The Trauer Complex

By Stanley Nass

Randolf Servige a professor of English comes across the body of his colleague and with the assistance of an unorthodox psychiatrist Dr. Leopold Trauer sets out to find the killer. The novel is a satire on academia and psychiatry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956780468

Stanley Nass

Stanley Nass has been a professor for 30 year at a New York City University. He is the author of 5 books in psychology including his best seller Turn Your Life Around. He has advance degrees from New York University and Columbia University.

Book preview

The Trauer Complex

Copyright © 2021 by Stanley Nass

Published in the United States of America

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-956780-47-5

ISBN Hardback: 978-1-956780-48-2

ISBN eBook: 978-1-956780-46-8

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

ReadersMagnet, LLC

10620 Treena Street, Suite 230 | San Diego, California, 92131 USA

1.619.354.2643 | www.readersmagnet.com

Book design copyright © 2021 by ReadersMagnet, LLC. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Ericka Obando

Interior design by Mary Mae Romero

Contents

Part One 

Chapter One 

Chapter Two 

Chapter Three 

Chapter Four 

Chapter Five 

Chapter Six 

Chapter Seven 

Chapter Eight 

Part Two 

Chapter Nine 

Chapter Ten 

Chapter Eleven 

Chapter Twelve 

Chapter Thirteen 

Chapter Fourteen 

Chapter Fifteen 

Chapter Sixteen 

Chapter Seventeen 

The Trauer Complex 

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

Randolph Servige woke up, looked at his alarm clock, and jumped out of bed. 8:15. Late for class again! Eyes half open, he started to move across the room, then stopped himself. It was Saturday. False alarm; no classes that day. He could lie down again. He could sleep away some more of that dreary allotment of time which most people insisted on calling life.

Back in bed, he tossed and turned. Sleep would not be recaptured. He rose slowly, feeling tired yet restless. He went to the window. Low dark clouds scudded across the sky. The few cars and pedestrians in the street were being drenched by the heavy rain. The world looked as he felt.

He walked around his apartment, seeking first his eyeglasses and then his coffee. When he had fixed himself a cup, he brought in his copy of the Times from the outside doormat and sat down at the table in the dinette. But the coffee tasted awful, he could not concentrate on the stories of a coup d’etat in Africa, a committee investigation in Washington, another scandal in the New York City Sanitation Department, and the rising number of children having their lunches stolen in nursery schools. Did the Times ever worry about Randolph Servige’s problems? So why should he care about theirs?

He had had, seeing it now in perspective, a particularly hard week. The classes he had been teaching at Maria Farnsworth College MAFAC, as it was not quite so affectionately called by some of the inmates—had been about as successful as square doughnuts. His girl friend, if one could call her that. Bliss Stamforth-Hopewell, M.D., had been out of town. His paycheck had not arrived in time to be cashed Friday. His battered Volkswagen had started emitting a reddish brown exhaust and sounded as if it were coming down with the first recorded case of bronchitis in automotive history. He had run out of ideas for stories; writer’s block was a well-known affliction of authors, but who had ever heard of it besetting one of the anonymous scribblers for True Confessions? Which is what Servige currently was in order to pick up some extra cash and to meet his alimony and child support payments. And, worst of all, on Wednesday had taken place the semiannual judgement.

He had been called in, along with a half-dozen other faculty members of the English Department, to hear Dean Carswell Johnson give the speech which Servige knew by heart. It began, I’m sure you know why we’re here. It’s that lugubrious time of year again. Class cancellation day. Then came the set speech, followed by the dreary listing of the cancelled classes. Servige’s course, The Anti-Hero in Literature, had had a particularly abysmal crash, with only one registrant—and that was probably the instructor himself, mistakenly counted by the all-knowing computer.

So it meant back to the drawing board, that is, back to a program loaded mainly with Freshman Composition courses and his course in media. This one course, called The TV Soap Opera as Late Twentieth-Century Literature, was packed. With thirty-two students, it was even too large and unwieldy. He had thought it up when the shrinking registration in traditional humanities courses had reached crisis proportions a few years earlier. Students were signing up in droves for media courses. No longer interested in writing or even reading the Great American Novel, they wanted to be tickled by the definitive film or TV show.

