The first time we hypnotized Norman, we made his body stiff like a board. We lifted his head while his feet were on the ground. Then we lifted his feet while his head was on the ground. Then we hung him between two wooden chairs, with his head resting on one, and his heels on the other.
We were just following orders. There was a general acknowledgement among us ninth-graders that we walked in the shadow of Joe Bower’s genius, and so we did as we were told. As a recent yeshiva refugee, I knew authority when I faced it. But Joe Bower—a tall boy with a thin brown mustache, a digital watch with a calculator, and an unnerving air of quiet competence—was compellingly different from the rabbis who had populated my life until then.