Questions and answers.

INT. THERAPIST'S OFFICE - EARLY MORNING

A small, neatly appointed office with a desk, two chairs, and a small couch. The furniture is clean and modern and a few abstract paintings hang on the wall. A PATIENT sits in one chair and the THERAPIST sits on the couch.

THERAPIST: Before we begin, I'd like to ask what you hope to get out of our sessions together.

The PATIENT fidgets nervously. In spite of the tranquil setting and the THERAPIST's calm demeanor, she is clearly anxious.

PATIENT: Well, to be honest, I'm not sure how I even got here.

THERAPIST: Do you think knowing that will affect the outcome of your treatment?

PATIENT: I suppose not.

THERAPIST: Then we don't need to talk about it yet, so allow me to ask again. What do you want from our therapy?

The PATIENT thinks for a moment. The THERAPIST sits patiently, waiting for her to formulate an answer.

PATIENT: I guess I'd like to feel better.

THERAPIST: Very good. How do you feel right now?

PATIENT: OK, I guess.

THERAPIST: Would you say that you feel bad?

PATIENT: Not really. I mean, I don't think so.

THERAPIST: Then it stands to reason that you'd like to increase your pleasure, no?

The PATIENT pauses fidgeting, clearly caught off guard by the question.

PATIENT: I wouldn't put it that way.

THERAPIST: How would you put it?

PATIENT: I don't know. I just want to feel better. Isn't that why people go to therapy?

THERAPIST: People go to therapy for many reasons. A common reason is to alleviate some source of suffering or unease. If you don't currently feel bad, then there is no suffering to relieve. Therefore, if you want to feel better, and we can't help you feel better by removing things that make you feel bad, then we need to add or augment things that make you feel good; in other words, we need to increase your pleasure, no?

The PATIENT nods.

PATIENT: I guess you're right. So what does that look like?

The THERAPIST smiles, pleased with their progress.

THERAPIST: It looks different for different people. Before we get to that, though, I'd like to ask a few more questions. Now, are you familiar with Schrodinger's cat?

PATIENT: Of course. The classic quantum metaphor. Until the particle is observed, the cat is both alive and dead, right?

THERAPIST: Very succinct. Yes, there are alternate versions of reality that only crystallize into one when someone observes something. Now suppose the researcher loses interest before she observes the particle. She wanders away without bothering to peer through the microscope or open the box. Where does that leave our poor little kitty?

PATIENT: Unresolved, I guess.

THERAPIST: Exactly! And the poor creature stays like that until the a janitor finds a mysterious box on the table. And what do you think he asks himself?

The PATIENT is growing visibly impatient.

PATIENT: "What's in the box?"

THERAPIST: And he opens the box and the kitty either leaps into his arms or it doesn't. Reality doesn't solidify until a question is asked and answered.

PATIENT: I'm sorry, but what does this have to do with increasing my pleasure?

THERAPIST: Now it's finally time to ask: how did you get here?

PATIENT: I already told you, I don't know!

THERAPIST: Why don't you guess?

PATIENT: (agitated) Fine! I took a bus!

A beat. The THERAPIST smiles knowingly at the astonished expression on the PATIENT's face.

PATIENT: I took the bus. The 42 line to midtown, then transferred... I remember it all! That's so strange, I had no recollection of any of it until just now.

THERAPIST: Interesting. Are you sure you didn't drive, though?

PATIENT: No, I definitely remember taking the bus.

THERAPIST: Yes. Well, indulge me in a bit of theatre. Could you describe how you would have driven here when I ask?

PATIENT: (warily) Ok, but I still don't get it. I would take Highway 96 to-

THERAPIST: I'm so sorry, but I need to ask. How did you get here?

PATIENT: Well, I decided to drive so I got on the 96 to... um, I exited on Park and took a right...

Another beat passes as the new reality dawns on PATIENT.

PATIENT: I drove here! I remember now! I remember the whole drive!

The THERAPIST nods and reaches into his pocket to pull out a quarter.

THERAPIST: I'm about to flip this quarter. Tell me honestly: do you know which side it will land on?

PATIENT: (tentatively) ...no?

The THERAPIST flips the coin into the air, catches it, and slams it onto the back of his hand.

THERAPIST: Do you know which side it landed on?

PATIENT: No.

THERAPIST: Do you understand the difference between those two questions?

PATIENT: I do. The first time, I didn't know because it hadn't happened yet. There was no result at all. The second time, there was a result that I just couldn't see. It's the difference between the unknown and the unknowable.

THERAPIST: And yet you had you hazarded a guess either time, the outcome would have been the same. So I'll ask you a third time, and this fine I'll encourage a little dishonesty. What side did the coin land on?

PATIENT: There never was a coin.

The THERAPIST lifts his hand to reveal a bare wrist. The coin is gone.