The administration had gotten on the bandwagon. The Vice President for Business Affairs, Percy O’Malley, sent out memoranda urging instructors to stop being hypercritical on tests and student papers. Overly strict standards and pedantic nitpicking, he insisted, could only discourage students and lead to poor student-faculty relations. Servige had laughed at the memoranda, but when he saw classes cancelled all around him, he subtly began to change his own marking system. Papers which he would have dismissed usually with comments like A collection of random notes, or Chaotic in structure and turgid in style, or You’ll have to do better than that, or What bilge! now received the comment, Interesting—although the English is occasionally barbarous, this paper shows a great deal of feeling and imagination. Great personal insights... This had, in fact, become his only comment on all papers. No use wounding these sensitive students.

When such approaches did not suffice, the administration next urged faculty members to be innovative and creative. What exactly that helpful suggestion meant no one knew, least of all those making it, but the end result was that Randolph Servige, Associate Professor of English, was teaching a course in TV daytime serials. If it attracted students, it was innovative.

That course had proved to be his vocational air-raid shelter, his refuge from exclusive routine duty in the trenches of Freshman Composition. The course was a farce, to be sure, the subject was meaningless, but at least students flocked to it. They would register for anything that did not require reading and that did require looking at a screen (movie or TV) or listening to a speaker (radio or stereo). It was so successful that, if he could not, in one last try, round up some students for a literature course, he thought of offering a companion course, Writing and Filming the Commercial for Radio and TV. That class he probably would have to give in the auditorium to accommodate the turn out.

So it was with considerable trepidation that Servige said, at the beginning of Wednesday’s class session, that, although it was nearly too late, a course he wanted to give next semester might yet be salvaged if he could get enough students to register for it that day. What, several wanted to know, was the course; they seemed interested, for he was not an unlikable teacher. Servige swallowed hard and said, The Anti-Hero, then his voice lost its courage and sank to a whisper, in Li-te-ra-ture... Suddenly he knew he had said the wrong thing. There were boos and catcalls. Oh, well, he thought as he resumed discussion of As the World Turns, at least I tried.

How about, he could not resist one last try near the end of the session, if I were to offer, in the semester after next, a course in ‘Popular’—they sat up, interested again—‘Humorists.’

Like who?

I guess writers like Art Buchwald— Oh, oh, he realized, as he watched their eyes narrow, anger and suspicion showing on their faces. He had slipped up and used a subversive word. Oh,... uh,... ah, he waved his hands helplessly, he meant only, newspaper columnists, harmless, simpleminded souls like that, nothing deep.

It was too late. He had given the show away, and they would buy none of it. It was no use dropping names like Lenny Bruce, Jean Shepherd, Jules Feifer, Gary Trudeau. By using writers, it was clear that he expected a modicum of literacy, would sneak reading assignments into the course, and probably throw some multiple choice tests at them. He had lost them for that day.

After class, he went to the school library to return some books. He saw a group of students from his Freshman Composition course shooting the breeze. They stood near the microfiche, xeroxing, computer, and cassette machines—all those devices which were now flaunted by libraries and which he had never quite learned to master because he belonged to an earlier generation. To these students, a library was probably by definition a place containing such machines, and books were merely accidental to it. They clustered around the machines the way kids used to cluster, in his day, around the juke box or the corner candy store.

Hi guys! he greeted them.

They looked up and returned the greeting. Glancing at their smiling, fresh faces, filled with youthful good humor, exuberance, and naivete, he liked them, especially the young women among them,

Working on your next paper, eh? he said. It was a poor joke, but the paddled the ball back to him with the same good humor and with far better wit.

After a few minutes of banter, he broached The Question. With a sort of swagger that never quite came off, a cavalier gesture by someone who was basically a pedestrian, he said, Say, I might be offering some interesting new courses next year.

