The Optimal Arousal of Bennie and Yvette, a Love Story
By: Camille Cusumano
Tags: Tango, Short Story, Fiction, Psychotherapy, Writing

The Optimal Arousal of Bennie and Yvette, a Love Story

‘The middle ground is where life and love dance, where the music is played.’

Photo by Christiana Rivers on Unsplash

“But I LOVE Groynehilda!” Bennie shouted.

How he despaired. Would he ever recover from his bad case of RRE? It would kill his latest relationship, as it had all the others. Few things startled Dr. Ocaramia, but she jumped perceptibly off her mat. It wasn’t due so much to Bennie’s sudden outburst as to the tiny seed-germination of an idea his LOVE shout sparked, how to help this man.

“Love is the answer,” Dr. O said obliquely.

“Oh, I know, I know, Dr. O.”

The vowel repetition momentarily distracted her. How often had she thought that Tango, the thing that she and Bennie and all her clients shared, was a language of soft alphabet sounds, like sand in a breeze or water over pebbles. Tango had no hard boundaries like consonants in English, or other dances.

Before her sat a man of such balanced hard and soft symmetry. It was almost criminal the fabulous looks Bennie possessed. But he suffered, oh, oh, oh how he suffered. Benedict Lucky suffered severely from Don Juan syndrome. He was a lady killer through no fault of his own. There are those who would blame his mother. Then, thought Dr. O, they had best just blame the Great Mother. Dr. O knew that all of us have the DJ gene, located beside the first chakra, but for most of us, it remains dormant. It flared up into an extreme stubborn case for Bennie, partly triggered by his good looks.

“I believe you do . . . LOVE Groynhilde,” Dr. O said, shouting so Bennie knew she had heard him. She was a good listener, a skill that had served her well as a dancer and as a Tango dancer therapist.

Dr. Ocaramia specialized in treating Tango dancers because she had a deep and penetrating understanding of their peculiar disorders and problems. Every single one had a form of TAD, Tango Anxiety Disorder. The dance was a catalyst, like anything that you are passionate about and define your life through. The intensity of intimacy with others was wonderful and devastating at some point in each Tango dancer’s career. But Dr. O knew TAD had to do with what we bring to the partnership. No one can make us suffer but us. Tango, for her clientele, was the ultimate sifter of truth from fiction.

Dr. Ocaramia’s diagnoses for her special clients ran the gamut of the issues of the population at large, all of them rooted and nourished by one cause, Fear. Dr. O was’nt a trained therapist but had fallen into the practice because of a vow she took years before, to save all beings. “Saving one, you save millions,” she could often be heard muttering in her rare idle moments.

There had been an explosion of disorders, at least in her city as the Tango community matured and become more complex. Everything from OCD to PTSD to PMS manifest differently in Tango dancers. Dr. Ocaramia could help them all: The woman who had to sleep with her shoes on required only a feng shui correction in her closet. There was the man whose compulsion led him to build a hidden high-heeled shoe cubby in his closet for one-hundred pairs of vintage and recently used women’s Tango shoes.

“What’s wrong with that,” she asked?

She tried to send him away. But he needed six months of talking, researching the history of footwear, penetrating every belief on glamour before he was ready to leave happy the way he was. He generously gave her his favorite pair, 10-cenimeter stilettos in black suede with skimpy sandal foot and thin criss-cross ankle straps.

One woman came with a morbid fear of entering the dance hall and finding someone wearing the same dress. “So bring a change of clothing,” advised Dr. O and sent her away. Another woman had a recurring nightmare of entering the milonga stark naked. Same remedy: “Bring a change of clothing.” She had watched many leave her office-cum-dance-floor freed of their burden. She helped them by using a simple formula: show up, remain present, accept what they offered, and be kind, for the most part.

Bennie fidgeted in his chair. “I’ve been this way forever. I’m always looking at that next woman on the horizon. Always,” Bennie whined. Dr. O noticed that even with his most vulnerable display, he was a knockout. Dr. O relished not being KO’d by him. She had become immune since having Tango satori.

“Have you ever sailed?” she asked.

“Yes, don’t care for it, my idea of nothing to do.”

Dr. O thought of how people prone to seasickness are advised to stare at the horizon. But no, that was a silly thought. She was just gathering wool, remaining present, as Bennie wallowed in his own pain.

“Dr. O, please help me; tell me how to stop . . . to control my RRRE.”

“RRE,” she corrected.

