I was standing at the urinal when a shrink walked into the bathroom.
I could tell he was a shrink by the intensity of his gaze and by the
way his piercing analysis of my body language ignored the larger
realities of the situation.

"You're the very portrait of depression, boy!" he said in greeting.
"Look at you! Shoulders hunched, hands together low and
defensive-like, and you haven't even turned to acknowledge the entry
of another person -- that'd be me, son."

What else could I do?  I raised my head, threw back my shoulders,
dropped my arms to my sides, and turned to acknowledge his entry.
"Much better, boy!" he said immediately, but a moment later he was
forced to add "Damn!  Those were my good shoes!"  A second after that
he further espoused "And just look at the floor!"

"The shrink has returned to reality," I thought to myself and,
adopting my original stance and facing, said over my shoulder "This is
an 8th floor AI lab bathroom.  The stalls back up hourly.  As of now,
that's now the cleanest patch of floor in here."

The shrink eyed the floor suspiciously, sniffed the air delicately,
coughed, nodded a grudging agreement, trudged into a stall, and locked
the door.  His voice drifted out over the sound of shoes being swabbed
with toilet paper: "Why are there four rolls in here?"  

Ignoring his question while zipping up, I asked "What's a shrink doing
in the AI lab?"  Awaiting his answer, I heard him shift position; two
rolls bounced to the ground in quick succession, rolling out long
white tongues from beneath his stall door all the way to their
stopping points against the urinal wall.

I went to wash my hands, turning on the water just in time for the
white noise to cover the sounds of his beginning some more traditional
bathroom-stall business than shoe-wiping.

"Mental health evaluation, my boy," he shouted from his water closet
cubicle.  "MIT is suddenly very interested in the mental health and
well-being of its students.  What is that pounding that's making the
building shake?"  He shifted position again, and I heard the telltale
*chunk* of one of the toilet-paper hangers letting go; a third roll of
toilet paper plopped to the ground and rolled to a resting place under
the sinks.

Drying my hands, I asked "So what will your report say?"

"The physical environment is overcrowded, under-maintained, noisy, and
shaking.  The student I have met -- that'd be you -- showed classical
signs of depression, and used passive-aggressive tactics when this was
called to his attention.  The only things keeping this lab from
sliding into anarchy are a handful of powerful social rituals --
Olympics, GSL, and, of course, the Girl Scout Benefit.  Why did the
ventilation just turn off?"

"What will you recommend to MIT?" I asked as I moved toward the door.

"Recommend to MIT?  Nothing!  MIT just has me doing evaluations for
press-release purposes.  When the Globe stops writing about MIT's
mental health situation, my work is done." I heard *shift*, *chunk*,
*plop*, and and the fourth and final roll of toilet paper drifted out
from under his stall to rest against my feet.

"However, For you, boy, I'd recommend intensive long-term therapy to
deal with your depression and your passive-aggressive tendencies.  Er,
could you hand me that roll?"

Standing with one hand on the door, I contemplated the roll at my feet
only a moment.  Then, I turned off the lights and dove out the door
while screaming "Passsive-aggressive *this* you psychoanalitic
bastard!"

)From the lobby I walked calmly back to my office with head high,
shoulders back, and arms apart, whistling happily at the thought of
tonight's...

****************** G I R L  S C O U T  B E N E F I T ******************
******************        5:30pm  7AI Playroom       ******************