Jung got drunk at a bar and challenged me to arm wrestle. I barely knew the guy, but I'd had a few drinks and agreed. Unlike Freud, who I beat handily, Jung had powerful arms and an iron grip. I knew he could humiliate me in front of the whole place, as patrons gathered around.
If I had just gotten up and walked out no one would have known. Well, I would have known. So we found an empty table and locked grips. Hemingway winked at me. What the hell did that mean? James Joyce stood behind Jung, which, I suppose, meant he was backing him. Maybe bets were on the line. Before we began, Faulkner threw up in the corner. Jung gave me a steely glare. Someone yelled Go! and we went at it. Five, six, eight minutes back and forth, shouts of encouragement ripped the air.
After ten minutes a draw was called. People got bored watching us and returned to their drinks.
This was a memory I'd have to confront. I made an appointment with him the next day to analyze my dreams and maybe have a drink with my unconscious self.
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