“RRE . . rrrrrr,” he growled and she could see how badly it hurt. “Maybe . . . do you think? . . . I should stop Tango? I’m so tired of being the Casanova.” He raised his big blue eyes with such pleading, she saw instantly how their aqueous sheen could kill a woman. A wavy lock of his sandy hair fell forward temptingly. A jolt of electricity ran through her most tender meridians. She kept a calm façade.

Bennie, don’t worry, you will be saved. In her mind, she clicked on “Save as” in the pull-down menu. He could only be saved as himself. Therein lay the rub.

“Okay, Bennie. Just this once I’ll give you advice. Don’t stop Tango. It’s your poison, but also your medicine. Only you can figure out which to apply. It’s your life or no-life riddle, your koan, which if answered correctly leads to what you want above all else. Answer as you normally do, you get the normal result, pain. Your coming here to talk will clarify all.” Dr. O knew that words were superfluous. Everything we call reality is a form of placebo.

“Tell me again, how many women at last night’s milonga did you fantasize taking them to bed?” Not that the number mattered. It was part of the therapeutic process. In fact, numbers had a markedly adverse effect on Dr. O., removing her from her beloved connection to the faint path leading her client ineluctably from placebo-reality to the illusive moment of truth, the fear-killer that they both hunted.

“Only five,” Bennie answered weakly. He didn’t notice when Dr. O passed out for a nanosecond, her auto-protective device that clicks-in when disconnection occurs caused by the client’s stating, not truth, but numerical values. As she came to, he held up his left hand with his fingers spread in the air. “Zelda, Jillene, Arrabel, Fredericka, and Linguine.”

“Linguine?”

“That’s my name for her. She was thin, lanky, and I could coil her body around me like a giant snake of constrictor-pasta. Oh, man, we did a lot of leg wraps, left, right, and center. Ohhhhh . . . ,” he smiled lewd-a-sciviously. “I don’t recall her real name, but I was hungry at the time.”

“Uh-hummm, I see,” said Dr. O. “And, Groynehilda?”

“She was there. She understands, it’s just a dance, a three-minute love affair with a follower who is a stranger. What makes it so painful is that she trusts me to the core.”

“I see. Groynehilda is an enlightened woman, Mr. Lucky.” She made some mental notes. As she did, Bennie went off talking about his problem. How, after five marriages (Dr. O passed out) he was sure Groynehilda was it. He had met her family and assured her he wanted to marry forever this time, have children. But he had the most stubborn case of Rapidly Roving Eye.

Why was it that the most conventionally beautiful people suffered the most? Dr. O had yet to work that one out. Those with receding chins, small eyes, big noses, bowed legs, acne scars, balding, squat builds, funny butts, or just ordinary features seemed to be somehow vaccinated by their very imperfections against such anguish. But these beauties were fairytales in reverse. They started life with everything and then became miserable. They were the Walking Wounded.

The Walking Healed seemed to always be the protagonist with perceived defects. All it seemed to take for them to radiate that coveted divine beauty that transforms ugly ducklings into swans was the simple love of another. Or even that gourmet version, Self Love. But the beautiful people were led, or misled, to expect too much of themselves.

“Perhaps I need some sort of aversion therapy?” Bennie interrupted her silent speculation.

His desperation was over the top. “I was thinking exactly the opposite,” Dr. O said. She knew how badly he wanted to settle down with Groynehilda. It was hard to find a woman willing to make a commitment these days. “Bennie, when you go home today, indulge yourself. Sit in a quiet place and let thoughts of other women come up. But that’s all. Don’t stop them. Don’t hold on to them. Let them rip.”

“Well . . . if you say so . . .” Bennie looked slightly dubious.

“Oh, and this may sound contradictory, but don’t think too much and don’t, and I mean DO NOT touch yourself during the fantasy.”

“Huh?”

Dr. O was not thinking, but the face of Yvette Baisemoi, her only other client currently, arose in her mind. By some bizarre coincidence, like Bennie’s with his good looks, Yvette was a woman who made Liz Taylor, Ava Gardner, and Sophia Loren look like home girls. Yvette’s suffering was equal to that of Bennie’s and appeared to be caused by the same fear. Dr. O realized what Bennie and Yvette both needed was the same remedy. She would discuss her ideas later with Dr. Nureyev.

Seeing the doubt and bewildered look on Bennie’s face, Dr. O said, “Bennie, story time.”

