WE HAD FINISHED reviewing the galley proofs.  Jane Isay, our publisher, hugged us and sighed, “This is the stuff dreams are made of.” Mike Kahn and I, unknown authors, had written what we imagined would be a book read only by psychotherapists. Now we were about to embark upon a nationwide tour, sponsored by a house whose writers had won Pulitzer Prizes. The typesetter (in those pre-digital days type was set by hand) was born in Puerto Rico.  He got so carried away with The Sibling Bond that he sent a copy to his older sister. He urged Jane to have it translated into Spanish. It was later reborn El Vinculo Fraterno. In German it became Geschwister-Bindung .

       His unsolicited enthusiasm and early reviews convinced Basic Books to place a $25,000 quarter-page ad in the New York Times.  Feature articles appeared:  People, Newsweek, and Psychology Today.  The blue-haired ladies of the Twentieth Century Club at The University of Pittsburg invited me to speak for a huge honorarium. Phil Donahue’s producer booked us for an entire show. I went on Barbara Walters’ 20/20,   I had a great interview with Charlie Rose. The Today Show arranged a stay at a posh Manhattan hotel. NBC seated me in a limo next to the Israeli Ambassador who was appearing on the same show.

        Colleagues called their congratulations. I was invited to speak at Yale and Brandeis.  My wife and I began getting invitations to dinner parties by university faculty who had, until now, grudgingly acknowledged the need for someone to teach clinically relevant courses. People seemed to greet me with a new deference. My head spun.  Overnight a psychologist from a small New England town had become an internationally respected authority on sibling relationships.

          After I was asked to speak at Uxbridge College in London, my dreamlife kicked into high gear. One night I received a secret request for consultation from Buckingham Palace. It seems the Queen had become a nervous wreck after reading stories about Diana and Charles’ rocky marriage in the British tabloids. The president of Dartmouth, my alma mater, announced that I’d be getting an honorary degree. Some nights were less pleasant. I was repeatedly accosted by a toothless old woman, who shook her finger in my face, cackling: “Beware  Narcissus!”   

         I should have listened to her.

         The trouble began when I got to Philadelphia.

         Birthplace of freedom, the city of brotherly love. As my taxi passed the Philadelphia Museum of Art I whistled “Gonna Fly Now,” the theme from Rocky. Philadelphia’s premier news outlet is a mega station whose drive-time broadcasts are heard each morning by several hundred thousand commuters. My gig was scheduled for 8:45 a.m. each morning, prime time. When I arrived at the broadcast booth the hostess was reading the news. She didn’t look at me for 10 minutes, but gestured me to a chair.  Still making no eye contact, while thumbing through her notes, she said:  “I suppose you’re Dr. Blanks.”

       “Ah, it’s Dr. Bank,” I stammered.  B-a-n-k, no s, Stephen Bank.    Fifteen seconds and we’re live.  The producer counts:  “Five, four, three, two…

         “Our guest this morning is Dr. Stephan Banks, who has coauthored a book titled The Sibling Bond. Welcome to Drive Talk Dr. Banks.”

           I wince at the double mispronunciation, forcing a weak smile:  “Good to be here.” Already I am feeling it’s not good to be here. She still isn’t looking at me. I still don’t know her name. She’s a celebrity who doesn’t need to introduce herself.

          She starts by tossing me a soft pitch. “Tell us about The Sibling Bond.”  It’s an open-ended question, the kind I love to run with.  I give her a juicy sound bite.

     “It’s the first clinical study of the lifelong relationships between brothers and sisters. The sibling relationship lasts longer than any other family relationship, longer than that with our parents, longer than with our spouses, longer than with our children.  For better or for worse, the sibling connection’s for life.  You can’t get a divorce.”

 A base hit.  I’m finding my groove.

            Little do I suspect her next question is a poisoned dart.   “Dr. Blanks I’ve tried to get through the first half of your book but I had to put it down. It’s not an easy read.” She holds up the book and thumbs to the end. “How long is this?  Three hundred pages!  I can’t figure out what it’s all about.”

              A blow to the solar plexus, maybe aimed at organs somewhat lower. I blather about ambivalence, attachment, envy, parental neglect.  I want to counterpunch, but psychologists are supposed to be accepting, warm, and supportive.   She pounds away: “Doctor, your book contains clinical observations of patients undergoing psychotherapy, but is that a substitute for hard scientific data?” Rocky’s on the ropes, still on his feet, but staggering. 

         I fight back.  “You’re the first person in all my appearances who thinks The Sibling Bond is hard to understand. I’ve spoken with audiences all over the country and people seem…” She slashes the air with her hand.  “Hold that thought, let’s go to break. We’ll be right back.”

