It’s a beautiful day outside. How come when I have the chance, I don’t spend time outside by the Detroit River? When I move into my new apartment, it’ll only be a block away. It’s absolutely beautiful. I notice the sealed windows and try not to think about the lack of fresh air again. What I would give to breathe some fresh air.
There’s my roommate Judy. “Hey!” I wave her over. She is wearing the huge hood on her pink robe, which means she doesn’t want to be disturbed. To me, this is all the more reason to disturb her. The hood is so huge it actually covers the upper half of her face. I have told her we should cut little eye-holes for her to stare at Michael,kind of like those middle-eastern women. She trudges over, complaining yet again of constipation from the methadone. She’s trying to de-tox off of pain pills, heroin, and other drugs I’ve never heard of. She’s really pretty, but slightly overweight . She looks like the nurse in The English Patient—Juliette Binoche in a huge pink hooded monk’s robe.. I warn her that if she orders another laxative tonight I will be ordering another roommate. She can’t help but laugh. I still have horrific memories of her downing a Big Gulp size Ex-lax before bed and feeling like the room had been fumigated on top of there not being any fresh air last night.
I wonder if I should work up the courage to take a shower. I’m always paranoid that one of the convicts will walk in-- especially the giant pervert who’s been eying me. The door doesn’t lock. Maybe I’ll just take a really quick one and ask Judy to stand guard.
“Hey, did you order your lunch yet? Oh God, here she comes…” said Judy as she pulls her hood down even further. It’s Margo, the one who hears voices constantly telling her to jump out the window. She’d probably be really pretty if she lost about 100lbs. She has a freckled face and long, caramel-coloured hair down to her waist. She always wears three hospital gowns, one on top of the other, and the hospital issued blue socks. She said she gained all the weight because her uncles raped her. She doesn’t want to look attractive. Makes sense to me. She’s just had her first shower of the day. Normally she takes three. “Mind if I sit here?”
“No, go ahead, how are you?”
“I’ve decided to let them do the ECT on me”.
“You’re going to have shock therapy?”
“Yeah , they said it will stop the voices.”
“It’s going to stop everything. I saw a girl come out of electro-shock and she couldn’t remember her last name for days,” said Judy.
“Hey, Michael just changed the channel…should I tell him I liked the other one? Just to get him talking?”
“Judy, maybe you should put some normal clothes on so he doesn’t think he’s hallucinating that the Grim Reaper, in a pink robe, is stalking him. Also, maybe a quick shower would be in order after last night’s Ex-Lax. I’ll watch the door for you, if you do for me.”
“Did you order your breakfast last night?”
This was a big thing. I think because it was one of the few choices we could exercise. We could call a special #, and substitute what we really wanted to eat for what was on the set menu. I was constantly substituting fresh fruit plates. I had to place calls for lots of the new patients, who were too doped up and confused to dial themselves.
“Yeah, I ordered. Margo,when is your first shock treatment?”
“Tomorrow. So I have to fast tonight. The voices right now, are telling me to go to the window, to jump.”
“Tell the voices that the windows are sealed shut, so they’ll have to come up with a different plan.”
Judy giggled.
“For instance, you could spend the night in a cot right next to Judy, after she’s taken her night-time Big Gulp of Ex-Lax. She could sit on your face.”
“I’d sit on Michaels’ face,” said Judy
I got up to take a shower. “Judy, can you fucking please watch the door while I take a shower? I don’t want one of the patients walking in on me.”
“Allllriiiiighhht. But then you have to figure out a plan of how I can get Michael to talk to me. ?”
“ Looks aren’t everything.”
I got up, downing the rest of the decaf. “We’ll be back Margo. My Dad had shock treatment when he was in his 30’s and he felt brilliant afterwards. He could play anything on the piano. It totally dissolved all the negativity. It was the only thing that worked. Hang in there. It’s medication time in an hour.”
We stopped at the big front desk so I could ask for towels. There were about four women on duty, yet it took forever to even get one’s attention. Finally one told me they only had hand towels. Joy. I tried to be good-humored about it, not wanting to get on their bad side, and stationed Judy outside the shower room door. “Look, maybe you should go use the bathroom now, I don’t want you running off in the middle of my shower, you know?”
She came back and I shut the shower door behind me. There was no curtain, no anything. Just a bunch of blue and white tile and a shower nozzle and a toilet. I scrambled out of my clothes, and got under the water. It felt like heaven.
I used three hand towels to dry and dressed quickly. I had to let my hair dry naturally, which should be interesting, as I always blow-dry it. Maybe I would look like the Dairy Queen Woman who was admitted last night. Her hair looked like a Bride of Frankenstein Dairy Queen Ice Cream when she walked into the Day Room. It was spectacular.
I felt renewed. I asked Judy if she wanted a shower. She just wanted to go back to bed. “But breakfast. It’s about to be served.” She grumbled and threw herself on the bed, immediately snoring. Suddenly Medication Time was being announced on the loudspeaker. That woke her up. She sat up like an automated robot. “Medication time?”
