My first meeting with Paul, my shrink of questionable credentials and experience, had gone amazingly well. My first act of redemption, which he never truly defined, made me feel better about myself in spite of the fact that I wasn’t sure why. I’d bought in immediately to Paul’s blurted out solution. It was something I could do, didn’t involve drugs and I didn’t have to discuss with anyone, although my wife would have to know eventually, or she’d have me put into an institution for doing idiotically good stuff for people who either didn’t matter or didn’t really deserve whatever product or service I might provide them.

The Kissinger ride out to El Toro had been, and remained, unsettling, like he knew something about what might be going on with me that I didn’t have a clue about, and that something didn’t seem to me to be one that had anything to do with good stuff happening in my present or future. That the brilliantly strange man knew me at all was a bit disconcerting all in itself.

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