           The air is heavy with silence.  She thumbs through her notes; still no eye contact.  I don’t exist. I say through clenched teeth, “I didn’t come on your show to answer spiteful questions.  Is this a conversation or a cross examination?”  

            The hostess smiles, displaying a mouthful of whitened teeth.   I hear music from Jaws.  As her eyes meet mine she smirks: “Oh, don’t be so sensitive! I’m just asking you to make things clear.  Doctor, our listeners have trouble understanding professional jargon.” An old trick: calling me doctor while sticking a hat pin in my liver. 

             She’s gotten under my skin.  Thirty seconds till we’re live.  I snarl: “I’ve got better things to do than listen to these nasty questions. And by the way, my name is Bank, not Banks, no “s”. I told you it’s not Blank, and my first name is Stephen, not Stephan.”  She ignores my comment, stares at the red numbers counting backwards on the digital clock.  She files her nails.

            Twenty five, fifteen…   I take off the earphones and head for the elevator, feeling not a small amount of embarrassment about losing my cool.

*****

            On the way to the Temple University radio station, I do deep breathing exercises.  I’m met by an eager nineteen year-old young man who tells me he’s a psychology major.  We get along famously: a half hour of quality conversation. I’ve rescheduled a full day of appointments to make this trip.  Maybe this is going to boost book sales.

           I ask him if the show was live. “Oh no, it’s recorded.”    

          “When does it air?”

           “Sunday May 12th.”

           “That’s Mother’s Day.  What time?”

            “5:15 a.m., right after the news.”

             “What’s the size of your audience during that slot?”

               I already know the answer.  A university on a Sunday at 5:30 a.m. How many students are left on campus after the semester’s ended?  What student wants to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to hear about sibling bonds? 

               Earnestly he shakes my hand. “Thanks, Dr. Bank, good luck with your research and have a great day!” 

    Coauthor Mike Kahn phoned me from Cleveland. He sounded disheartened after getting off a show featuring a second guest who had written a book called How to Cut Your Expenses in Half. Among that author’s most memorable suggestions: when you blow your nose, try to reuse the Kleenex, or even better, rip the Kleenex in half before you blow. And: when dining at an expensive restaurant, don’t hesitate to ask for a doggie bag 

             Off I flew to Detroit, where the next morning I appeared on a TV show called “Kelly and Company.” The co-hosts, a husband and wife team who were yucking it up about banalities such as their kids being late for school and what Ms. Kelly spends on her wardrobe. I arrived at the studio at to be greeted by reek of fresh garlic, onions and oregano.  I’m allergic to oregano.  The first segment, “How to Prepare Seabass Italiano,” featured the Kellys’ favorite chef.  

              T.V. talk shows are like old time vaudeville shows consisting of entertaining acts that have nothing to do with each other. The next act featured a grieving couple. They had brought a law suit against the Christian Science Church for advising them to withhold medical treatment for their dying child. After seabass and grief, on came Dr. Bank, clutching a wad of tissues in case the oregano triggered a sneezing fit.  

            I flew next to KDKA in Pittsburg where I had to take phone calls from people who wanted answers, in thirty seconds or less, to questions about impossibly difficult family situations: “My brother and I haven’t spoken for 25 years. Could you give me some pointers about what to do?”  

            My favorite: “I’m engaged to be married to my step-brother. My mom says it’s incestuous.  What’s your opinion?”  I staggered to the elevator. At the airport I bought a book by Martin Amis about the circus of American life called The Moronic Inferno.    

           These encounters were a picnic compared to what happened when I got to The Oprah Winfrey Show in Baltimore.

          Oprah was at this point a rising star, soon to become an icon. The first indication that things were going badly was the hotel the producers selected, a one star flea bag in a rough section of Baltimore where most of the buildings had been razed. Weird characters sat idly in the lobby. Once in my room, I heard sounds of gunfire on the street. There was angry shouting in outside my door, maybe a drug deal gone bad.  I propped a chair against the door in case of a break in.

          I walked into the lobby of WBAL, on two hours of sleep. I was greeted by an unbelievable scene.  Twenty- five heavily perfumed beautiful young women in heels and eye-catching dresses were milling around and chattering.  A woman in her early thirties extended her hand “Hi! I’m Marlene, the executive producer. And you are…?”

            “Dr. Bank.  The Sibling Bond.”

             “You didn’t get my message?”

             “What message?”

             “We left word with your answering service that your appearance had to be canceled. At the last minute we were able to get Giorgio Armani to judge The Most Beautiful Woman in Baltimore Contest, so we’ve had to move you to June.”