We went back down the hall. Everyone was lined up, looking like a bunch of junkies. I guess some of them were. There was a small window that you had to lean into with a nurse in it, and give your name and room number to. Then you got your paper cup of multi-colored pills and a tiny paper cup of water. Every now and then a patient would refuse the pills. We actually had the right to do that. But in the end, it just meant a longer stay. “Uncooperative. Refuses medications”, on the chart.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
The Barbie Doll Episode
She woke up early that morning. She’d spent most of the night writing her college thesis about Kurt Cobain being Christ and listening to Nirvana’s ‘Bleach’ by candlelight. She’d listened on her headphones, careful not to wake her parents.
She sat down at her dresser and looked in the mirror. Her blonde hair was tousled, her blue eyes alert. She opened her drawer and got out her medications. She counted out six Zoloft and six Xanax. She thought, “Pills are just condensed dust, they only affect me if I believe in them…and I no longer do. The doctor would say I’m being grandiose…the entire idea of me thinking I’m stronger than the pills. Whatever.” She took the pills with water.
She quickly pulled on faded jeans and a sweater and her boots. She had to get out of the house before her parents got up. She felt wonderful.
She headed downstairs and out the front door, closing it quietly behind her. She fumbled in her white fake fur bag for her cigarettes and lit the first of the day, a yellow one to celebrate the sunrise. She hopped into her green Nova and headed to the riverfront to take a walk . She had brought her nephew’s boombox so she could blare ‘Bleach’ as she drove. She didn’t have a cd player in the car. The snow on the ground looked fresh and untouched.
At the park, Emma got out of the car and carried the boombox to the far end of the pier overlooking the Detroit river. She set it on the guard rail and played ‘About a Girl’. The familiar words echoed over the still water, making her happier yet.
She walked back to the car, and drove to the Salvation Army. She loaded her cart with presents for Faith and Michael, her niece and nephew. Lots of teddy bears, books, games, and then she stopped dead as she spotted a life-size Barbie doll behind the check-out counter…and a white mink jacket. She had to have both. Emma put everything on her American Express. She didn’t bother to try on the coat in the store, and realized on the way back to the car that it was far too small. She wore it anyway and threw the rest of the things in the backseat. She lit up one of her multi-colored cigarettes, this time choosing pink to match the Barbie’s taffeta skirt, and checked her wallet. She still had lots of money. “If I really have faith, God will provide.” She rolled her window down and threw the bills out to the street, watching them toss in the breeze. She felt free.
She turned on the radio and was surprised to hear, “Hi, this is Kurt Cobain and this is Bipolar Radio.” She wondered if she was imagining it—after all he had died only a week ago, but his voice was clear as day. He went on to say he was going to play some Dexter Freeney…she laughed aloud because it was the worst music she’d ever heard and Kurt was alive again. Even though it was only about ten degrees out, she rolled the window down and blared Dexter Freeney as loud as she could, bobbing in her seat. Emma decided the next stop would be the bookstore. As she drove she asked herself, “What is the funniest, most outrageous thing I could possibly do? To liven up this morgue of a city? She pulled into the parking lot and took a look at herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair wasn’t blonde enough. She took out her travel-size Johnson’s baby powder and sprinkled it on the roots of her hair. She then applied neon pink lipstick to match her cigarette and the Barbie’s taffeta skirt. She picked up the Barbie by it’s blonde hair, and
got out of the car, ignoring the stares, thinking to herself, “you’re in for some entertainment”, walked into the bookstore, up to a reserved looking clerk, and asked in a low, clear voice, “Can you please tell me where the animal porn is? Just animals, please, not people.” The employee pushed up his glasses and kept his serious expression. “I’m sorry, Miss, we don’t carry animal porn.”
“Well, that’s a shame. Where are your wrestling magazines? And do you carry Barbie World? He led Emma to the wrestling section and indicated where Barbie World could be found.
“Thank you for all your help. Although I’m not sure it’s the help I really need,” she smiled. She perused the magazines, picking up as many wrestling magazines as she could carry, and a stack of Barbie World. She headed to the bookstore café, dragging the Barbie doll by the hand. She ordered a pot of organic Earl Grey tea for two, and some Walker’s shortbread biscuits, suddenly feeling very British. She put it all on her charge, adding a twenty dollar tip for the goggle-eyed girl behind the counter, went to a table, put the Barbie across from her in a chair of it’s own, with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, and commenced reading Barbie World, laughing inside at the spectacle of it all.
She read for awhile, then gathered up everything and proceeded to the check-out, charging a hundred fifty dollars worth of wrestling magazines and Barbie World, thanking the clerk with a broad smile. The sleeve of Emma’s white mink coat ripped as she took her card back. The coat really was too small.
Word count 917
She woke up early that morning. She’d spent most of the night writing her college thesis about Kurt Cobain being Christ and listening to Nirvana’s ‘Bleach’ by candlelight. She’d listened on her headphones, careful not to wake her parents.
She sat down at her dresser and looked in the mirror. Her blonde hair was tousled, her blue eyes alert. She opened her drawer and got out her medications. She counted out six Zoloft and six Xanax. She thought, “Pills are just condensed dust, they only affect me if I believe in them…and I no longer do. The doctor would say I’m being grandiose…the entire idea of me thinking I’m stronger than the pills. Whatever.” She took the pills with water.
She quickly pulled on faded jeans and a sweater and her boots. She had to get out of the house before her parents got up. She felt wonderful.
