The Genetic Curse

Written by Rick Archer in 1988
Last update: 2007

THE EARLY DAYS OF THE GENETIC CURSE

We start this story back when I was growing up.  For nine years I went to a posh private school here in Houston known as Saint John's.  I was without a doubt the poorest kid in the whole school.  Through a very unusual set of circumstances my mother had somehow managed to finagle a full scholarship for me.  

Unbeknownst to my classmates, I was getting a free ride.  Just to put things into perspective, my mother was so poor that I had to pay the final bill for books and meals out of my own pocket just to graduate. 

Although the education I received was the finest imaginable, I always felt like a stranger in a strange land.  My broken home contributed to my sense of alienation.  For example, my lack of social polish occasionally got me into serious trouble with my more sophisticated classmates.  The area of clothing was a real sore spot.  Even though we wore a uniform, the difference in quality was obvious, a fact that was not lost on me nor my classmates.  I was teased once in a while about my clothes, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle.  That is, of course, until the fateful trip to Oklahoma in the ninth grade.  That was the day when I was finally put in my place once and for all.

The football team was taking a bus trip to Oklahoma City to place Casady, one of our biggest rivals.   I was 13.  I was the statistician for the football team.  Although I wanted to play football, I had only one eye and the coaches feared that I might be blind-sided, so I was not allowed to play.  Since I still wanted to contribute, I offered to keep track of the statistics, a job I held for all four years in high school.

On that day I was the last person to get on the bus for a school field trip.  Everyone else was already seated and raring to go.

I was wearing black pants, black shoes, and WHITE SOCKS!!   

Sadly no one had ever bothered to explain to me the basic facts of color coordination (which explains my modern obsession with this important concept in dance class). 

Gary Glesby (aka the biggest mouth in school) spotted me as I walked down the aisle in search of an empty seat.  Roaring with derisive laughter, he pointed out my mistake to everyone on the bus and dedicated the remainder of the trip to my public humiliation.  And it was a LONG TRIP. 

Yes, I sat in the back, but the boys had a good memory and knew where to find me.  For lack of anything better to do, the teasing and humiliation of White Socks Rick continued periodically all the way for 400 miles.   Teenage boys can be pretty rough sometimes.  Inside, the trip up felt like a passage from Lord of Flies, a book we were reading at the time... "Kill the pig, Cut her throat, Spill her blood, Bash her in!"

Little did I dream that someday it could get worse.  But one day did.


1988 - ME AND MY BIG MOUTH

Fast Forward 25 years to 1988. Here we have Rick age 38. He is not quite the sharp-dressed man, but at least now more aware of the rules and making progress. 

One day while I was cleaning the studio a student named Angelica Frias showed up very early for her dance class.  She was about an hour ahead of time.  Angelica apologized for being so early and asked if I minded if she just sat and relaxed.  Of course not.

In fact I was pleased to have some company while doing my chores.  We began to chat and I discovered that Angelica was a psychiatrist.

At the mention of her profession, I was immediately curious. Not only had I majored in Psychology in college, but, believe it or not, I even did a year's graduate work in Clinical Psychology in 1973.  This particular adventure didn't work out very well. 

In fact, it was the biggest failure of my life.  I received a devastating blow to my ego when I was told by my professors that I wasn't cut out of the right cloth to be a therapist myself.  I was sent packing. (Read the Story) 

As I listened to Angelica talk about her practice, I felt a wave of sour grapes course through my veins.  Here was a woman who had succeeded in an area where I had failed.  Lucky her, Unlucky me.  Some age-old bitterness came back to haunt me.

Oh well.  Just because I was a fallen grad student didn't mean I wasn't interested in learning what Angelica thought about her profession.  In fact, she seemed pleased to see I knew more than the average guy about psychotherapy.  In fact, once Angelica realized I had been a psychology graduate student, she encouraged me to talk about my memories.  Like a moron, I immediately started to babble.  Eager to demonstrate at least a modicum of intellect, I name-dropped Freud, Maslow, Jung, and Dr. Ruth to prove it.  

