Having crossed Fort Washington Avenue he hesitated between the Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute for a moment, like a young Freud caught between the warring symbols of a conflicted career choice. The two buildings loomed like faceless icons of his own inner turmoil: should he embrace the mysteries of psychoanalysis or should he stick to the world of cold hard facts that had always sustained him? The matter was not resolved as he stepped up into P.I. and down again promptly to the Psychoanalytic Center one floor below. When he reached the Director's Office, his two timid knocks on the door reflected both sides of his shattered confidence.
“Hello, I'm Sidney Frank. I'm a new candidate.” He had decided not to use his real name in case the interview went badly. If things went well, his choice of Freud's initials could be easily explained away as a psychoanalytic joke that might even enhance his standing.
“Tell me about yourself Sidney.”
He began his carefully rehearsed speech, a forty-five minute tour-deforce in which a most polished version of himself appeared, a well trained genii that emerged from the lamp of narcissism on demand.
Eventually Sidney Frank paused, waiting to see how his personal myth would stand up under cross examination. He was waiting for a gestapo that never appeared. His unconscious, like Nature, abhorred a vacuum and he waited for the silence to break like a heavy skate on thin ice.
“Would you like to tell me something else about yourself?” The utter simplicity of the question stunned him. The myth crumbled. Sidney Frank felt the mask of himself falling into pieces at his feet. He decided to leave it there and let some of his real self show.
“I have developed a new theory of dreams,” Sidney Frank said cautiously. He paused, took a deep breath and decided to continue.
“I believe they have more weight than has previously been recognized.” He paused again. “Dreams I mean,” he added, lest his point had been insufficiently stressed. There was a silence. Sidney Frank anticipated the Director's skepticism and explained his point of view excitedly. “Dreams have more weight than has been previously recognized,” he repeated. “I've been conducting experiments: I weigh myself last thing at night and first thing in the morning. There's usually a weight loss. I count the number of dreams I've had. I've kept accurate records for months. I divide the weight loss by the number of dreams, and I can determine the weight of an individual dream with considerable accuracy.” He paused. He let the excitement of his words calm a little and said philosophically: “Most dreams weigh an ounce.”
Sidney Frank was very pleased with himself. He had arrived at the perfect psycho-biological metaphor that could explain the mind-brain barrier itself; what's more he had experimental evidence that was not only personal and highly reliable but absolutely irrefutable. As the Director showed him the door, he was convinced that he had made a most desirable impression. As he left the Psychoanalytic Center he felt like “one of the team” rather than someone who had come to seek membership.
Outside on the street again between the two icons of the Neurological Institute and Psychiatric Institute he felt like a link between the two structures that only the weight of his dreams could support.