She headed downstairs and out the front door, closing it quietly behind her. She fumbled in her white fake fur bag for her cigarettes and lit the first of the day, a yellow one to celebrate the sunrise. She hopped into her green Nova and headed to the riverfront to take a walk . She had brought her nephew’s boombox so she could blare ‘Bleach’ as she drove. She didn’t have a cd player in the car. The snow on the ground looked fresh and untouched.
At the park, Emma got out of the car and carried the boombox to the far end of the pier overlooking the Detroit river. She set it on the guard rail and played ‘About a Girl’. The familiar words echoed over the still water, making her happier yet.
She walked back to the car, and drove to the Salvation Army. She loaded her cart with presents for Faith and Michael, her niece and nephew. Lots of teddy bears, books, games, and then she stopped dead as she spotted a life-size Barbie doll behind the check-out counter…and a white mink jacket. She had to have both. Emma put everything on her American Express. She didn’t bother to try on the coat in the store, and realized on the way back to the car that it was far too small. She wore it anyway and threw the rest of the things in the backseat. She lit up one of her multi-colored cigarettes, this time choosing pink to match the Barbie’s taffeta skirt, and checked her wallet. She still had lots of money. “If I really have faith, God will provide.” She rolled her window down and threw the bills out to the street, watching them toss in the breeze. She felt free.
She turned on the radio and was surprised to hear, “Hi, this is Kurt Cobain and this is Bipolar Radio.” She wondered if she was imagining it—after all he had died only a week ago, but his voice was clear as day. He went on to say he was going to play some Dexter Freeney…she laughed aloud because it was the worst music she’d ever heard and Kurt was alive again. Even though it was only about ten degrees out, she rolled the window down and blared Dexter Freeney as loud as she could, bobbing in her seat. Emma decided the next stop would be the bookstore. As she drove she asked herself, “What is the funniest, most outrageous thing I could possibly do? To liven up this morgue of a city? She pulled into the parking lot and took a look at herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair wasn’t blonde enough. She took out her travel-size Johnson’s baby powder and sprinkled it on the roots of her hair. She then applied neon pink lipstick to match her cigarette and the Barbie’s taffeta skirt. She picked up the Barbie by it’s blonde hair, and
got out of the car, ignoring the stares, thinking to herself, “you’re in for some entertainment”, walked into the bookstore, up to a reserved looking clerk, and asked in a low, clear voice, “Can you please tell me where the animal porn is? Just animals, please, not people.” The employee pushed up his glasses and kept his serious expression. “I’m sorry, Miss, we don’t carry animal porn.”
“Well, that’s a shame. Where are your wrestling magazines? And do you carry Barbie World? He led Emma to the wrestling section and indicated where Barbie World could be found.
“Thank you for all your help. Although I’m not sure it’s the help I really need,” she smiled. She perused the magazines, picking up as many wrestling magazines as she could carry, and a stack of Barbie World. She headed to the bookstore café, dragging the Barbie doll by the hand. She ordered a pot of organic Earl Grey tea for two, and some Walker’s shortbread biscuits, suddenly feeling very British. She put it all on her charge, adding a twenty dollar tip for the goggle-eyed girl behind the counter, went to a table, put the Barbie across from her in a chair of it’s own, with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, and commenced reading Barbie World, laughing inside at the spectacle of it all.
She read for awhile, then gathered up everything and proceeded to the check-out, charging a hundred fifty dollars worth of wrestling magazines and Barbie World, thanking the clerk with a broad smile. The sleeve of Emma’s white mink coat ripped as she took her card back. The coat really was too small.
Word count 917
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Martin
Every head turned as we entered the Clock.
“Hey, Mart, how’s it going?”
“Hi, Mr. Crane!”
“Hey, who’s the little one , Marty?”
“Do you want your regular table, Martin?”
I knew why they were all staring. He looked like a movie star. He was the best looking man wherever we went.
He was my father. He was Martin Joseph Crane.
He smiled, flashing his white teeth, removed his dark blue windbreaker, and slid into the booth.
“This is my daughter, Kathy, little Chicken, . How’s your son doing?No thanks, we don’t need menus. I think we know what we want. Two coffees, black, and a large order of fries, and a side of gravy. Thanks, Debbie!” He shook a cigarette out of his pack of Vantage and lit it with his silver Zippo.
“Did you notice the paintings, Chicken? That’s a Turner reprint over there. And that one above us? It’s Van Gogh’s Café Terrace At Night. The Turner is…”He exhaled smoke.
“Richmond Bridge. Yes, I’m almost sure of it.”
The waitress returned with our coffee.
“Here you are, Martin, fries and gravy are coming up.”
“Thank you, Debbie. I wondered if you could answer a question for me? That painting, the print in the lobby, as you come in? I know it’s a Turner, but is it Richmond Bridge?”
Debbie’s forehead creased under her huge bouffant hairdo.
“Can’t say I ever noticed that uh, painting. Which one was you looking at, Martin?”
“The one in the lobby. Obviously, it’s not an original Turner, but I’m sure it’s a Turner reprint, and wondered if I was right thinking it’s Richmond Bridge.”
“Huh. I can ask Wally when he get’s here. I don’t know!”
“Thanks Debbie. It’s going to be on my mind until I know if I’m right.”
I stirred my coffee.
“Dad, is Wally a painter?”