I don't know what came over me.  Angelica wasn't just a therapist, she was a psychiatrist.  She was a DOCTOR.  Her training was lights years greater than my one crummy little year of grad school.  Honestly, I should have kept my mouth shut, but, oh no, I had to engage her on her turf. 

However it was too late.  Before I could say another word to change the subject, Angelica said she would be right back. She went to her car, brought back a copy of the article, handed it to me and asked me to read it.   She smiled and said she would like to know what I thought about it.  Before I could say a word, Angelica then looked me in the eye and politely invited me to lunch sometime later in the week to discuss my opinion of this treatise. 

Well, what would you do in this situation?  Squirm like a fish?  Evade like a mongoose?  Slink away like an eel?  Say something clever like 'No thank you'?     

Of course not.  Despite great misgivings, I politely accepted her invitation.  What's the risk here?  Like I said, I kept reminding myself that I can read.  Or at least I thought I could.

As I read the article during the night, I became increasing aware that it wasn't getting any easier.  I was completely unable to decipher the text.   As I sensed the trouble I was in, nausea swept through my body.   I was angry at my helplessness.  

I had wanted to impress her, but instead I realized I had quite likely set myself up for some acute embarrassment in the presence of the elegant Dr. Frias.
 
Bravely I continued reading, but the further I got the more I realized the hopelessness of my plight.  I panicked and flipped the pages looking for an easy part.  No luck.  It was all Greek to me. 

I was up against a technical vocabulary that was foreign to me plus a level of writing aimed for readers at the upper strata of the profession. Maybe if I had stayed in the "Biz" and stayed familiar with the jargon I might have had more success, but for the moment frankly I felt whipped.

Mind you, I don't consider myself to be a stupid guy.  I had always excelled at academics.  For example, I graduated fifth in my high school class at the toughest high school in Houston.  I graduated with honors from Johns Hopkins University, a college in Baltimore, Maryland, that carries the same academic prestige as Houston's Rice University.  In addition, I received a full scholarship to graduate school. 

I had always been near the top of my class in anything academic and up till now I had always believed I was a smart guy, but, in a blinding Peter Principle realization, I knew this article had shown me there was an intellectual world way past my comprehension.  I had taken on a challenge well above my level of competence. In other words, I had bitten off more than I could chew.  

So I began to look for important passages to underline.  Even this wasn't going to be easy.  Now I realized I didn't even know where the important ideas were hidden in the first place!   So I simply underlined the few passages I could understand.  

Two days later I finished slogging through the article with great difficulty. It may have been just 60 pages, but at my rate of one word for every two minutes, a thousand page copy of Atlas Shrugged would have been a faster read.  My fingers were practically bleeding from looking up one word after another in the dictionary.  I estimate I looked up more words in two days than in my entire college career.  Now I just wanted to get this over with.  

I decided I had understood enough to fake my way through lunch.  So I called Dr. Frias at her office to report in.  She greeted me with warmth and said she was very pleased to hear I had read the article.  I groaned inwardly as she added she was excited to hear my thoughts on the article.   But as far as I could tell, she had no clue as to my predicament. 

Dr. Frias gave me directions to her office near the Medical Center.  We planned to meet the next day for lunch. 


THE SHOWDOWN

As I walked to her office, I was very nervous.  I was well aware I was standing on shaky ground.  I could say enough to prove I had read the article, but if she asked for insights there was a good chance I would probably freeze up and be forced to confess my abject stupidity.

I wanted to save face so badly, but I was so clueless I didn't see how I was going to fool an intelligent woman like Dr. Frias. 

I felt my hands clammy with sweat as I entered her office.  I made a small joke to cheer me up.  Maybe it was a good thing she was a psychiatrist because I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.  

As we entered the reception area, the man at the desk took one look at me and frowned mightily.  Both of us realized for the first time this place required a coat and tie. Uh oh. Instantly I realized my fears had been correct.  I was definitely underdressed for a place like this.  I should have worn professional attire 'just in case'.  Why hadn't I anticipated this possibility? 

