstrates generally good abilities to perceive events conventionally, to form accurate impressions of himself, and to interpret the actions and intentions of others without serious distortion” (You mean I’m not paranoid?) “However, he demonstrated some difficulty in thinking logically and coherently, being generally less capable than most people of coming to reasonable conclusions about relationships between events and maintaining a connective flow of associations in which ideas follow each other in a comprehensible manner.” (I don’t know what he even means. But I think my critical thinking faculties are pretty well developed.) “…he likely is a person who appears to lack a consistent and well-defined coping style” (I likely appear? Is that like likely seeming to appear? Sorry.)
“He…switches back and forth between expressive/emotional and ideational/ cognitive ways of dealing with this experience…” (Interesting, and I don’t know.) “Such people tend to have difficulty making decisions because they vacillate between paying attention to their minds and paying attention to their instincts”. (True: and hasn’t this whole ordeal been a paean to that fact!) “In solving problems, people such as this often show neither concerted efforts to think them through or sustain trial and error experimentation.” (What do you think of that, dear reader?)
“In addition, he appears to be experiencing a great deal of stress…” (No shit, Sherlock!) “Furthermore, among his upsetting feelings there is the presence of some painful internalized effects that have a sad and dysphoric quality of likely longstanding origin.” (I don’t know what dysphoria is, but he’s assessed its presence twice!)
“…he appears to be inclined to address feelings on an intellectual basis, rather than directly, as means of minimizing their impact on himself and other(s).”(And others?) And do you think I’d have stayed out of prison without addressing my troubles intellec-tually? Hello!) “…emotionally charged situations may lead to some misperceptions… He also appears to possess the capacity for an active fantasy life…In that regard, his (number of ) perceptions of female body parts (on the Rorschach) are far higher than usual…This perceptual style may reflect Mr. Burton’s ongoing unconscious preoccupation with women as representing partial objects or seeing them primarily as objects of personal sexual gratification” (So I’m more obsessed with sex than the average Joe?) “There were no responses that gave evidence of…coercive or otherwise atypical…images or percep-tions with females of any age. At the same time, his productions…were characterized by an intense fear of attack by powerful forces in the external environment, feeling(s) of being incapacitated in his attempts to deal with his current problems, as well as a fear of being substantially punished with little ability to self-defense. (And all that should surprise… whom?)
“At the same time, Mr. Burton demonstrated an active capacity for… introspect-tion. He has a moderate level of self-awareness that contributes to his being cognizant of how best to meet his own needs and reasonably open to reconsidering his self-image and impressions about himself.” (Whadda’ ya’ mean, moderate self-awareness?)
The last section of his report was a section called Review and Discussion. But a discussion intended with whom, I was not sure. Anyway, there he said these things: “On the date in question, Mr. Burton reportedly was rebuffed by a potential employer. The incident appeared to trigger an acute depressive episode that included intermittent suicidal thoughts, demoralization, and possible dissociative episodes.”
Then he enlisted his “Treatment recommendations”
“It is my opinion that Mr. Burton should first consider securing stable employment and housing as a necessary first step in his participation in subsequent treatment.” He mentioned that I might be eligible for re-hire at Salt Creek. (But listen to this:) I recommend that Mr. Burton first secure employment with either that employer, another employer in the same city, or with an employer in his present location.” (Sheesh! Did all that mean that I should not go someplace else besides those places- or was that just circumlocutious pseudo-speak for “Get a job?!”…And did that mean that he got to direct my movements, too: that my Evaluator’s recommendations got to extend to the matter of WHERE I LIVE as well? Oh, the sneaky bastards!)
He said that “the presence of stable and secure housing and employment might provide the structures to prevent a renewed sense of social isolation, and a recurrence of impulsive and self-destructive behaviors.”… And on that claim, I thought he made sense.
Then he recommended me to therapy for a period of one year. ONE YEAR?!
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One year of counseling! Fuck! I’d been betrayed. And considering the volume of my personal stuff he’d blathered to the court I’d further been betrayed. He’d told them everything that I had told him. Everything. And after vowing to respect my privacy! Bah!
My stomach lurched and heaved again, and I was a-twitch for days.
But when I calmed down a bit I wrote him a (long) letter.
I expressed my disappointment over his betrayal. I said that I thought we’d had an understanding about my privacy issues— but that upon reading his report, I didn’t get the impression that he’d respected them at all. I cushioned that critique, however, by assuring him that overall I still felt pretty positive about him. Which was true.