Oh yeah?

Really?

Like what, sir?

Looking like someone with a satchel of A-bomb secrets he said, Oh yes.... Something new... something like, he waved his hand like a conductor, The Anti-Hero,—he waited; their faces were still interested and fresh—in Li-te-ra-ture... They looked at each other or at the floor, as if someone had said something embarrassing.

Oh well, I, uh... That was just a trial balloon, ha ha,... How about... well, The Image of Man in Modern Western Literature.

You mean like Cowboys and Indians? asked one of them.

He had not expected that one. Oh, not quite. He shuffled off apologetically, shrugging his shoulders, muttering to himself some perhaps more useful definition of Western.

On his way to his office, he sought out other students—in the hallways, in the Students Union Building, near the basketball courts and swimming pool, and in a nearby bar.

Pssst! He approached one student with hand covering his mouth. You want to get a nice course cheap?

Huh?

Servige looked around him to make sure that no one was nearby. Listen carefully, he whispered. I’m offering a rebate.

The student stared at him. A what?

Yup. It’s a big new development in higher education. As a matter of fact, I’m the first to do it. If you stay in my course all semester long and take the final exam, you’ll get a $25 rebate. If you stay in past the deadline for dropping the course without forfeiting your money, you’ll get a $15 rebate. And if you stay long enough to forfeit some of your tuition, you get a $5 rebate.

A rebate from the school?

Oh, no, no, no! Servige placed his index finger vertically across his lips. Don’t say anything to them. It’s a rebate from me.

From you? Personally? You mean you’re bribing me? Servige opened his mouth and eyes and looked around again. Bribe? He shook his head. How can you say that? Of course not... Look, when General Motors sends you a $300 check after you buy one of their cars is that called a ‘bribe’? Eh?... Of course not. It’s a ‘rebate. And that’s what I’m offering. A rebate. Get it? The student looked perturbed. I guess so."

So are you going to take the course now? At least try it?

Not really—

You’re holding out for a bigger rebate?

No, I’m just not into literature this year.

Oh! Why didn’t you tell me right away? Servige left him abruptly and accosted a girl he saw walking along. Listen, he said, If you register for my course,... He again looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, I’m the only teacher in the department who guarantees that he will leak during final exam time. The young woman was aghast. Leak?

Servige didn’t understand her reaction. Yes, leak... Don’t you know what I mean?... Like in Washington...

Leaking in Washington?

Yes, you know. They leak classified information from documents... The Pentagon Papers... CIA... He became impatient. Look, what I mean is that I’ll let you know what half the questions on the finals will be. That’s a good deal... No other English professor offers that kind of intellectual discount to his courses.

She said she would think about it.

Bitch, thought Servige as he watched her walk off, she’s playing hard to get. Window shopping. Trying to see what kind of bargains can be had from the other professors whose courses are imperiled. I’ll bet some of them are offering two weeks free at their summer houses. And I don’t even have a winter house to speak of. I don’t even have a Playboy Club key.

At the end of his odyssey, he had managed to pick up one maybe, two pledges to register that he did not trust, and one definite commitment. Oh well, he thought, another year without teaching literature.

When Servige got into his office and sat down at his desk, the phone rang. It was a student from one of his Freshman Composition classes calling about handing a paper in late.

Yes, well, Servige spoke cavalierly again and waved his hand even though no one could see it, don’t worry about that. Just hand it in whenever you can and forget about meeting the deadline—

Oh, thank you very much. Dr. Ser—

But, listen, can I... uh, interest you in registering for an advanced elective course next semester. It’s called, tentatively,...

That had all happened on Wednesday. By Saturday he was consequently in a blue funk. That Bliss was not around did not help things any. She had a way of cuddling him in her arms when the going got rough—Bending his head down, tickling his scalp, and bringing his face to her breasts, she knew how to be consoling. All week long he missed her.