“There was once a man whose entire life had failed him. Everything had let him down eventually beginning with Santa Claus and the tooth fairy: his parents, his wife and kids, his belief in Christianity, then Judaism, Islam, then Buddhism, Secular Humanism, Atheism, then Marxism, Communism, sailing, golfing, tennis, voodoo, you name it, even nature and the environment. The man had confided all of his failed searches for happiness in a friend, named Jeremiah, who believed himself to be his sole friend and confidant. The man died at 95, very old, but in good shape until the last week of his life. Even dying failed him. Jeremiah figured, being the man’s only friend, he had better go to the funeral for him. It turned out there were thousands of people at the funeral. The man had thousands of confidants, each one feeling he was the man’s sole friend and confidant in the world. The man had led a full and satisfying life out of being let down and sharing it with the world, one person at a time.”

“It’s an interesting story, Dr. O,” said Bennie, doubt still front and center.

“That man,” Dr. O said, “had, on a rotating basis, faith, doubt, and persistence, and the greatest of those three was doubt. He was never certain of being in the right place, doing the right thing. Never.”

“I see,” said Bennie, “he made a long lifetime out of it.”

“And many friends.” On some level, Dr. O hoped, Bennie understood we can’t change some of our hardware. We can only “Save as . . .” Suddenly, she clapped her hands twice.

“Oh no!” said Bennie. “Dr. N? Please . . . I didn’t mean to doubt . . . I mean, think.”

“Shh.” A pleated curtain in the doorway was drawn aside. A right foot in a butter-soft leather two-tone Hugo Boss shoe was extended forward onto its heel, then rolled soundlessly onto its metatarsals as the left foot pushed a man’s weight forward. It was Dr. Nureyev, dressed in an elegant gray silk Brioni suit. The soft-lavender vest he wore over his pin-striped Canali shirt might have been considered too dandy or Euro by American standards. But Dr. N was a longtime Tango dancer. His complexion glowed like that of a transformed protagonist in a fairytale. In fact, he had recently been reborn.

“Amigo,” Dr. N addressed Bennie.

Dr. O smiled. She had never seen him so relaxed in the old days before he had disappeared for forty days and forty nights. Dr. N was to blame for her immersion in Tango’s mysteries and in the problems and disorders of others. She’d been happy to not-think and dance. But he had been the one to lead her to a place in the dead of winter where she danced into the cosmos with a star dancer, Chilly Wainright. He had videotaped her and Chilly. The video disappeared. It was a lesson in ephemeral art. You can dance Tango. You cannot hold it still. Then Nureyev had disappeared. Only later, did Dr. O learn why.

“You rang, Dr. O?”

Dr. O nodded. “Please, check Bennie’s heart-to-brain ratio.” Dr. O’s office was situated off a big dance floor South of Market (SOMA), the hallowed ground for psychosomatic work.

“Pugliese, DiSarli, or Biagi?”

“Make it Piazzola,” said Dr. O. “I’ll tell you why later.”

Dr. N said, “C’mon Ben, lead me; You won’t know the difference between me and your latest thrill.

“Linguine…is the latest,” said Dr. O.

“Believe me, I’ll close my eyes . . . . hmmm nice after shave.”

“Thank you, it’s MOB cologne.”

“MOB?”

“My Own Blend, a mix of citrus, cedar, and heated wood shavings. Women love it.”

“Oh, it’s so heavenly,” said Bennie, inhaling the cloud of Dr. N’s fragrance rousing his senses.

“Righto, Ben. C’mon, stop breathing down my neck. Lead away.”

“Oh, Ben and Dr. N,” said Dr. O, “lots of CBM, please.”

CBM, or contra-body movement, Dr. O knew, was great for high anxiety. It was a tenet of Chinese medicine: When you moved your upper body in opposition to your lower body, it stimulated and scrambled both hemispheres of the brain, releasing confusion. That’s why yoga spinal twists were so calming. Dr. O and Dr. N knew that nothing bled the bad blood like Tango. Nothing.

Bad as Bennie’s RRE was, Dr. O was convinced he would pull through. She had helped a broad assortment of ailments, some easier to treat than they first appeared. Some patients simply needed the right bodywork — be it reiki, acupuncture, acupressure, deep-tissue massage, or a clearing with chiropractic manipulation — to rid them of body armor that common roadblock to joy. For some people, dream work or Bach flowers were needed. A woman who couldn’t stop counting the Tango beat in her head just needed to learn some yogic breathing and to listen to her heartbeat. “Ah, the rhythm of breath and heartbeat, aha,” said she, “who needs numbers?” Certainly not Dr. O. So elementary. Indeed.