He chuckled. “No, little Chicken, Wally is the cook. A different kind of artist. Wait til you taste the fries here, they’re the best fries you’ll ever have.”
I cursed myself for my ignorance. Wally, a painter? I was always saying the dumbest things.
He was scribbling something on his napkin, deep in thought, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“What’re you doing, Dad?”
“Hang on a minute….okay, yep, that’s right. Got it!”
“What’d you get, Dad?” I sipped my hot coffee.
“I just worked out if we press Catholic Central instead of doing the zone…like this, a press…you see these x’s? That’s Catholic Central, and the o’s are us, Carlson, well, if we double team them here, as they come up the zone, then they don’t have a chance….”
I could feel my forehead creasing like Debbie’s in concentration. The basketball team my Dad coached, The Carlson Marauders, were playing Friday night, and he really wanted to win badly. He had been doing diagrams like this one all week long.
“If Cunningham would just get his head out of his ass, we might have a chance.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Did I tell you the last game, he stole the ball and scored a lay up for the other team? He took it all the way up the court, of course no one stopped him. He was so damned proud of himself, too.” He rolled his eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You did a good job, keeping score at practice, Chicken. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Alright, the fries are here! Good and hot. Thanks Debbie. Working hard lately, Debbie?”
“Okay. Now, sprinkle them with a bit of salt, like so, then dip it in this gravy…go ahead, have one, aren’t they the best fries you’ve ever tasted?”
I nodded enthusiastically as I ate my fries. They were the best fries I’d ever tasted.
“Can you hear the song that’s playing right now, Chicken? It’s Heart of Gold, by Neil Young. It’s all about this guy searching the world for a heart of gold…and he’s growing old…I know I can’t think of anyone with a heart of gold…”
“But you’re not growing old, Dad. You’ll find one.” I really wanted him to find one, too. I didn’t want him worrying about it.
“I suppose you’re right. What do you want to do when you get older, Chicken?”
“I want to be a teacher, just like you. Except I’m afraid to talk in front of groups.”
“Remember this, Chicken. The only thing to fear is fear itself. Franklin D. Roosevelt.”
“So I should be most afraid of being afraid?”
“Yep. You know what? That upcoming reading festival…I think you should enter…I’ll help you with it…I know! You can do Casey at the Bat! You’ll win, Chicken! You need to get over your fear.”
“But Dad, I could never get up in front of all of those people!”
“You can, and you will! You love to read, right? This isn’t talking to the people, or giving a speech—it’s simply reading aloud—and we’ll practice at home until you feel comfortable. You’re the smartest damn girl I know, and you can’t let this fear of public speaking stop you.”
“What’s Casey at the Bat?”
“But there is no joy in Mudville…mighty Casey has struck out…you’ll love this poem, Chicken---it’s about baseball, you like baseball, right?”
“Yes, Dad, I had a great time at the Tiger game last week.” My Dad had gotten us box seats, and we had watched the Tigers beat the Red Sox 7-5 in extra innings.
“That’s the secret, Chicken, to talk or read about something that interests you, and Casey at the Bat will interest you, then you won’t be nervous.”
“More coffee, Martin? How old’s your girl?”
“Kathy is eleven. She’s just started the fourth grade, right, Chicken?”
“Yes.” I stirred my coffee shyly.
“She’s so pretty! A real looker, just like her father.”
“ Thanks Debbie, is Wally in yet?”
“No Martin, but I’m going to ask him about that Burner painting as soon as he gets here.”
“Turner, Debbie, Turner. Thanks.” He rolled his eyes when she walked away.
“Did you ever think that maybe you’re one of the real people and most of the others are just props? I mean I’m really supposed to believe that these people have families and friends and homes …Burner, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know the famous lines, Chicken, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances…That’s Shakespeare’s As You Like It, one day you’ll read Shakespeare, Chicken, he was a genius.”
“Well, little Chick, I’m just about done with my landscape painting…of course it won’t even be as good as Uncle Glen’s…but at least it’ll finally be done, and that’s something. Burner, Jesus…”
“I love your painting, Dad. Will you send it to a museum?”
“Not just yet, Chicken.” He smiled, his clear hazel eyes crinkling up at the corners. I loved it when I made him laugh or smile. He knocked another Vantage out of the pack and lit up.
“Excuse me , sir. Has anyone ever told you that you’re the spitting image of James Dean?”
My father reddened. “Oh, thank you, maybe an old James Dean…”
Actually, people were always saying that my Dad looked like James Dean. Or Ricky Nelson. Before I was born, he had been substitute teaching at Schaefer High school and girls were screaming and fainting outside of his classroom. My Mom had cut the clipping about it out of the News Herald.
I could tell my Dad was pleased with the comparison, although he certainly didn’t believe he was good looking. He was always complaining at home about his thinning hair , although it looked thick and shiny to me. In fact, after his barber, Ed Maloney cut it the last time, he complained his head looked like a “dirty tennis ball”. I laughed out loud thinking of it.
But he was busy moving the salt and pepper shakers around on the table, mumbling to himself, and scribbling on another napkin. The ash on the end of his cigarette was getting long.
“What’re you doing, Dad?”
“I think…I’ve just about…got it figured out, Chicken…okay, the salt shakers are us, and the pepper shakers are them… say their forward is bringing up the ball, and passes it over here…we double team him right away…he has no where to go but over here…”
My forehead was creasing up again. I tried to think of an intelligent question. “Is that a press, or a zone, Dad?”