         I fumed: “I received no such message.” Marlene motioned to her assistant. They huddled.

         “Dr. Bank, I am so terribly sorry, but it looks like my assistant forgot to call you.  We really want you to come back.”

           Like a moth drawn to flame, or in this instance, to fame, I went back three weeks later, bringing along my fourteen year-old son, Josh, who wanted to see his father in action.  Oprah gave us an upgrade, a Hilton. Our room was located above the grand ballroom where a high school prom went on until 2 a.m.  

        The next morning we arrived at WBAL. I was sent for makeup, and steered onto the set where I found Ms. Winfrey in a foul mood, bickering with her co-host, a man named Richard with orange permed hair. It seems they had a history of interrupting each other, stepping on each other’s lines. They had invented a puffer system allowing each to deliver a puff of air underneath the desk to the other’s thigh. I spent five minutes watching them practice their puffs.

         Oprah had arranged for four African- American boys, siblings ages eleven through sixteen, to be interviewed by me.  There would be no meet and greet, no warm up. She whispered:  “These boys are very shy and two of them have learning problems.”  A white psychologist chatting with four kids from the inner city!  I thought: “O.M.G.! This is going to be a fiasco.” 

         It was worse than a fiasco. It was a disaster. I couldn’t get them to talk. When they did speak they used a dialect I couldn’t understand. While I faked understanding their language, the “conversation” limped along with Dr. Bank trying desperately to loosen them up.  The harder I tried, the more they resisted. You could feel the oxygen seep out of the studio. Finally Oprah rescued me with questions about the book.

           I’ve blown the interview.  I’m furious and feeling totally set up by Oprah. I’m deflated, defeated. My teen age son must think this is what happens when his father goes to work.  He’s seen me being a fraud. 

         I slunk out of the studio. As Josh and I descended the steps outside WBAL, a woman of about sixty came rushing up.  “Oh, wow! Could you give me your autograph?” she squealed. She extended a notebook.

          Elated, I reached for my pen. Nobody had ever asked me for an autograph!  “Sure! What’s your name?”

         “Betty. Betty Jackson. What a treat to finally meet you!”   I wrote: “To Betty Jackson, best wishes, Dr. Stephen Bank, The Sibling Bond.”

        Betty frowned and stared at the paper in disbelief. “Oh, I thought you were Troy Jones, from “As the World Turns,” her voice full of disappointment.  She ripped up the autograph and deposited it in the trash can.

         The final blow to imagined fame took place that afternoon at an electronics store where I bought Josh a Walkman for his birthday.  At the cash register I noticed the clerk was glued to a miniature TV.  “Hi, do you by any chance watch Oprah Winfrey?”  

          She smiled from ear to ear. “Do I watch Oprah? I never miss her show. I just love Oprah.”

            “Oh, that’s cool,” I replied. “Did you see today’s show?”

            “Sure did!”

            “Do you remember me?”  I pointed to my face.

             “Were you on the show?  I don’t remember seeing you.”

              “Dr. Steve Bank?” I point to my face again. “Oprah featured my book this morning.  I was on for 12 full minutes. Remember? They showed the book three times?  Sibling Bond? The one with red and blue on the cover?”

               “Didn’t see any book.  But I just loved those boys. Soo cute.”

Thirty Years Later

         I am back to being a small town psychologist. I go shopping, mow the lawn. I chat with neighbors. I go fishing with my grandkids.  Dinner invitations from important people don’t come our way anymore. My fifteen minutes of fame are a distant memory. I don’t miss getting rescheduled, or miss the smell of oregano on seabass. And I don’t miss having to deal with people who haven’t read my book. 

Recently I ran into a neighbor at the supermarket. “I just finished reading your book. You explained things that have bothered me for 40 years.  My sister and I don’t speak.  She’s humiliated and hurt me, so I stay away. But I’ve realized it’s because my mother forced her to take care of me when our baby brother died.  It’s nobody’s fault, not hers, not mine. Your book lifted a weight off my shoulders.” 

          Moments like these touch my heart. They remind me of why I decided to become a psychologist in the first place. I love bringing out the best in other people. I take satisfaction when I help people overcome their fears and sorrows. I’ve learned the difference between imagined fame and knowing I can make a difference in someone’s life.

Every once in a while, when I miss riding in limos and I yearn to rub shoulders with “important” people, the prophetic toothless old woman makes a visit.  She whispers: “He who rides high in the saddle has far to fall.” This time I’m listening.

By Stephen Bank, Contributing Writer