There was the guy who had panic attacks as soon as he crossed the transom of a dance hall. Dr. O gave him a word imbued with power to make him feel like King of the Jungle. He had to say it three times at the threshold. It was Iguazu, a word that held the power of falling water seeking its own level and polishing hard rock to vowel-sound smoothness. That guy came back six months later to tell her how he had forgotten to say it one night and danced his best, no panic attack.

“So now you know?” she said.

“That I never needed that word.”

“Go in peace, your therapy is ended.”

There was the woman who hyper-smelled every possible off-odor: sock lint, mineral-rich sweat, toe jam, and scaly scalps. Another yoga specialist was called in to teach her to separate out the offending molecules from the pleasant ones, using the muscles of her nose and sinuses. Elementary. There was the man who was repulsed by most female body scent, leading him to engage in excessive approach-avoidance behavior while dancing. A rash of whiplash cases in followers was traced to his energetic lead. Aromatherapy, using leading brand perfumes combined with human and animal pheromones helped him become a truly inspired tanguero, able to flip repulsion to attraction during the course of one dance.

Drs. Ocaramia and Nureyev had both been transformed by the alchemical process of Tango and wanted to help others get there. When Dr. N disappeared, it had been to go off into the desert to complete his rebirth. Some people need to do that. Before he vanished, he had inspired Dr. O to start writing The Book of Tango (superfluous words!) and deconstruct true happiness. Which was hard when you did not think too much. Like Dr. N, Dr. O had experienced the Oneness that has no name, no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind, no smell, no taste, no touch, etc. Dr. O did not yet know how that ONE was called.

Bennie and Dr. N were done dancing. Dr. O said, “Well?”

Dr. N nodded, “He’s dancing from his brain. Bennie, my boy, you gotta lead from nothingness, or the heart if that’s where you feel your partner.”

“I know, I know,” Bennie said, vexed, yet calm having just done a lot of CBM.

“So why Piazzola?” Dr. N asked.

“Because Astor Piazzola’s music has the purest heart-to-brain ratio. That’s why he didn’t want people to dance to his music,” explained Dr. O.

Bennie sighed and sat down. A bandoneon groaned and Dr. O said, “That’s our cue. Don’t get too comfortable, Bennie, your fifty-five minutes were long ago up.”

“OK. See you next week.” Bennie went to pull out his wallet. Dr. O reminded him to put it away.

“Oh, yes, pay it forward, will do.”

Dr. O didn’t take payment. For a long time now she had been on a divesting trend because it was much closer to bliss. In Tango, the closer the skin and the bone — the fewer things that came between you and your partner — the higher the bliss quotient. But it was not so much that Dr. O didn’t care about money or material things. It was that she was clinically bad with numbers. Little known fact: numbers were for her like Kryptonite for Superman; they robbed her of energy and of her powers. She had gotten through the basic eight-count of Tango only by popping her ears during the lesson as the teacher counted. It’s not that she believed numbers were unimportant — without them we would never have sent men to the moon or have the many wonders of the technological age. But Dr. O was among the chosen few (most of them Tango dancers) who had received the wisdom that other unexplored intelligence now lay where no numbers dared go.

Interestingly, Dr. O had no explanation for the number of physicists, architects, mathematicians, rocket scientists, financial planners, and all the hyper-number people who were attracted to Tango. However, these digitally-inclined guys were able to accomplish another astonishing feat: CMM, Contra-Mind-Movement, a delicious out-of-his-mind moving of body from the heart of his nothingness. Well, that’s how Dr. N explained it. A few strains of violins cried followed by a rhythmic bar of Biaggi on piano. “That must be Yvette Baisemoi. She’s early,” said Dr. O as Dr. N opened the door. Yvette entered as Bennie was leaving. Drs. O and N did not miss the eye-lock between Bennie and Yvette.

“Dr. O, Dr. N, sorry I’m early. I need to talk. PDQ,” said Yvette.

“Please sit and wait, Yvette, in the anteroom,” said Dr. O. “By Ben. Be Good.”

Bennie turned and said, “Hey Dr. O. That 95-year-old man. I’m wondering. Did he try Tango?”

“Ben, What is the essence of Tango?” Dr. O. replied.

Bennie understood. Another koan. He bowed and left.