And I took him to task for some of the things he had reported. He’d said, for example, that after Corissa had said that thing about making a baby, that I had sat down naked on the ground. So I reminded him that I had not done that at all: that. I had sat on the back of my car— and only semi-naked. I said that sitting on the ground naked would have been a very strange thing to do, and that it would have been a very awkward position in which to try to get my clothes on. What was more, I said, had I been sitting on the ground, I would have had time to see Corissa coming- and to have reacted sooner to her moves. I beseeched him to check his own notes about that— because I knew what I had said.
I also called him out on his claim that I had intended to have sexual relations with “Ms. Mumford” behind the water tower. I was sure that I had not said that either. In support of that, I said that “even believing sex was a likely outcome, I would not have declared any such intent”. I asked if that could be just his interpretation. Once again, I asked him to check his notes.
Then I expressed his disappointment over what he had omitted. Because when describing our ascent up on the hill he reported that I’d been trying to “take care of her” there, (A term which has another undesirable meaning— because “take care of her” is the language employed in old movies for knocking someone off) I said that without that omitted declaration that she loves me, that the point of our hike could hardly be understood.
Perhaps that’s the downside of not letting these people video-tape your conversation… It helps them take liberties with what you’ve really said!
Then I sounded off about the battery of tests themselves. But I concentrated on the one that Dr. Maram had given me. The PPG, that is. I expostulated upon the false reasoning I had perceived. And I urged him to listen to some of the PPG tapes himself, if he had never done so. I predicted that after doing that, he’d have to agree with me!
I made the same arguments there that I have made to you already: that the tests were aimed at what they sought to prove— and that it was no wonder I’d been exposed as responding so to “children”— since my “children” had been adults. I told him that since the good Dr. Maram had played exactly one tape with any homosexual theme, that he could not have drawn his conclusion about my response to “boys” on any other basis. So therefore I assumed he’d drawn the conclusion about the “girls” from the very adjacent tape: from the two tapes, that is, that called for envisioning the boys and girls as being “just the age you like them”.
I told him that I thought I could write a semi-scholarly exegesis to convince any thinking adult that they should not have confidence in that PPG. I was even so bold as to predict that someday they’d be as vilified as Cyril Burt’s archaic skull-volume intelligence tests. And I suggested that even Dr. Maram— though competent, I’m sure— must surely have his own reservations about the tests. I finished off that section by saying that the whole Sex Testing profession must have serious doubts about those tests as well— since for the most part they now used the ABEL!
I responded to Maram’s reported words too: that he’d asked me why I would even want to have sex with an eighteen year old girl. To that, I said that that activity was not even illegal; that had she been eighteen I wouldn’t have even been there with him (Maram) to have my motivations questioned; that therefore— unless they wanted to force me into the system because of one “issue” and then keep me there for another— that the very question had seemed inappropriate to me. And I said that Dr. Maram was not my PS Evaluator anyway: that it was therefore not his place to be asking me such things.
I said that I did not know what a “sad dysphoria” is— and that I didn’t realize I carried an “air of martyrdom” about me. I culled some other words from his digression, and said I didn’t know what he’d meant by them either. “But on the whole”, I said, the non-sexual parts of the evaluation ring so truly— that they “resonated so well with either secret fears, or with things that other people have accused me of over the years— that I thought that it all must be correct.” Then I said “Ah, but that stuff is not in the province of the PS Counselor though— is it?” I meant that I was open to counseling, but not with a Psychosexual Counselor. I asserted that I did not need that— and I said that my appeal should be especially trenchant inasmuch as Dr. Maram’s findings were at odds with his own findings.
Next I expressed concern that I’d fall into a particular scenario: that I would go to a PSC who invested tremendous time and energy into trying to get me to admit I had those issues; that I would be recalcitrant, and that he would therefore tell the court that I was not cooperating; that he’d hold me over for another six months, and then another…
I reminded him of his own words: that “we don’t want to make this too hard on you”— and that he’d told me “three to six months”. Furthermore— I reminded him— I wanted to return to Breckenridge for the winter- but that a year of counseling would pin me to one place. I said that as a result of his verbal recommendation I had started to make plans- but that his formal recommendation adversely affected those plans: that inasmuch as I’d made my plans after his verbal recommendation, that changing it did not seem fair.
I also reminded him that my arm would still need surgery, and that the expense of counseling would severely curtail that option for me. I told him I was still unemployed— and still enormously in debt. And I confided that my face was twitching all the time!
Finally, I implored him to change that recommendation back to what he’d said that it would be.