“It’s a combination, that’s the genius of it.” He smiled and folded the napkin into his shirt pocket. The ashes spilt onto the table.
“Speaking of genius, I picked up that physics book I’ve been reading again last night….it got me thinking…now try to follow this little Chicken. Say that we, the human race, are like a math equation. All of us, our souls, if you like, are separated by plus or minus signs on one side of the equation, on one side of the equal sign. The other side, the answer, if you like, is God. So our job, on this side of the equation, here on earth, is to get rid of as many plus and minus signs as we can, to become as much like God as we can. I call my theory Equation equals Answer. What do you think?” He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling.
“Um…I’m not really good at Math, Dad.”
“You don’t have to be good at math to understand this… now listen, say that at one time, we were all a part of this consciousness called God—are you following me?”
“I think so.” I could feel my eyes crossing as I tried to take in what he was saying.
“But something caused us to fragment, to separate, into individual souls…maybe the Garden of Eden…something like that.” He lit another cigarette and squinted in the smoke.
“Here’s the thing…there’s all these plus and minus signs separating us from being God, right, but in reality, we equal God, right, we are God… C’mon now Chicken, this really isn’t that hard to follow…our job, while we’re here, is to reduce as many of these separations as possible, to get rid of the equation and just be God again…”
“Dad? I’m getting a headache.”
He sighed. “Drink some more of your coffee, you’ll feel better.”
“What’s that book you’ve got with you, Chicken?”
“It’s The Catcher In the Rye, Dad, remember you said it was good?”
“J.D. Salinger. The best. What part are you to?”
“The part where he’s talking about not liking his roommate much, I think his name’s Stratlater? And the part about Ackley?”
“Oh yeah, he thinks Stratlater’s a phony. I’ve known guys like Stratlater. Unfortunately, I haven’t known many guys like Holden Caulfield, though.”
“I bet you were just like Holden when you were young, Dad. Dad, can you tell me that story about the darts and Uncle Fred again?”
“You never get tired of that story, do you little Chicken? Well, I was playing darts with your Uncle Fred one day, we were young, about your age, and he decided he didn’t feel like playing anymore. We were playing on the grass in front of our house one summer afternoon.”
“Yeah?” I waited expectantly for more.
“ Yes, not yeah. Well, he decided he was tired and didn’t feel like playing anymore, I was winning, and I wanted to keep playing. So as he walked away, I said, “here, take the darts with you!” and threw a few after him.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, mesmerized.
“Well, he started running, looking over his shoulder at the darts in the air coming at him, when one landed smack in the back of his head! He spun around and said, “I’m dying”, spun around again, and fell to the ground, clutching his head. Fred was always dramatic.”
“Did he die Dad?”
“Chicken, you know Uncle Fred is still around. No, he didn’t die. But I don’t think he’s played darts since.” He laughed and lit up a cigarette.
“More coffee?”
“Thanks Debbie…Debbie? What the hell’s wrong?”
“My…my son’s in trouble again, Martin…”her lips trembled…”he got caught stealin’, I just found out….I just don’t know what to do anymore, Martin.”
“Debbie. Put that coffee on the table and sit down. Wally can do without you for a minute.”
“And Wally don’t know if the paintings a Burner or not..”
“To hell with the painting. Do you want a cigarette? Here, have one.”
Debbie accepted the cigarette gratefully and leaned over his silver Zippo.
“Thanks Martin, you’re a good man. Seems like Brian is always in trouble. You know. Ever since his Dad left. Always fighting, stealing, always something….and I can’t be with him all the time, I have to work for a living.”
“Debbie, you are doing the best you can. Don’t beat yourself up. He just misses his Dad, and feels deserted and angry. It’s not you.”
“Really Martin? You think that’s it? You don’t think it’s because I’m a crappy mother?”
“No. You’re a great mother, and he’s a good kid, deep down, I’ve met him. I’ll have a talk with him, if you want.”
“Would you do that, Martin? That’d mean the world to me! Oh, Wally’s lookin’ for me…gotta get back to work.”
She crushed out her cigarette in the tin ashtray and straightened her apron. “Thanks, Martin.”
“You let me know when it’s a good time to talk to him, Debbie.”
That Friday night I sat crushed in the bleachers next to my Mom at the Carlson Marauders versus the Catholic Central Falcons varsity game, at home in Gibraltar. The noise was deafening, the bleachers were pounding, it was the fourth quarter with a minute left, the game was tied, and you could feel the heat of the game even up where we were sitting. A whistle sounded. What was happening? Everyone was standing and shouting.
“Roger just got his fifth foul! He’s out!”my Mom shouted in my ear. Roger Gorman was my Dad’s star forward. I strained to see what was happening on the court. My Dad was yelling at the referee, pointing at Roger, shaking his head. The referee made a big T with his hands in the air .
“What’s going on?” I yelled at my Mom.
“Your father just got a technical! He’s been thrown out of the game!”
But my Dad wasn’t leaving the court. Instead, he strode out to the middle of the gym, and proceeded to lie flat on his back on the floor in protest of the call. The crowd went wild.
“That’s not normal!” hissed a lady behind me.