Drs. O & N, two of the world’s greatest non-thinkers, sat down to discuss their clients. They had fifteen minutes to debrief. They shared a little Malbec in small goblets, a little wine (sometimes whine) to whet the brain, as Aristophanes said.

Dr. N sipped, then said, “So Bennie & Yvette. Has the ring of an Elton John song.”

Dr. O sipped and sighed, too. “Yes.”

“Yvette suffers from ILSE?”

Dr. O nodded. “Incredibly Low Self Esteem.”

Dr. N shook his head. Yvette’s other-worldly beauty was not wasted on him. He had an artistic appreciation for the female form. “It’s confusing, isn’t it? It comes off as superiority complex.”

“Yes,” said Dr. O, “The armor, the shield, the self defense. This Malbec is extra velvety today.” Dr. O listened for months to Yvette rail against every man she believed to be her equal who did not fall all over her and invite her to dance and remain under her spell. Those who did were obviously not her equal.

Dr. N swirled, sipped, swallowed, and said, “Yes, black velvet. If only you could tear that silly soul-constricting persona off of Yvette, Dr. O. All would be well. Underneath is a good person.”

Dr. O laughed. “You know better, Amigo.” How well he had been born again. “So, which desert?”

“Death Valley.”

“But, of course.”

“I was able to hang out in the many ghost towns and not be seen.”

“You and the video of me on cosmic tour with Chilly Wainright. Thanks a lot, Amigo.” She liked to give him digs. They went right through him.

“Don’t worry, it’ll materialize some day.”

They both knew that things only tend to exist. “How am I supposed to convince people I took a trip around the universe on an old wood floor,” she dug at him again.

“Don’t sweat. With Temple-of-Doom ferocity, I will find it.”

“It’s not the Holy Grail.”

“What is?”

“That which we name.”

He nodded agreement, quaffed, and quipped, “So Yvette is a TAD off, too.”

Dr. O chuckled, drained her goblet and said, “Hardy har. A three-legged dog walks into a bar and says, ‘I’m lookin’ for the man who shot my Paw’.” She stood to leave.

“One bad joke deserves another,” said Dr. N. “Clap twice if you need me.”

When the session started, Yvette asked Dr. O, “Who was that man in the waiting area?”

“You know the oath of client-privacy,” said Dr. O.

“Never mind, I’ll see him at a milonga and find out.”

Dr. O hoped, really hoped, she would.

Yvette launched into her spiel. All the good men not paying her one ounce of attention. Or worse, teasing her, dangling carrots, then dropping the ball or carrot, keeping her at an arm’s length, sending mixed messages. Keeping her awake at night, waiting, not knowing, not knowing. The unbearable uncertainty. And then this one and that one who knew they didn’t have a chance with her, start texting her. The utter gall. Yvette didn’t require Dr. O to say a word, just to listen. As she went on in this vein, Dr. O recalled one visit when Yvette had looked real, had forgot to wear her mask. Her fabulous marble-green eyes shone true as she told of Herman, the one guy she could have, should have, would have stayed with. “Ah, but he’s back in Mahwah.”

Her Man in Mah Way, Dr. O remembered it, like a short story title. Yvette was such an open-and-shut case. If only she knew it herself.

“Oh, Dr. O, I’m so miserable. All I want is a modest life, to be happy, to be free from all this anxiety and not knowing. One good man. That’s all. Is that asking for too much? Really?” Yvette began to cry. Dr. O handed her the ever-ready box of tissues. Yvette sobbed for a full five minutes. Dr. O recalled how arrogant and self-absorbed Yvette had appeared at her intake almost a year ago. Dr. N vetted Yvette, as he always did the initial intake. He sat with them cross-legged facing each other. He took the pulse of the patient as they danced both to DiSarli and Biaggi, the respective Kings of Romance and Rhythm. He peered into their eyes and studied their souls, made notes. He had become so good at reading souls, gazing there where no words dared be said or heard. He felt their hearts beat against his heart. He did this to men and women. For one full minute, he and the new patient stared into each other’s eyes. He must have learned this somewhere, back in the Sixties maybe, that the eyes show the strength of the soul. Dr. N’s diagnosis was that Yvette had a major gash in her soul. But nothing that a proper, genuine Tango Moment could not fix. Dr. O was piecing this advice together with Bennie’s problem when Yvette finally stopped crying. The entire box of crumpled tissues lay at her feet.

“I have felt for so long, that what I want is within reach, around the bend, on the horizon,” sniffled Yvette. The horizon again. “And then it slips away. Again.”

