Where Id Doesn't Matter

after Chris VanAllsburg

When he saw something move under the carpeting, a small lump, he raised both hands to his head and felt around. It was gone. "Shit," he said, "id's escaped again."

As a psychotherapist, he had developed a way, through intense meditation, focus, and a small amount of LSD, to remove the id from his brain.

It was the size of a golf ball with dark pubic hair, and it would rest on his shoulder or on top of his head. After a long day analyzing the bizarre problems of others, this was therapy for him, freeing the unconscious. Getting the id out of his head helped him relax; he lost his typical competitive desire. Those urges to drive a knife into the chest of the cashier or dissect the neighbor's barking dog faded away. He could close his eyes, feel waves of nothing wash up around his feet and legs.

The id moved along the wall, under the carpet, toward the bathroom door. There was no telling what id would do if it got to the razors, a full bathtub, dental floss. The man stood, picked up a chair and slammed it down on the lump in the carpeting. The id squealed, tried to move again and the man came down hard a second time with the chair, breaking the wooden legs.

Nothing. A wetness spread around the lump as it remained motionless.

The man sat down in his sofa, sighed. He ran his hand over his bald head, took his tiny glasses off. So this was it, a life where id didn't matter, where now he could share his dreams with anyone and not be ashamed or embarrassed.

Maybe this would be good for him, he thought, and waited for a response from his heart, which never came.