Too late now.  We already know I'm too stupid dating back to high school to anticipate this sort of thing naturally.  Already pathologically nervous about the Murray Bowen article, now I sense I am in even bigger trouble. 

I voiced my reservations about continuing this path.  Why not go somewhere else?  But Dr. Frias said something along the lines of 'it's no big deal, we are here, don't worry about it'.  Easy for her to say.  She didn't know my past.

Dr. Frias presented me as her guest at the front desk.  That wasn't good enough.  The man excused himself and went to summon the Maitre' d.  The head guy showed up, took one look at me and sniffed with contempt.  He explained in the imperious tone of someone who takes their position a bit too seriously that a coat and tie are required at this establishment. No Exceptions. This didn't bother me. In fact it gave me a face-saving reason to leave. 'Oh gosh, no tie!  How stupid of me!  What a tough break.  Let's go to Denny's!'

No such luck. The Maitre' d said they were prepared for these problems and pointed to a door.  He INSISTED I go to the nearby closet to pick out a coat. My jaw dropped open.  There was no way out of this!!

I noticed Angelica was suppressing a giggle at my plight.  I said a silent prayer that she would not realize that inside I am practically panic-stricken.  I was in a tizzy over this incomprehensible article to begin with, but now things are much worse.  This unexpected dress code crisis evoked a flood of my painful high school fashion memories.

I fantasized that at certain points in their life, various doctors had acquired a special new woman.  At one point, these women took one look at their closets, noticed these coats and said to hell with the prenup, these coats were even worse. Get rid of the jackets or the wedding is off!  

And certainly this room was where the coats came to die. And no doubt the doctors took a tax write-off for their generous 'donation' to boot.

 

I immediately started to worry I might not be able to get back out of this coat!!  Maybe I would have to rip it off and tear the coat to shreds to regain my freedom. A grim smile crosses my face. Gallows humor.

Now I noticed there were ties too.  The ties were far too ugly; I decided not to put one on.  Besides, I could barely move my arms.  How was I supposed to tie the damn thing?  So I walked outside only to discover I had made yet another serious mistake.

The moment I opened the door Mr. Maitre' d was waiting outside for me.  He was much too concerned I might actually try to enter the premises without the required clothing and he sensed my willingness to test his authority.  No kidding.  There is an old saying, 'a clerk is a jerk'.  This guy had nothing better to do than push me around and no doubt he has a taken an instant dislike to my bad attitude even though I have said practically nothing at all.  Maybe it was my expression of undisguised disgust at the proceedings.

Spotting me from across the room without a tie, he smiled.  Caught you!  He walked up to me and looked me over.  After giving me a look of contempt and the obligatory scolding for trying to get past him, he ordered a waiter to go back in the closet pick out a tie. Meanwhile he kept me under his gaze and his thumb.  Don't want to miss one moment of the punishment phase.

This was yet another move I had not anticipated. I assumed that if I were caught, I would get to go back and make the choice of tie myself.  I began to worry that the waiter could care less.  Sure enough, I was right to worry.  He was in there for less than 20 seconds. He quickly returned with what had to be the first tie that caught his eye.

And why did it catch his eye?   Yes, that is right, you guessed it.  He saw it first because it was the UGLIEST tie in the closet!!  

The tie was a purple-green paisley print with amoeba-like splotches scattered throughout. 

Under the impatient eye of the Maitre d' and his dutiful waiter, I tried to put on the tie.  Unfortunately I could barely move my hands because the coat was too tight.  It took me forever to tie the knot.  As I struggle to put the tie on, I could see Angelica using every ounce of her professional self-control to keep from bursting out in hysterical laughter.

I was now wearing a straight-jacket burgundy plaid coat over a gray plaid shirt with a purple-green tie covered with amoeba splotches.

I could wear a Scream mask and not appear more terrifying. I  made Freddy Krueger look handsome.  I was Night of the Living Dead, a walking nightmare.