In other words, I was being belligerently myself— and fighting for the truth. But I was also being circumspect, which means I still held stuff back. I mean I didn’t challenge everything he’d gotten wrong in that report. Because there were several other things he’d gotten wrong there— and one of those things he’d gotten very wrong. It was that his claim that when Corissa came outside to drive my car that I’d learned then and there she was fifteen. I was afraid that if I challenged that mistake he’d get pissed off— and refuse to consider altering my recommendation.
I recollected the exchange with Dr. Pingitore in which we’d touched upon that issue: the one in which I’d told him I was feeling scolded by him. I’ve already described how that exchange went down. But upon revisiting it, I realized what the problem was. For what had been obscured, I reasoned then, in that exchange, was another misunder-standing. It was akin to the time when Clayton had asked me which side of Corissa I’d been on: when he’d been asking about when we were in the car, but I thought he meant in the Library. For you see, when Dr. P. had said “during all of this”, I thought he meant during the whole episode. Thus, when he’d asked me if “during all of this” I had learned that Corissa was 15, I had answered yes. But to him, apparently, “all of this” meant during the exchange outside the Library. He’d concluded that it was then I’d learned the girl was just fifteen.
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All this time I was staying with my folks in Belmont. But very soon I would have to move on: to get a job again— and a place of my own… And I was changing my mind about returning to Breckenridge. So I went through the same gymnastics I’d been through many times: indecision about where to live, and uncertainty about how to spend the next six months. Six months was as far as I could see.
I distributed résumés in Palo Alto and Mountain View. I even looked at rooms for rent— and a studio apartment too. I came very close to taking the studio— in East Palo Alto. I nearly took a room in San Francisco too—in a residential hotel I’d lived in before.
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Instead I went up my old stomping grounds in the San Lorenzo Valley: a redwood forested, stream-fed mecca in the Santa Cruz Mountains, where I had often stolen away. That range runs down the San Francisco Peninsula, like a spine. And the heart of the San Lorenzo Valley— the several charming little towns nestled in that valley— are about an hour and a half from Belmont by car. They had names like Brookdale, Ben Lomond, Felton, and Boulder Creek. Well I decided that I would live in one of those— so I kept my eyes open for “roommate wanted” signs.
But the topography up there was more agreeable to me than a congested peninsula option: more serene and natural, that is. And besides, goddam it— I really needed rest!
They had names like Brookdale, Ben Lomond, Felton, and Boulder Creek. Well I decided that I would live in one of those— so I kept my eyes open for “roommate wanted” signs.
I looked at a room in a house in Boulder Creek that had several other tenants. It cost $550 a month, though, which I feared would be too much. But when I saw the sunny corner room I’d get for that— and the redwood deck behind it- I had to take it— so I did. I was very happy there too.
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My housemates were Graham, Cindy, Ryan, and Jamie. But for half of every week, Cindy’s mother Betty lived with us too.
Cindy was 42, single, and the owner of the house we lived in. Ryan was her little boy, aged 2. I don’t know anything about Ryan’s father, though, and I never thought it was my place to ask.
Betty came up from Capitola, south of Santa Cruz, to help take care of Ryan. She slept on the living room couch. I loved Betty. What a fireball she was too— at 82: and interesting and informed. Cindy, on the other hand, seemed bitter all the time- and didn’t treat her mother very well: it was like her mother was obligated to help take care of the kid. Graham was a Scot, who tended bar at a local micro-brewery. He too had a child- a little daughter, named Fiona. She stayed with us two days a week. I liked Graham, even though I could hardly understand a singe word he said. (I guess the United States and Scotland truly are two countries separated by a common language.)
Then there was Jamie, sigh: 22 years old, pretty, sexy, and obviously smart. I say that because she had just completed a very competitive four-year course in X-ray technology at a local Junior College. And she was poised to start making a lot of money. So once again I rued the choices I had made.
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The next town down the road from Boulder Creek is Brookdale, home of the once world-famous “Brookdale Lodge”: featuring the rustic old dining room with a river flowing through it. My father used to take us there for vacations, when I was a boy, and I have loved it ever since. I had even worked there at two different times— during two different eras of my life— over the past twenty-three years!
And now it was a third time— because I got lucky right away and landed a waiter job there! Later that summer I picked up a couple other gigs too. One was at the Tyrolean Inn, in Ben Lomond, serving (of course) Tyrolean food there. The other was in Santa Cruz proper, where I worked doing banquets at Peachwood’s Steakhouse. That one became my main job. I preferred the other two jobs, but The Tyrolean Inn job was sporadic, and the Brookdale Lodge gig was part time— and temporary. And I had bills to pay, so I’d gotten the third one.