“Do you sail?” Dr. O triangulated again.

“Heavens, no.”

“I see. Hmmm.”

“Am I asking too much of life?”

“No,” Dr. O answered. “It’s not asking too much.” She wished, though, that Yvette would ask other questions. And she did.

“Dr. O, do you think I should quit the Tango scene? Juggling chainsaws might be less fraught with peril.” Yvette laughed and even with red puffy eyes was so drop-dead gorgeous.

“You have to follow your heart, Yvette.” Stating the obvious occasionally worked.

“I know, I know. Oh, Dr. O, oh. My heart aches. Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen.”

Glory hallelujah, Dr. O sang to herself. A bandoneon groaned and Yvette stood to leave.

Dr. O clapped twice and Dr. N appeared. “How about a vals (waltz) before Yvette leaves, to calm her. Plenty of CBM, weight changes, those false weight changes called syncopations . . . and a few chassés to chase away the blues. Make it Soñar y nada mas.”

“Quite fitting,” said Dr. N.

As they danced away, Dr. O heard Yvette say, “Oh, Dr. N, you smell wonderful. What is it?”

By and by, Dr. N found Dr. O hanging herself. She was suspended upside down from a bar, in peaceful traction, trying to aerate and nourish the chakras that lay along her spine. Dr. O always did a yoga pose after a few client sessions. She came down when Dr. N called her to consultation. Again, two of the world’s greatest non-thinkers sat down to discuss the pain and agony of their clients. Such Walking Wounded. They scratched their heads, put their hands over their hearts, asked each other, “Have you ever seen two more beautiful people who had it all be so miserable?”

“Fairytales in reverse,” muttered Dr. O. “I’m telling you.”

“Each looking for a soul mate, not knowing they already possess their missing half,” said Dr. N.

Not knowing. Knot knowing, ran through Dr. O’s mind like a mantra.

“Dr. O,” said Dr. N. “I see the wheels turning. What gives?”

“The Wheel of Fortune is always turning . . . What was that last thing you said?”

“About their missing half?”

“Yes,” said Dr. O. She could get to two without passing out.

“Aha, I see,” said Dr. N. “Two missing halves.”

“Do they ever go to the same milonga?”

“More importantly, how do you hand out a prescription for a TM? Can they cultivate and experience a real Tango Moment?” Drs. O & N knew that all their suffering would come into perspective once they achieved this. The Tango Moment was simply code, symbols like all words, in this case for the God Experience. Dr. O preferred the Latinate Tangotum momentum, because it was a dynamic state.

From the moment they met, Drs. Ocaramia and Nureyev had not thought of each other in earthly terms. They had gone through the metaphysical sieve, like many Tango dancers. Drs. O & N were skilled in the dialogue of body language. Communicating only with alpha waves of their brains, the EKGs of their heartbeat, and the light available to their retinas, Drs. O & N went on to share the wisdom, ideas, concepts running through their hearts and minds. In a fairytale ending, they agreed Bennie and Yvette would meet and complete each other, supply that missing half, and bring eternal bliss, a model for others. But this was real life. Something bigger and better was actually available to both of them. Some tapping in to that absolute. Their private hells could become heavens as easily as it took to take a side step in Tango and exit clock time. Presently, the two not-thinkers switched back to spoken language:

Dr. N: So, yes, for all the Tango they dance, both are lacking the God experience.

Dr. O: Possibly due to their being treated like gods and goddesses all their lives.

Dr. N: Hmmm, I see. Possibly. And yet, like the rest of us mortals they have the wound, the gash in the soul. I looked in and saw it, clear as your bandoneon bell.

Dr. O: Indeed, they both have the crack that lets the light in. Perhaps they need to bleed into each other’s wounds?

Dr. N: It seems so obvious. A homeopathic approach is in order. They are so, so . . . symmetrical.

Dr. O: Indeed, Dr. N, mirror images. If only . . . we could . . .

Dr. N: Hmmm, yes, absolutely. Are you not-thinking what I’m not-thinking?

Drs O & N: GIVE EACH OTHER A GENUINE TANGO MOMENT.

Dr O (rubbing her chin where a beard would be were she a man): Uh-huh, um-hmmm.

Dr. N: (Rubbing his seven-hour stubble, leaning forward on his knees): Uh, huh. . .

