He ordered one Tom Collins. The tall glass was sweating even before the waiter could bring it from the bar. "How are you--fixed?" I told him that. He peered at the room, the other diners, the gaudy colors. "Funny. I remember back in high school in Montclair when you were the class poet. Everybody thought you'd be a writer, sure. The last will and testament of our class left your pen to the juniors. Remember that?" I remembered. "But I don't suppose anybody--including yourself--ever thought you'd rip out magazine serials like logs going through a circular saw. Get to be a popular writer. And then set people on their ears by writing about psychology. We all thought you were destined for the garret--a lot of reputation, maybe--but not Florida houses and--fifty thousand dollars' worth of insurance--" "No." "Did you?" "Yeah." "You did!" "No harm in daydreaming, was there? Back then?" Tom meditated on those distant high school years. "You realized the daydream." "A person like me has a good many daydreams. When one comes true--he automatically starts on the next." "Do you consider yourself happy?" "Enormously, Tom." "So do I. _Why?_ How come? When you spend about ninety per cent of your time considering the unhappiness of the world?" "Somebody has to collect the garbage or we'd all die of plague. And a born garbage collector loves his job." "There's more to it than that." "Yeah. It's not garbage. It's what we discard, ignore, repress. The green fertilizer of the next crop. The yin to the coming yang. My contemplation of what you call the unhappy aspects of life is really the substance of what I find to be hope." "Jung changed you a lot, Phil." "I dunno. I got thinking--some years back--of a poem I wrote when I was twenty-one. Threw it away--lost it--haven't any idea what happened to it. But in that poem was the fundamental Jungian idea--the idea that instinct directs human affairs--and that it's a force in action which always has equal and opposite reactions--" "Still--Archie--" I thought of Archie--the psychiatrist to whom Tom had sent me for analysis. "Archie taught me psychology--Freudian, Jungian, Adlerian--and let me work out my own problems, aloud. He was a great teacher." "He died of cancer," Tom mused. "'--too'?" He looked at me and grinned gently. "Masochism takes funny forms in you."