Now the Maitre d' approved of my attire.... what was he thinking?.... so the waiter was permitted to escort us to our seats.  As I entered the dining area I pinched myself to see if maybe perhaps this was a dream.  Maybe I could wake up from this and everything would be okay.  Nope, too bad, this was reality. This was really happening to me. There was no escape. The cream of Houston's medical society and intelligentsia were about to witness my public humiliation. 

I was sensitive to any movement.  Sure enough, as I entered the dining room six women to my right immediately stop eating and look up in astonishment.  From another direction I saw a lady in a corner of the room gasp, then point at me to her companion. Her companion then dropped his jaw and shook his head.  I watched in helpless fury as two people getting up from their tables suddenly sat back down rather than be forced to pass the horror that is me in the aisle.

Now one by one the entire room began to stare.  The room fell to a complete hush as all conversation was suspended.  People were craning their necks to get a better view. 

I don't believe I ever saw Dr. Frias again although I vaguely remember getting a sympathetic note from her when I first wrote this story.   When I reviewed this article in 2007, I discovered that she was now located in the Los Angeles area.  I have no doubt this lovely and impressive woman moved there to escape the shame of being seen in that dining room with me.   (Just kidding)

2003 - I RUN INTO GARY GLESBY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

In 2003 there was another interesting development to this story.   One day I received an invitation to attend the 35th St. John's Reunion of the Class of 1968.  I had only been to one previous reunion.  Unfortunately my dance studio's annual Halloween Party and these five year reunions always seemed to land on the same day.  But here in 2003 these two events were scheduled a week apart.  Why not?  I decided to go.

As I dressed for the evening I found myself in a very strange mood.  It had been nearly 40 years since the taunting episode on the bus, but the story crossed my mind when my clothing anxiety began to kick in.  Tonight I was sorely tempted to wear dark burgundy shoes and a matching burgundy belt along with my black pants and dark shirt.  

My black shoes needed polish and besides what difference did it make?   As I thought about it, I realized what I really wanted to do was rebel.  Maybe I should wear a Hawaiian shirt and a Grateful Dead Tie-Dye tie!!  To hell with all of them. 

Then just as suddenly as that I backed down.  Nah, better not.  Why take a fashion risk? 

So I got out the brush and applied the obligatory polish.  As I stroked my black shoes to perfection I could not help but think further about the White Socks incident and my genetic curse.  I laughed as I looked around for a black belt. Here we were 40 years later and I realized my strongest single memory from nine long years at SJS was still the White Socks incident.  How silly.  What a long strange trip it's been.  I let out a deep sigh.

That evening I was pleased to be reunited with 24 members out of 50 from our graduating class.  Nearly 50%.  Not bad. 

I was early.  People strolled in every few minutes or so.  Ding dong.  The doorbell rang and I looked up to who it was this time.  I was highly amused to see Carter Simonds show up wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt.  Good for you, buddy!! 

I noticed when Gary Glesby turned up about half an hour after I did.  I watched him like a hawk out of the corner of my eye.  Always the raconteur, Gary was busy catching up on stories with all his friends.  Then as if by fate out on the patio suddenly there he was just a couple feet away from me.  Everyone else was inside.   It wasn't easy, but I decided to say hello.

The conversation started slowly. Gary talked about his law career and his children.  As I listened, I realized this was probably the first time I had ever talked to Gary one on one in my life.  Despite sharing many classes over nine years, Gary and I didn't know each other from Adam. 

Finally I told Gary I had mentioned him in a story I had written on my web site.  To my complete surprise Gary said he had already seen it!  

Apparently a former dance student of mine named Jeannie Landon was also a legal client of Gary's.  One day she was reading some of my stories on the ssqq web site and ran across Gary's name in this story.

Gary said he did not remember the incident at all, but didn't doubt it happened.  He smilingly disputed my unkind suggestion that he was the "Biggest Mouth" in school.  I smiled back.  After some gentle prodding on my part, Gary did at least acknowledge the line in front of him probably wasn't particularly long.