“That’s my Dad!” I said proudly.
“Hey, Mart, how’s it going?”
“Hi, Mr. Crane!”
“Hey, who’s the little one , Marty?”
“Do you want your regular table, Martin?”
I knew why they were all staring. He looked like a movie star. He was the best looking man wherever we went.
He was my father. He was Martin Joseph Crane.
He smiled, flashing his white teeth, removed his dark blue windbreaker, and slid into the booth.
“This is my daughter, Kathy, little Chicken, . How’s your son doing?No thanks, we don’t need menus. I think we know what we want. Two coffees, black, and a large order of fries, and a side of gravy. Thanks, Debbie!” He shook a cigarette out of his pack of Vantage and lit it with his silver Zippo.
“Did you notice the paintings, Chicken? That’s a Turner reprint over there. And that one above us? It’s Van Gogh’s Café Terrace At Night. The Turner is…”He exhaled smoke.
“Richmond Bridge. Yes, I’m almost sure of it.”
The waitress returned with our coffee.
“Here you are, Martin, fries and gravy are coming up.”
“Thank you, Debbie. I wondered if you could answer a question for me? That painting, the print in the lobby, as you come in? I know it’s a Turner, but is it Richmond Bridge?”
Debbie’s forehead creased under her huge bouffant hairdo.
“Can’t say I ever noticed that uh, painting. Which one was you looking at, Martin?”
“The one in the lobby. Obviously, it’s not an original Turner, but I’m sure it’s a Turner reprint, and wondered if I was right thinking it’s Richmond Bridge.”
“Huh. I can ask Wally when he get’s here. I don’t know!”
“Thanks Debbie. It’s going to be on my mind until I know if I’m right.”
I stirred my coffee.
“Dad, is Wally a painter?”
He chuckled. “No, little Chicken, Wally is the cook. A different kind of artist. Wait til you taste the fries here, they’re the best fries you’ll ever have.”
I cursed myself for my ignorance. Wally, a painter? I was always saying the dumbest things.
He was scribbling something on his napkin, deep in thought, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“What’re you doing, Dad?”
“Hang on a minute….okay, yep, that’s right. Got it!”
“What’d you get, Dad?” I sipped my hot coffee.
“I just worked out if we press Catholic Central instead of doing the zone…like this, a press…you see these x’s? That’s Catholic Central, and the o’s are us, Carlson, well, if we double team them here, as they come up the zone, then they don’t have a chance….”
I could feel my forehead creasing like Debbie’s in concentration. The basketball team my Dad coached, The Carlson Marauders, were playing Friday night, and he really wanted to win badly. He had been doing diagrams like this one all week long.
“If Cunningham would just get his head out of his ass, we might have a chance.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Did I tell you the last game, he stole the ball and scored a lay up for the other team? He took it all the way up the court, of course no one stopped him. He was so damned proud of himself, too.” He rolled his eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You did a good job, keeping score at practice, Chicken. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Alright, the fries are here! Good and hot. Thanks Debbie. Working hard lately, Debbie?”
“Okay. Now, sprinkle them with a bit of salt, like so, then dip it in this gravy…go ahead, have one, aren’t they the best fries you’ve ever tasted?”
I nodded enthusiastically as I ate my fries. They were the best fries I’d ever tasted.
“Can you hear the song that’s playing right now, Chicken? It’s Heart of Gold, by Neil Young. It’s all about this guy searching the world for a heart of gold…and he’s growing old…I know I can’t think of anyone with a heart of gold…”
“But you’re not growing old, Dad. You’ll find one.” I really wanted him to find one, too. I didn’t want him worrying about it.
“I suppose you’re right. What do you want to do when you get older, Chicken?”
“I want to be a teacher, just like you. Except I’m afraid to talk in front of groups.”
“Remember this, Chicken. The only thing to fear is fear itself. Franklin D. Roosevelt.”
“So I should be most afraid of being afraid?”
“Yep. You know what? That upcoming reading festival…I think you should enter…I’ll help you with it…I know! You can do Casey at the Bat! You’ll win, Chicken! You need to get over your fear.”
“But Dad, I could never get up in front of all of those people!”
“You can, and you will! You love to read, right? This isn’t talking to the people, or giving a speech—it’s simply reading aloud—and we’ll practice at home until you feel comfortable. You’re the smartest damn girl I know, and you can’t let this fear of public speaking stop you.”
“What’s Casey at the Bat?”
“But there is no joy in Mudville…mighty Casey has struck out…you’ll love this poem, Chicken---it’s about baseball, you like baseball, right?”
“Yes, Dad, I had a great time at the Tiger game last week.” My Dad had gotten us box seats, and we had watched the Tigers beat the Red Sox 7-5 in extra innings.
“That’s the secret, Chicken, to talk or read about something that interests you, and Casey at the Bat will interest you, then you won’t be nervous.”
“More coffee, Martin? How old’s your girl?”
“Kathy is eleven. She’s just started the fourth grade, right, Chicken?”
“Yes.” I stirred my coffee shyly.
“She’s so pretty! A real looker, just like her father.”
“ Thanks Debbie, is Wally in yet?”
“No Martin, but I’m going to ask him about that Burner painting as soon as he gets here.”
“Turner, Debbie, Turner. Thanks.” He rolled his eyes when she walked away.