She triangulated again. Bennie and Yvette each longed for something on the horizon. Inside the Tango Moment there is no horizon, you are IT. TM is characterized by a suspension of longing; the longing is not squashed or killed — that would be violence. But it’s balanced inside a boundless feeling of equanimity. Longing, after all, is our human default mode of being, as long as we are of the flesh. We experience our first, or primal, longing for mother and then it keeps morphing and transferring into and onto other things, in most of us in socially acceptable ways. Our monetary system is built and sustained solely on longing. When longing is vigorously and mindfully concentrated, focused, and channeled into a pointed understanding of life and existence, it is called “way seeking.” Suffering then becomes a subset . . . Dr. O found her head aching, too much thinking. She turned to Dr. N, who seemed on the verge of too much thought, also.

“Why do you believe people can go their whole lives dancing, or doing anything they love or what they believe they are meant to do here on earth and never ever experience the TM or its reasonable facsimile?” she asked.

“Fear. Fear of intimacy kills the possibility for Tango Moments. Fear of not looking good. Fear of losing control kills the moment. The best experience of life occurs the moment we relinquish control.” And fear of being wrong, being found out. Fear that our partner is right — all anti-Tango mind states. Fear and Tango can never cohabitate, especially during a TM.

“ ‘No tears, no fears, no ruined years, no clocks.’ I’ve always adored that line from the time I was sixteen. I wanted to be a Twentieth Century Fox.”

“You are,” complimented Dr. N.

Dr. O wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He continued, “Ah, the Tango Moment is love living momentarily in its purest state without words, without even relationship.”

“If TM = Now, why can’t B + Y access theirs? Maybe through meditation?” she asked.

“Even meditation kills the TM because the life of the Tango Moment is exterminated by pure high-grade consciousness. The TM lives in the middle ground between bliss consciousness and its exact opposite, blatant unconsciousness.”

“Dr. N! My sentiments precisely. An optimal arousal is called for, you mean to say.”

“Too excited and it’s lost; depressed, anxious, and it’s gone. The middle ground is where life and love dance, where the music is played — the stimulus for the Tango Moment.”

“Ah, zee music?” Dr. O liked to channel Dr. Ruth sometimes — she had sent clients to Dr. Ruth. “How could this be? An outside stimulus? Hmmm.”

“An inside stimulus. The music is in us. In a state of either meditation/consciousness or unconsciousness, I can’t hear the bandoneon, therefore no Tango Moment. Also, even in the middle ground thinking kills the moment — even recalling a Tango pattern.”

“Dr. N, No need to state the obvious. I think Yvette and Bennie are custom-made for sharing a TM.”

“Bennie must have no fear of being untrue to his primary love relationship . . . what’s her name? Groin?”

“Please, Dr. N, Not One, Not Two, Not Three. Stop counting. How many times I hafta tell ya.” She slipped into her New Jersey accent. “No primary, no secondary . . .” Dr. O passed out cold. As usual, Dr. N, thought she was bored or having a narcoleptic fit. Thus, Dr. O did not hear his last question: “What is the state of mind that is the primordial pool from which the nascent Tango Moment emerges? Is it a contemplative state?”

When Dr. O came to, Dr. N was looking into her eyes. She picked up a conversation they had a year ago. “We are always in a state more or less of longing, which adds to our suffering. We start planning and missing the present momentum. The Don Juans and Dona Juanas suffer thus, fatally driven to search, wonder, wander, search again. The viral longers. These are the real sufferers among us.”

“Dr. O, you don’t think you should reserve the word suffering for those in India, China, Burma, Africa . . . It seems wasted to me on a Dandi like Bennie, with his butter-soft leather shoes, Brioni suits, Canali shirts . . . errrr. . . ” he trailed off and looked down at his own attire. The fact was, Dr. N preferred modest dress, jeans and T-shirt or sports shirt, but Dr. O thought he should dress up for their clients.

Dr. O nodded understandingly. “Dr N, I am not without compassion for those all over the globe suffering torture and deprivation. But I must say, heartless as it sounds, it is within our reach right now to end that physical and mental torture. Those with too little can be fed tomorrow. The tyrants can be stopped. As blessed as are the meek, so are as cursed the mighty, the ninth Beatitude. Do you know who the Dalai Lama feels most sorrow for in this world? The Americans. Yes, we who suffer from epidemic low self-esteem. That is a disease. An ill-at-ease that no one but the sufferer can end. And all those other ills, shortages, torture, brutality, can be traced to low self-esteem in someone. Low self-esteem has the potential to gives rise to dictators, satanic leaders, to all kinds of tyranny, and to viral longing.”

