Gregory: Agathokakological nincompoop monk.

Dr. Ist: Is this how we’re greeting each other now? Come in. Agatha Christie is logical? What?

Gregory: Agatho-kako-logical.

Dr. Ist: Agathokakological nincompoop monk to you too.

Gregory: You got it. Can I hang my wet jacket on the coat rack?

Dr. Ist: Be my guest. Put this towel under it.

Gregory: On the floor?

Dr. Ist: Yes. That word sounds familiar. What does it mean?

Gregory: Can I use the restroom?

Dr. Ist: Sure. I’ll look up the meaning in the meantime.

Gregory: I’ll be right back.

 

Dr. Ist: Hey.

Gregory: Hi. You’re almost out of paper towels.

Dr. Ist: Oh, thanks for letting me know. Would you like anything? Tea, perhaps? I have this flavorsome cinnamon and ginger tea—one of my colleagues brought it from overseas.

Gregory: No, I’m good. Thanks.

Dr. Ist: How does it feel to be an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: I’ve always felt like one, except for the last missing piece, which formed relatively recently.

Dr. Ist: Mhm. Are there any specific directives to follow to become an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: Yes. One must always be prepared to negotiate with the second law of thermodynamics. One must not view a productive negotiation as an achievement. All hairstyles are welcome.

Dr. Ist: How does one know when to begin negotiating?

Gregory: No one knows until negotiations begin.

Dr. Ist: Mhm. Well, Gregory, I know of at least one organization that tried to force its will on the second law of thermodynamics sometime around the middle of the last century.

Gregory: Oh, I didn’t . . . I was trying to be humorous, or so I thought. I didn’t expect you to take it that way. But since you did, I can think of at least two organizations from the last century that bypassed negotiations and attempted to subjugate the force. But what’s your point?

Dr. Ist: My point is that not all negotiations end well. Sometimes, they can lead you into the eye of the storm.

Gregory: I’m not sure I follow.

Dr. Ist: The interim mayhem resulting from, as you mentioned, the attempted subjugation of the force wasn’t the final destination for those organizations, was it?

Gregory: Oh, I see. No. The final destination is ideally a well-polished, minutely controlled, and parasite-free environment.

Dr. Ist: Exactly.

Gregory: Hm. Sometimes, overcoming the urge for perfection requires . . . embracing recurring imperfection.

Dr. Ist: And are you succeeding in that?

Gregory: I’m working on it around the clock.

Dr. Ist: Keep me updated.

Gregory: Without hesitation. Do you think it’s possible for a system, regardless of size, to reach a relative equilibrium as the outcome of a negotiation?

Dr. Ist: I’m afraid my futile attempts to reach it—etched into the crevices of my aging face—attest to my inability to answer that question.

Gregory: What do you mean?

Dr. Ist: My father was battling with what he believed to be the second law of thermodynamics during the last world war. He met my mom in the trenches of the captured territory. She was a young biology student turned nurse who had no choice but to support their system’s drive for purification because . . . because it meant fewer wounded and dead soldiers on their side of the battlefield.

Gregory: I’m sorry to hear that.

Dr. Ist: She tried, and tried, and tried, but failed to forgive herself for that . . . even on her deathbed.

Gregory: Dr. Ist, I’m so sorry for bringing it up.

Dr. Ist: I brought it up myself. So how’s it going, Gregory?

Gregory: Dr. Ist, I’d like to say . . . I’d like . . . I want you to know that I cherish every moment spent with you, both during and beyond our formal sessions.

Dr. Ist: I’m glad to hear that.

Gregory: I met someone on my way to the bus station today. I wrote down what happened. May I?

Dr. Ist: Yes.

Gregory: I was walking in the rain behind a middle-aged man without an umbrella, who kept glancing back at me and my umbrella every few steps. The rain was merciless toward him. He seemed to be trying to figure out my intentions while struggling to stay ahead.

Dr. Ist: Were you running after him?

Gregory: No, but we were both walking fast. I hurried to the bus station because my umbrella had given out.

Dr. Ist: Hm, the wind is relentless today.

Gregory: At some point, he stopped, turned toward me, and stared—motionless. There was no one else on that narrow street. I became aware of his stare just as I was about to pass him. He abruptly grabbed my jacket by the chest with both hands and shouted at me, “Stop—

Dr. Ist: Gregory, are you okay?

Gregory: My IBS flared up, but oddly, I felt calm.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: He shouted at me, “Stop following me! Stop following me!” I told him I was not following him—I was hastily heading to the bus station. He didn’t believe me. His right hand released my jacket and formed a loaded fist, ready to alter my sleep cycle. I hugged him. I hugged him tightly. With his hands unweighted below his waist, he began to weep.

Dr. Ist: Did you write this down on your way here?

Gregory: Yes, why?

Dr. Ist: Were you worried you might forget some details when you arrived?

Gregory: That too.