“Did you ever think that maybe you’re one of the real people and most of the others are just props? I mean I’m really supposed to believe that these people have families and friends and homes …Burner, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know the famous lines, Chicken, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances…That’s Shakespeare’s As You Like It, one day you’ll read Shakespeare, Chicken, he was a genius.”
“Well, little Chick, I’m just about done with my landscape painting…of course it won’t even be as good as Uncle Glen’s…but at least it’ll finally be done, and that’s something. Burner, Jesus…”
“I love your painting, Dad. Will you send it to a museum?”
“Not just yet, Chicken.” He smiled, his clear hazel eyes crinkling up at the corners. I loved it when I made him laugh or smile. He knocked another Vantage out of the pack and lit up.
“Excuse me , sir. Has anyone ever told you that you’re the spitting image of James Dean?”
My father reddened. “Oh, thank you, maybe an old James Dean…”
Actually, people were always saying that my Dad looked like James Dean. Or Ricky Nelson. Before I was born, he had been substitute teaching at Schaefer High school and girls were screaming and fainting outside of his classroom. My Mom had cut the clipping about it out of the News Herald.
I could tell my Dad was pleased with the comparison, although he certainly didn’t believe he was good looking. He was always complaining at home about his thinning hair , although it looked thick and shiny to me. In fact, after his barber, Ed Maloney cut it the last time, he complained his head looked like a “dirty tennis ball”. I laughed out loud thinking of it.
But he was busy moving the salt and pepper shakers around on the table, mumbling to himself, and scribbling on another napkin. The ash on the end of his cigarette was getting long.
“What’re you doing, Dad?”
“I think…I’ve just about…got it figured out, Chicken…okay, the salt shakers are us, and the pepper shakers are them… say their forward is bringing up the ball, and passes it over here…we double team him right away…he has no where to go but over here…”
My forehead was creasing up again. I tried to think of an intelligent question. “Is that a press, or a zone, Dad?”
“It’s a combination, that’s the genius of it.” He smiled and folded the napkin into his shirt pocket. The ashes spilt onto the table.
“Speaking of genius, I picked up that physics book I’ve been reading again last night….it got me thinking…now try to follow this little Chicken. Say that we, the human race, are like a math equation. All of us, our souls, if you like, are separated by plus or minus signs on one side of the equation, on one side of the equal sign. The other side, the answer, if you like, is God. So our job, on this side of the equation, here on earth, is to get rid of as many plus and minus signs as we can, to become as much like God as we can. I call my theory Equation equals Answer. What do you think?” He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling.
“Um…I’m not really good at Math, Dad.”
“You don’t have to be good at math to understand this… now listen, say that at one time, we were all a part of this consciousness called God—are you following me?”
“I think so.” I could feel my eyes crossing as I tried to take in what he was saying.
“But something caused us to fragment, to separate, into individual souls…maybe the Garden of Eden…something like that.” He lit another cigarette and squinted in the smoke.
“Here’s the thing…there’s all these plus and minus signs separating us from being God, right, but in reality, we equal God, right, we are God… C’mon now Chicken, this really isn’t that hard to follow…our job, while we’re here, is to reduce as many of these separations as possible, to get rid of the equation and just be God again…”
“Dad? I’m getting a headache.”
He sighed. “Drink some more of your coffee, you’ll feel better.”
“What’s that book you’ve got with you, Chicken?”
“It’s The Catcher In the Rye, Dad, remember you said it was good?”
“J.D. Salinger. The best. What part are you to?”
“The part where he’s talking about not liking his roommate much, I think his name’s Stratlater? And the part about Ackley?”
“Oh yeah, he thinks Stratlater’s a phony. I’ve known guys like Stratlater. Unfortunately, I haven’t known many guys like Holden Caulfield, though.”
“I bet you were just like Holden when you were young, Dad. Dad, can you tell me that story about the darts and Uncle Fred again?”
“You never get tired of that story, do you little Chicken? Well, I was playing darts with your Uncle Fred one day, we were young, about your age, and he decided he didn’t feel like playing anymore. We were playing on the grass in front of our house one summer afternoon.”
“Yeah?” I waited expectantly for more.
“ Yes, not yeah. Well, he decided he was tired and didn’t feel like playing anymore, I was winning, and I wanted to keep playing. So as he walked away, I said, “here, take the darts with you!” and threw a few after him.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, mesmerized.
“Well, he started running, looking over his shoulder at the darts in the air coming at him, when one landed smack in the back of his head! He spun around and said, “I’m dying”, spun around again, and fell to the ground, clutching his head. Fred was always dramatic.”
“Did he die Dad?”
“Chicken, you know Uncle Fred is still around. No, he didn’t die. But I don’t think he’s played darts since.” He laughed and lit up a cigarette.
“More coffee?”
“Thanks Debbie…Debbie? What the hell’s wrong?”
“My…my son’s in trouble again, Martin…”her lips trembled…”he got caught stealin’, I just found out….I just don’t know what to do anymore, Martin.”
“Debbie. Put that coffee on the table and sit down. Wally can do without you for a minute.”
“And Wally don’t know if the paintings a Burner or not..”
“To hell with the painting. Do you want a cigarette? Here, have one.”
Debbie accepted the cigarette gratefully and leaned over his silver Zippo.