It should come as no surprise that I did my morning ruminations in local coffee houses, doing journal entries, crossword puzzles, and the like. My favorites were Coffee Nine in Ben Lomond, and the Blue Sun in “BC” itself. I had my eye on a couple of the women who worked in those too, but as usual I’m afraid the eyeing is all there is to tell.
Hwy. 9 runs through that valley and down to Santa Cruz. Well it was next to that highway— at the outskirts of Santa Cruz— that an old tannery complex was being trans-formed into an art center. On the grounds of that, to commemorate the countless cows who had so bravely given their lives, a guy named Kirby was erecting a bunch of gigantic papier-mâché cows. I espied one of them as I drove past, and chuckling, swung my car into the driveway— to inquire about my prospects for helping out.
Kirby said I could help. So I went there a couple times after that to help build those enormous beasts, and rubbed shoulders with several other people doing the same. Many of them were involved in the local arts scene, too, which excited me: I would want to break into that scene, eventually— if I should stick around.
Then, on the Pacific Garden Mall in Santa Cruz one day, drinking coffee, I met a professional song-writer named David Beaudry. One night after I drove him home he played me a couple songs he had written. I looked forward to pursuing his friendship too.
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Bret came down from Portland twice during this era. I was half insane about Dr. Pingitore’s recommendation— so I had called him for support, and he offered to come down. Aren’t friends great?! Thanks again, Bret.
We had a good time: swimming in the creek, eating burritos on the mall, and walking around amongst the papier-mâché cows. We talked about my situation, too.
“I don’t know how I’d do on that (PPG) test either”, Bret said. And he was right: any man should fear it. They are hell bent to find something, as I’ve already said.
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After several weeks I still had not received a reply from Dr. Pingitore, so I called him up. It turned out that he had not received my letter on his fax machine. (What is it with these Psychologists who can’t use phones or fax machines?) So I sent him another copy in the mail. But to it I added another page:
I said that he was right: that finding a place to live had helped tremendously; that I was no longer all a-twitch…And that all that being said, I had another point of his report to quibble with:
What must be the norm, I asked, regarding these Rorschach vagina sightings, that three such sightings was considered so far above it? Surely the norm is not merely one, I asserted. And if it’s two, then is three really so far above? Then I sent it off.
Well he actually received and responded to that letter. He even amazed me by saying that he could indeed envision altering my recommendation. But first he wanted me to send him a letter describing my employment situation. And he said he’d contact Wally to see if he’d already forwarded the report to the court. Then he proposed we meet once more to discuss the matter.
Right about that time I got a letter from Wally too. He said he had forwarded my report to the court. He also commented that my recommendation were “favorable”.
I wondered what “favorable” meant this time.
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I sent Dr. Pingitore the information he requested. I said that I was working at a restaurant in Santa Cruz, and that the management said they’d have plenty of work until the end of October. Then I said that nonetheless I still felt only marginally employed.
I told him Wally indicated that he’d already passed the report on to the court. But I informed him that my first Attorney had once said about the Judge that “a more fair-minded man is not to be found”. Therefore, I suggested, the Judge would probably receive a counseling alteration with equanimity.
And I said that my car was signaling its own imminent demise— so that I’d honestly prefer not to drive the hour and a half to see him again— but that if that were the deciding factor, I’d do it anyway.
I was heartened by his willingness to consider altering to my recommendation. Maybe I’d be spared that psychosexual juggernaut after all.
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I wrote a letter to the Utah ACLU to solicit help with my case. Despite taking that PIA, as you know, to me it was still far from over. But the ACLU wrote back to say they couldn’t help me.
I wrote a letter to the Utah Bar too. In that I requested information on under what circumstances a prosecutor might add a new charge.
Before long I got a response from a Sheradee Fleming. She said that she could not tell me the answer, because doing that would be giving me legal advise.
I thought that position was absurd— so I wrote her back, and said that that response was ridiculous. I averred that I’d only requested information— not interpretation. I likened her reply to having her come into my restaurant and asking where the bathroom is— and having me refuse to tell her, because I can’t give medical advise.
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But by far the most compelling part of the Boulder Creek era was the writing of this book: the completion of the first draft of it, I mean. Ah, but I boast! I sat down in my sunny room to start it on the 16th of July—just three days after I moved in. On September 15th I finished the first draft. So it only took me only two months to the day, to write 1.5 megabytes of work! That didn’t mean the first draft was great though: far from it. But it was a freakin’ book— upon which I could improve!
Did I say that I am proud? Proud, hell: I’d have been full of myself— if my stomach would just stop lurching.
