Su Su Sudio

I was surprised to learn that Dr. Finkelstein, who had the largest ad for psychiatrists in the Yellow Pages and what I assumed must be a bustling business, was accepting new patients and free that very afternoon. Two hours after my call, I was sitting in front of his ornate mahogany desk while he asked me background information about my life. Although it was late spring, Dr. Finkelstein was wearing a dark wool suit and tie. His mostly gray hair was parted in the middle and long enough to be tucked behind each ear. 

“Welcome,” he said. “What brings you here?”  His voice was shaded with an Eastern European accent and revealed little emotion. 

“A song,” I said. “It’s called ‘Sussudio.’ I saw the video on MTV. I heard it on the radio. I bought the record. And then it became a problem.”

He asked how to spell “Sussudio” and copied my answer into a leather-bound journal. He then opened his desk drawer, took out a pipe, and lit it with a wooden matchstick. This was during the time we got our music from MTV, and psychiatrists smoked pipes in their offices.

“I hear it everywhere,” I continued. “Even in my head.” 

He pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Do you hear other voices — voices telling you to do certain things — or just this song?” 

“Just this song,” I said.

“And this is unpleasant for you?” 

“Worse than unpleasant,” I said. “It’s driving me mad.” I placed the shopping bag I’d brought onto his desk.  

He peered inside. “Phil Collins? I am not familiar with this man. I mostly listen to the classical music station.” 

This was concerning. I needed assurance that he could help me, that he’d successfully treated other people afflicted with similar conditions. If not with a Phil Collins issue, maybe Billy Joel. Surely someone with an Elton John problem. 

I leaned forward. “It’s been going on for months. I try to just say no. I don’t listen to the radio. I cancelled my cable. That record has been in my car because I don’t want it in my apartment. Still, I feel like I can’t escape it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said. He pointed the pipe at me. “Maybe because you run from it, it chases you.” He then asked if I’d experienced this with other songs, which I hadn’t. 

“Even when you were a young boy?” he probed. “Maybe something your mama sang to you, hmm?”

“Not that I can remember.” 

“Perhaps you choose not to remember. In any case, I think it is time that we — what is the expression? — face the music.” He picked up the bag and walked past me. It was then that I noticed a stereo on the credenza.   

“You’re not going to play it,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s only a song. By playing it, we will disarm this hold it has on you. You have nothing to fear from this — ” he looked at the record, “this Phil Collins. Look at him. He looks like a nice fellow.” 

I didn’t need to look. I could picture the album cover, the big head cast in a reddish light, Collins’ devilish smile. Finkelstein slipped the record from its jacket and onto the turntable. He turned on the receiver. Was he really going to do this? He lifted the stylus and I knew where it was heading. Side one, track one. He lowered the needle. 

After a few pops, that all-too-familiar drum beat leapt from the speakers. Then the synthesizer riff. The horns. Collins’ slinky vocals.  

God, I hated that song, and, Lord, did I miss it. I found myself bobbing my head to the music.   

“Not bad,” Finkelstein said. “What does this mean — Sussudio?” 

“I — I don’t know,” I said. 

“Is that the word he means when he says to just say the word? I do not know this Sussudio word. Why does he wish for us to say it?”

I wished he would stop saying it. 

“Is it someone’s name? Is it like Susan?” 

My heart began palpitating to the staccato rhythm. I feared I might go into cardiac arrest and wondered if the doctor had ever treated a body part other than the head. 

“He says it over and over. It must have great meaning for him, no?” He began humming. He turned up the volume. “It catches me a little.”

Yes, it was catchy. Dangerously so. 

His pipe, now back in his mouth, bopped up and down like a conductor’s baton. After he removed it and started to sing, I ran from the office.  

I barely made it to my car before collapsing. There was an old paper lunch bag in the back seat and I breathed deeply into it several times. I didn’t know if I was hyperventilating or just out of shape. What was Finkelstein thinking? It was like I’d gone there to kick heroin and his treatment was a shot of heroin.  

After my breathing returned to a state not requiring medical intervention, I thought some more about heroin.

If I couldn’t quit “Sussudio” cold turkey, maybe I could wean myself off of it. With a shaky hand I started the car and then sped off to Dog Ear Records, where I bought every Phil Collins record they had — except the one with “Sussudio.” 

For the next two days, I played the records over and over. I wanted something that might dislodge “Sussudio” but wouldn’t be as tough to quit later on. I knew I needed something strong, so I focused on the hits, tracks like “You Can’t Hurry Love” and “Against all Odds” and “In the Air Tonight.” My tolerance was too high, though. As soon as those songs ended, I craved “Sussudio.”   

I returned to Dr. Finkelstein two weeks later, a defeated man. I’d bought another copy of the song, actually, copies, to be honest: the record, the single, even the cassette single. My life had become a movie with a one-song soundtrack. The receptionist glanced up when I walked in, but didn’t greet me or ask if I wanted a cup of coffee like she did on my last visit. Instead, she returned to the magazine that was spread out on her desk and motioned with her thumb to the doctor’s door. 

As I approached the door, I heard strains of “Sussudio.” I knocked but there was no response. I opened the door slowly and peered inside. Finkelstein was standing next to the stereo, his body swaying unsteadily. He was sucking his unlit pipe like a pacifier. I took a couple cautious steps toward him. His face was unshaven, his hair unwashed and unkempt, and his skin pale and pasty. He was wearing sweatpants and an orange Disney World T-shirt, and there was an unpleasant, borscht-like odor coming off his body. 

His glazed eyes shifted towards me. “This song,” he said. “This Su-goddamn-sudio. What does it even mean? He keeps telling me to ‘just say the word,’ and I do, but nothing happens. Why does he torment me so? Why did you bring this here?” The song ended. He dragged the needle across the vinyl back to the start of the song. Poor Finkelstein. I guessed he wouldn’t be helping me. I slipped out of the office while he muttered “Su-su-sudio” over and over like an incantation.      

I told the receptionist that I was ending my work with Dr. Finkelstein and to send me the final bill. Instead of taking the elevator, I trotted down the three flights of stairs to the parking lot. The sun was elbowing its way between the clouds and a mild breeze was blowing. I hadn’t been out of my apartment in days and the fresh air felt good. My mind felt clearer than it had in some time. I decided to drive downtown and take a walk. After getting a cookie from Sweetie Pies and strolling a bit, I found myself in front of Dog Ear Records. I risked a glance in the window. The Phil Collins album was still there. Maybe it was because of the sun’s reflection off the glass, or maybe my perspective had changed, but I began to think Finkelstein was right. Phil Collins did look like a nice fellow. I finished my cookie and even whistled “Sussudio” as I walked back to my car. There was, dare I say, a bit of pep in my step. For the first time in a long time, I thought I’d be alright. I drove home and threw away every Phil Collins record just to be safe.