Not only her absence bothered him, but also the circumstances of it. She was a heart specialist and had to attend a week-long medical convention in Hawaii. He had suggested that he go with her; he would cancel his classes, and no one would know about it. The students would be the last ones to complain. One of the charms of teaching was that you could get away with bloody murder.

She had indeed entertained the idea of having him along for beaching and mountain climbing between meetings and conferences, but claiming that her accountant doubted if she could take the trip as a tax deduction if he came along, she decided against it. When he insisted that he did not have enough money to make it on his own, she refused to lay out the money for him. That was galling. It was symptomatic of their relationship, of the way he felt himself to be only her lapdog. She liked to have him around only when she was in the mood for him, usually when she wanted sex. Then she would hang around the house—his or hers, usually hers, and usually the bedroom.

And now, while he was having this miserable week, she was in Hawaii, probably making it with some well-tanned, gimlet-eyed heart specialist from Dallas or L.A., screwing on some exclusive all-nude beach or on top of a mountain, between conferences on new techniques in open-heart surgery.

Servige simply had to get out of the house. Yet he postponed doing so till the rain let up. He dabbled at marking papers, doing the crossword puzzle, reading a pornographic version of Alice in Wonderland, playing chess with himself, and listening to Herb Alpert and Sammy Davis records.

Finally he could take it no longer. He threw the Times into the garbage pail, put on some old clothes, and lurched out of his apartment. He walked in the rain for a while, looking vacuously into the windows of stereo and clothes shops on Eighth Street in Greenwich Village, not far from where he lived. The early Saturday evening milieu of young couples depressed him even more.

Finally he entered a bookstore. Maybe he would find something unusual to read; maybe the rain would stop while he browsed an hour in the warmth of the store; maybe some chick would run over, hug him, ask him to take her to a hamburger joint and then to her loft in Soho.

After a half hour, he found neither a chick nor a let-up in the rain. At least he had a book. It was called Creative Cookery for the Person Who Loves Shakespeare and Hates to Cook.

That’s $10.95, sir, said the girl at the register.

Servige took out his wallet and made an agonizing discovery; no money. Not so much as a dollar bill. He went through his various pockets and came up with small change but no bills. Er... I’m sorry... I mean, excuse me, but... er, I think I decided I won’t take it.... That is, I don’t have..,

I already rang it up, she snapped.

Well, I... er... you know... He skipped out of the store before he was arrested and made an indentured servant. The girl would have to cope as best she could. After all, it suddenly dawned on him as he hastened home, at least she knew where her next meal was coming from, which was more than he could say.

He recalled now that it had been in the back of his mind to obtain some money for the week end. He had suspected that, it being the end of the month, he was running low on cash. The Maria Farnsworth had a charming way of always mailing the check just when you were not in a position to cash it. Either it came a day or two late; or it came when he was busy all day and could not get to a bank; or it came Saturday morning. In the confusions and aggravations of the week, he had forgotten about taking some money out.

Now he entered his apartment with considerable anxiety. He went through the drawers of his desk, the pockets of his trousers, jackets, coats. He examined an extra wallet, which was supposed to contain emergency money; an envelope from the Tokyo Station Hotel which, hidden in a cranny in a closet, contained super-emergency money; and a slipper which contained the last-ditch, nuclear holocaust super-duper-emergency money. Everything was empty. He had raided these hiding places at various times and forgotten, in good times at the beginning of each month, to replenish them. The result of his search was $1.12, mostly in pennies. How would he get through dinner tonight, plus three meals Sunday?

His last resort was his Universal Credit Card, guaranteed usable everywhere, even with the local shoeshine boy. Servige took it out of his wallet and rushed down to the bank on Sixth Avenue. It stood dark and forbidding amid the early Saturday evening crowds, lights, and sounds. It hardly looked like it would be indulgent with people lame-brained enough to be caught without money for the week end. It seemed in no mood to have its week end rest from its labors disturbed by any sad sacks.

He approached the machine reverently and inserted his credit card. There was a lot of gurgling and hiccuping he had never heard before, at least from a bank machine. Then he waited. And waited. Finally something came out. It was not money. It was not his credit card. It was a slip of paper which did not look too negotiable at the corner McDonald’s.