After a few moments of my embrace, he looked at me and said he was a good person—a misunderstood person—and that he was attempting to make things right, all the while resisting the urge to empty the bottle. He told me his family had abandoned him, and no one was left to witness his attempts. The glass of the empty bottle he left behind distorted their perception of him.

I held his shoulders tightly, attempting to find him beyond his bloody, teary eyes. I was also saying some words. He was nodding back and looking for hope in humanity in these words—struggling to keep his shoulders straight.

I hugged him again, and he hugged me back this time. We parted ways thereafter. He looked back at me from across the street and shouted that he’d keep trying.

Dr. Ist: How are you feeling now?

Gregory: I don’t know. I need time to process what happened.

Dr. Ist: Gregory . . . I don’t mind spending every moment with you, both during and beyond our sessions.

Gregory: Are you trying to make me laugh or cry?

Dr. Ist: Maybe both. Would you like us to break down what happened?

Gregory: No, I just wanted to tell you … I guess about another failing negotiator. That’s all.

Dr. Ist: Okay. What else is on your mind?

Gregory: The rain. I’m afraid my umbrella can no longer withstand this inundation.

Dr. Ist: I’ll give you my umbrella. I have a spare one somewhere.

Gregory: I doubt anything short of Noah’s Ark would help me get home safely.

Dr. Ist: Let’s discuss your worry about forgetting details of your day-to-day life, shall we?

Gregory: I remember them fine . . . I guess. But retelling them aloud feels unnatural.

Dr. Ist: Why is that?

Gregory: Well, for one, over the past five years, I’ve gradually become less social due to my mostly secluded existence. But you already know this.

Dr. Ist: How about Everyone I Knew interviews?

Gregory: That’s different. This may sound paradoxical, and I don’t mean that I suddenly gain Pericles’s oratory mastery, but there’s a switch in my brain that turns on when I’m communicating in that space. Or whenever I’m asking questions—whenever I’m in control of a situation. I don’t know how to explain it. I still make mistakes, but—

Dr. Ist: Regardless of the guest?

Gregory: Regardless. My brain doesn’t retain or process information in a typical way. It discards words, facts, phrases, or historical events as soon as I use them in writing.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: No, wait, I said it wrong. It compiles . . . It’s hard to explain how . . . Okay, it’s more like each piece of learned knowledge on any subject turns into a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Then, a completed jigsaw puzzle turns into a piece that finds its place in the nearest jigsaw puzzle, and so on, until the pattern reaches the root puzzle. I hope this makes sense. I don’t know how else to explain it.

Dr. Ist: Are you vaguely aware of what each root jigsaw puzzle represents?

Gregory: Not vaguely. Very much distinctly.

Dr. Ist: Mhm. Now, how does this relate to my looking at you?

Gregory: All I know is in the layers of the jigsaw puzzles. And I obviously also take notes.

Dr. Ist: When did you begin taking notes?

Gregory: I think about eight years ago.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: Retrieving information from layers of data has become increasingly difficult in social settings. If I don’t check certain boxes, you make notes about me in your notebook, and others make notes in their minds.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, my notes are nonjudgmental, and they are an integral part of my professional services.

Gregory: Oh, of course. But if it can happen here, where I feel safe, imagine how obtrusive this inability to express my thoughts becomes in public.

Dr. Ist: Let’s work on it in the next few sessions, then.

Gregory: Okay. You know, I’m aware of most mistakes I make when I speak—they replay constantly in the background. Ironically, I’m observant of others’ mistakes too.

Dr. Ist: I think the social setting hinders your speech, not necessarily the latency in retrieving information. The lack of exposure to social situations untrains your brain from promptly outputting information.

Gregory: The bottom line is that a slow speaker can make the person on the other end either annoyed or late to wherever they were supposed to be.

Dr. Ist: Hm.

Gregory: Hm.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, are you stupid?

Gregory: I’m sorr . . . Yes, I am. Of course!

Dr. Ist: Then why are you worried about making mistakes when speaking? Isn’t that the natural state of an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: Indubitably. I just wish to make eye contact while saying something stupid to solidify my stance.

Dr. Ist: We’ll work on that too. Look, throw yourself out there, engage with people, and make mistakes. Some may take notes and be late to their destinations. Don’t worry about them. Don’t be ashamed of your mistakes. Your verbal communication will improve with more exposure.

Gregory: Mhm.

Dr. Ist: What happens when you speak to yourself aloud? Do you make the same number of mistakes or struggle with remembering words?

Gregory: I wish I could record my eloquent speech when I’m all by myself. However, my outstanding private verbal skills become, at best, intermittent—even when recording voice notes on my phone. It’s as if someone’s listening.

Dr. Ist: Yes, it makes sense. Well—

Gregory: Will you please look for that spare umbrella of yours?

Dr. Ist: Oh, yes, yes. Let me check in the wardrobe.