“‘Others made me a slave. But I may squeeze the slave out of myself, drop by drop,’ wrote Chekov.”

“Exactly. Now please, before I get on a soapbox or something, put me at-ease. Let’s Tango. Make it DiSarli’s Nido Gaucho, that song about longing for a paradise lost.”

A week later, when Dr. O heard the bandoneon ring, she knew it was Bennie. She thought she detected some new notes of elation in the groan even before she opened the door and saw Bennie’s face.

“Dr. Ocaramia!” He strode past her to his seat. “You have never looked more beautiful before.”

She had just woken up from a deep sleep, having heard someone on NPR estimate how many stars are in the universe. “Gee, thanks, Ben.”

“Hey, I’m double parked, but no problem. I won’t be staying long.”

She knew why but still wanted to hear it from his mortal mouth. “What gives?”

“Everything gives, Dr. O. Everything. I was going through my routine at the Verdi Club on Thursday night, ticking off the women I wanted . . . well, you know my game better than I, when I spot a new dancer. She makes Liz, Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, and Ava Gardner look like home girls.”

“Oh, and what about Sophia Loren?”

“Her, too. Her name is Yvette.”

“Yvette, Yvette . . . ah, yes, Yvette.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. On the one hand it was nothing out of the ordinary. I invited her to dance and it was going well. I led a few ochos, molinetes to the left to the right . . . . And then it was, I can’t find another word, DIVINE. I felt the room, the music, the others around us, all there, but at the same time gone . . . like you always say our feet are planted in the earth but our upper body is in heaven . . . .we were all part of a master plan, and everything was perfect. I felt at once that the story of my life was etched on the heart of another. And at the same time, there were millions of stories passing by, all wonderful, marvelous. Dr. O, I’m at a loss for words. It was like . . . like . . . .”

Dr. O yawned and listened.

Bennie’s eyes were like polished-stars-of-sapphire illuminating the room. “It was like Infinity.”

Dr. O smiled. She adored and worshipped Infinity, a quantity that was really a quality, a figure eight on its side. An ocho.

Dr. O knew the rest of his story but she asked anyway. “And Groynehilda?”

“My beloved she is and will be. The message for me is that life makes sense as it is. I understand the essence of Tango. I cannot stop my RRE, but I can let it be. Groynehilda and I are getting married next week. I understand everything about myself and who I am is who I am. Oh, Dr. O, I owe you so much.”

“No, you didn’t need me.” She yawned again. “Pay it forward. You better move your car.”

Bennie hugged her tightly and left. She was proud of Bennie for cutting to the chase. So often the mistake we make in the West is thinking the catalyst — the material world, be it person, money, house, car — is the happiness. Bennie had not ever considered that Yvette was IT. She was only his gateway.

Dr. O waited in lotus pose. Less than an hour passed. The bandoneon groaned with elation. Drs. N and O opened the door to greet Yvette. “Drs. O and N, my joy knows no words or bounds. Hey, I’m double parked but this will be fast.”

As they stood on the dance floor at the entrance, Yvette sashayed with her imaginary partner and then stood still and said. “I think you know. I have experienced God.”

“All will be well,” said Dr. O.

“That man, Bennie . . .” Yvette looked deeply into Dr. N’s eyes, then into Dr. O’s eyes. They all three had a silent conversation and understood what had occurred. Yvette, too, understood, like Bennie that the plug is not the electricity. The streambed is not the river. Bennie was merely her gate. Her man in Mahway awaited.

“I talked to Herman last night. We’re going to meet up soon.”

“Oh, ah, sounds serious,” Drs. O and N cooed in tandem.

“Oh, you two, don’t act so surprised,” said Yvette. “Before I settle down with Herman, I plan to go on a pilgrimage alone. I’m leaving next week for the Andes. There’s a shaman in Cordoba I want to meet and a woman in Buenos Aires, Maria Jose, who reads our moon moods. Naturally, the Mecca of Tango, is a must. Herman will wait for me.”

“You better go move your car,” said Dr. N.

Yvette turned to leave, then looked back. “I know it’s corny but there’s no other way to say it. I have seen the Light.”

When she was gone, Dr. O yawned, then said, “When you were in Death Valley did the wind sift the dunes or the dunes move the wind?”

“Well said, Dr. O, well said. Shall we dance?”

“Yes, do you want to be the dune or the wind, today?”

“Mmm…I see the mirage of a Tango Moment.”

“OASIS.”