He took it and rushed to a street light. The computer print-out said, misspellings and all:

We regret to inconvenience you in this fashion. However, due to an irregularity either in your card or in the functioning of this machine, it is thought inadvisable to release funds until such time as the reason for the failure to match card and computer has been ascertained. In order to safeguard your account, we are retaining your Universal Credit Card, on the chance that someone other than you, having obtained your card through a mistake or a criminal act, is making illegal and inconvenient use of it. We are sure that you would want it that way, and you will, in any case, be able to retrieve it Monday morning, unless Monday happens to be a bank holiday. Thank you for being so understanding.

YOUR FRIENDLY BANK

Miserable bastards! Servige exclaimed and tore the sheet up. Some passers-by stared at him as if he were a wierdo. Now he did not even have the card to use for shopping, loans, or identification purposes in trying to cash a check.

Hands in trouser pockets and head bowed down, he made his way slowly back to his apartment. He went again through his drawers, pockets, wallets, envelopes. Placing the pennies in piles of ten, he recounted the $1.12. He looked in the refrigerator—some half-sour milk, a yogurt two weeks past the sales date, a jar of anemic looking pickles, and a drumstick from some extinct species of bird. The freezer contained a stash of half evaporated ice cubes and a small can of lemonade not used in two summers. The cupboard was equally depleted, except for four large cans of shortening, the reason for which he had not the foggiest idea.

Now he missed Bliss again. Though she was tight about money sometimes, she would not let him starve; after all, it might reduce his sexual capacities. He telephoned three friends. One never answered. The phone of another was busy. The third proved to be no friend. I’m sorry about that, Randy, but... I’m in the same boat myself actually. Check didn’t come, you know. Low on cash. Don’t know how I’ll make it through the week end. Actually was even thinking I might have to ask you for a week end loan, actually.

Servige replaced the receiver, feeling that this was mere talk, that the friend simply did not want to be bothered.

Servige went out again, a sense of panic growing. He went to one of the supermarkets he frequented. It was his luck that the man in charge for the week end was not someone with whom he was acquainted. It was no use approaching him for a loan. The clerks knew Servige, but they carried no weight.

He stopped at a street corner. He had never known so lonely a moment, so isolated a feeling—not even when he was going through the throes of separation and divorce.

There was one possible way out. In the English Department suite was a refrigerator. Secretaries and colleagues often put in it sandwiches, frozen meals, milk, cakes and the like. Usually they ate them the same day or week; sometimes they forgot the food, changed their mind or were called away from the campus earlier than expected. Every few weeks there had to be a sort of house-cleaning and auction. One of the secretaries would take out all the contents, examine them as to their edibility, and give them out to those wanting them. Going there was the only way Servige could get through the week end without starving—if, that is, such a cleaning-out had not taken place during the past week or two. Otherwise there was only the Salvation Army soup kitchen on the Bowery.

Overcoming embarrassment about turning in fifty pennies for a subway token, he took the train to the college in Riverdale—When he got there, he tried the front door of his building. It was unlocked. The hallways were dimly lit and gripped by an eerie silence, a silence now punctuated by his own footsteps on the stone floor. He took the elevator up two floors. Here the hallway lights were off, and he had to make his way to the switches by the dim red emergency lights. The all-glass doors of the English Department suite were locked and the rooms dark. Nervously he took out his keys, unlocked the door, entered the suite, and put on one of the lights. He then rushed to the refrigerator. Holding his breath, he opened the door, and let out a sigh of relief. It had not been shook down for a while, for it was crammed with foods: sandwiches—ham, pastrami, salami, tuna salad, egg salad—some labeled, some not, some dried out or smelly, some fresh and savory. Bottles of milk and soda. A piece of chocolate cream cake. Jelly doughnuts. Some leftover tuna casserole. It looked as if the department had been getting ready to throw a party.

Now he had to find a box or container into which