“Thanks Martin, you’re a good man. Seems like Brian is always in trouble. You know. Ever since his Dad left. Always fighting, stealing, always something….and I can’t be with him all the time, I have to work for a living.”
“Debbie, you are doing the best you can. Don’t beat yourself up. He just misses his Dad, and feels deserted and angry. It’s not you.”
“Really Martin? You think that’s it? You don’t think it’s because I’m a crappy mother?”
“No. You’re a great mother, and he’s a good kid, deep down, I’ve met him. I’ll have a talk with him, if you want.”
“Would you do that, Martin? That’d mean the world to me! Oh, Wally’s lookin’ for me…gotta get back to work.”
She crushed out her cigarette in the tin ashtray and straightened her apron. “Thanks, Martin.”
“You let me know when it’s a good time to talk to him, Debbie.”
That Friday night I sat crushed in the bleachers next to my Mom at the Carlson Marauders versus the Catholic Central Falcons varsity game, at home in Gibraltar. The noise was deafening, the bleachers were pounding, it was the fourth quarter with a minute left, the game was tied, and you could feel the heat of the game even up where we were sitting. A whistle sounded. What was happening? Everyone was standing and shouting.
“Roger just got his fifth foul! He’s out!”my Mom shouted in my ear. Roger Gorman was my Dad’s star forward. I strained to see what was happening on the court. My Dad was yelling at the referee, pointing at Roger, shaking his head. The referee made a big T with his hands in the air .
“What’s going on?” I yelled at my Mom.
“Your father just got a technical! He’s been thrown out of the game!”
But my Dad wasn’t leaving the court. Instead, he strode out to the middle of the gym, and proceeded to lie flat on his back on the floor in protest of the call. The crowd went wild.
“That’s not normal!” hissed a lady behind me.
“That’s my Dad!” I said proudly.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Third Floor Rehab
It’s a beautiful day outside. How come when I have the chance, I don’t spend time outside by the Detroit River? When I move into my new apartment, it’ll only be a block away. It’s absolutely beautiful. I notice the sealed windows and try not to think about the lack of fresh air again. What I would give to breathe some fresh air.
There’s my roommate Judy. “Hey!” I wave her over. She is wearing the huge hood on her pink robe, which means she doesn’t want to be disturbed. To me, this is all the more reason to disturb her. The hood is so huge it actually covers the upper half of her face. I have told her we should cut little eye-holes for her to stare at Michael,kind of like those middle-eastern women. She trudges over, complaining yet again of constipation from the methadone. She’s trying to de-tox off of pain pills, heroin, and other drugs I’ve never heard of. She’s really pretty, but slightly overweight . She looks like the nurse in The English Patient—Juliette Binoche in a huge pink hooded monk’s robe.. I warn her that if she orders another laxative tonight I will be ordering another roommate. She can’t help but laugh.
I wonder if I should work up the courage to take a shower. I’m always paranoid that one of the convicts will walk in-- especially the giant pervert who’s been eying me. The door doesn’t lock. Maybe I’ll just take a really quick one and ask Judy to stand guard.
“Hey, did you order your lunch yet? Oh God, here she comes…” said Judy as she pulls her hood down even further. It’s Margo, the one who hears voices constantly telling her to jump out the window. She’d probably be really pretty if she lost about 100lbs. She has a freckled face and long, caramel-coloured hair down to her waist. She always wears three hospital gowns, one on top of the other, and the hospital issued blue socks. She said she gained all the weight because her uncles raped her. She doesn’t want to look attractive. Makes sense to me. She’s just had her first shower of the day. Normally she takes three. “Mind if I sit here?”
“No, go ahead, how are you?”
“I’ve decided to let them do the ECT on me”.
“You’re going to have shock therapy?”
“Yeah , they said it will stop the voices.”
“It’s going to stop everything. I saw a girl come out of electro-shock and she couldn’t remember her last name for days,” said Judy.
“Hey, Michael just changed the channel…should I tell him I liked the other one? Just to get him talking?”
“Judy, maybe you should put some normal clothes on so he doesn’t think he’s hallucinating that the Grim Reaper, in a pink robe, is stalking him. Also, maybe a quick shower would be in order after last night’s Ex-Lax. I’ll watch the door for you, if you do for me.”
“Did you order your breakfast last night?”
This was a big thing. I think because it was one of the few choices we could exercise. We could call a special #, and substitute what we really wanted to eat for what was on the set menu. I was constantly substituting fresh fruit plates. I had to place calls for lots of the new patients, who were too doped up and confused to dial themselves.
“Yeah, I ordered. Margo,when is your first shock treatment?”
“Tomorrow. So I have to fast tonight. The voices right now, are telling me to go to the window, to jump.”
“Tell the voices that the windows are sealed shut, so they’ll have to come up with a different plan.”
Judy giggled.
I got up to take a shower. “Judy, can you please watch the door while I take a shower? I don’t want one of the patients walking in on me.”
“Allllriiiiighhht. But then you have to figure out a plan of how I can get Michael to talk to me. ?”
“ Looks aren’t everything.”
I got up, downing the rest of the decaf. “We’ll be back Margo. My Dad had shock treatment when he was in his 30’s and he felt brilliant afterwards. He could play anything on the piano. It totally dissolved all the negativity. It was the only thing that worked. