Gregory: Agathokakological nincompoop monk.

Dr. Ist: Is this how we’re greeting each other now? Come in. Agatha Christie 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 particular directives one must follow to become an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: Yes, I thought you might ask. One must always be prepared to negotiate with the second law of thermodynamics. One must not let a positive outcome inflate their ego—it’s just a hiccup in the universe’s unraveling. All hairstyles are welcome.

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

Gregory: No one knows—until the very last minute.

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 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 negotiation and attempted to subjugate the force. But what’s your point?

Dr. Ist: My point is—not all negotiations end well. Sometimes, they carry you straight into the eye of the storm.

Gregory: I’m not sure I follow.

Dr. Ist: The interim mayhem resulting from—as you said—the attempted subjugation of the force.

Gregory: Hm.

Dr. Ist: That wasn’t the final destination for those organizations, was it?

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

Dr. Ist: Exactly.

Gregory: Hm. Sometimes, overcoming the urge for perfection requires . . . learning to embrace 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 any system, regardless of size, to reach a relative equilibrium through negotiation?

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

Gregory: What do you mean?

Dr. Ist: My father believed he was fighting the second law of thermodynamics during the last world war. He met my mother in the trenches of the opposing side. She was a young biology student turned nurse, compelled 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 never forgave herself for it . . . Not 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. He kept glancing back at me and my umbrella every few steps. The rain was merciless toward him. He seemed preoccupied with assessing my intentions as he kept his pace ahead.

Dr. Ist: Were you running after him?

Gregory: No, but we were both walking fast. I was hurrying 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 only became aware of his stare as I was about to pass him. Suddenly, he grabbed my jacket at the chest with both hands and shouted, “Stop—

Dr. Ist: Gregory, are you okay?

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

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: He shouted, “Stop following me! Stop following me!” I told him I wasn’t—I was just heading to the bus station. He didn’t believe me. His right hand let go of my jacket and curled into a loaded fist—ready to alter my sleep cycle. I hugged him. Tightly. With his hands suspended at his sides, 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 the details?

Gregory: That too.

After a few moments in my arms, he looked at me and said he was a good person—a misunderstood one. That he was trying to make things right, while resisting the urge to empty the bottle. His family had abandoned him, he said, and no one remained to witness his attempts. The glass of the empty bottle he left behind had distorted their perception of him.

I held his shoulders tightly, struggling to find him beyond his bloody, teary eyes. I don’t remember what I was saying. But he was nodding, searching for hope in my words, struggling to keep his shoulders steady.

I hugged him again. This time, he hugged me back. We parted ways soon after. From across the street, he looked back 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.

Gregory: I remember them fine . . . I guess. But retelling them aloud feels unnatural—especially when someone’s watching me. Sometimes it even happens when you stare at me, waiting for a response.

Dr. Ist: Why is that?

Gregory: Well, for one, I’ve grown less social over the past few years—mostly from living in relative isolation. But you already know that.

Dr. Ist: How about Everyone I Knew interviews?

Gregory: That’s different. This may sound paradoxical—not that I suddenly become Pericles or anything—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 still make mistakes, but—

Dr. Ist: Regardless of the guest?

Gregory: Regardless. My brain doesn’t retain or process information in a typical way—as if that’s news to you.

Dr. Ist: You’ve never really explained how it works—from your perspective . . . in light of your deductive tendencies when it comes to analyzing your own mind.

Gregory: It compiles . . . no, give me a second.

Dr. Ist: Take your time.

Gregory: It’s like everything I learn takes the shape of a jigsaw puzzle piece. Once a puzzle is complete, it becomes a piece in a larger one. That one fits into another, and so on—until it all connects to the root puzzle. I hope that makes sense. I don’t know how else to explain it.

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

Gregory: Not vaguely. Very distinctly.

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

Gregory: Everything I know is in the layers of those puzzles. And obviously, I take notes.

Dr. Ist: Please remind me, when did you begin taking notes?

Gregory: I think . . . about eight years ago.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: It’s become increasingly difficult to retrieve information from those layers in social settings. If I don’t check certain boxes, you make notes in your notebook, and others make notes in their minds.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, my notes are nonjudgmental. They are an essential part of my professional service.

Gregory: Oh, of course. But if it can happen here, where I feel safe, imagine how disruptive this obstacle 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 of the mistakes I make when I speak—they replay in the background, constantly. Ironically, I’m very aware of others’ mistakes too.

Dr. Ist: I think the social setting hinders your speech—not necessarily the latency in retrieving information. Lack of social exposure gradually untrains your brain from producing speech fluidly.

Gregory: The bottom line is that a slow speaker makes others either annoyed or late to wherever they are going.

Dr. Ist: Hm.

Gregory: Hm.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, are you stupid?

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

Dr. Ist: Then why worry about mistakes? Isn’t that the natural state of an Agathokakological Nincompoop Monk?

Gregory: Indubitably. I just want to make eye contact while saying something stupid—you know, to plant my flag . . . with confidence.

Dr. Ist: We’ll work on that too. Look, throw yourself out there. Engage with people. Make mistakes. Some might take notes or show up late. Don’t worry about them. Don’t be ashamed of mistakes. Your verbal fluency will improve with exposure.

Gregory: Mhm.

Dr. Ist: When you speak aloud to yourself, do you make about the same number of mistakes? Is it just as hard to find the right words when you’re alone?

Gregory: I wish I could record my eloquence when I’m alone. But even when I talk to my phone’s unobservant recorder, I lose it—like someone’s listening.

Dr. Ist: That 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.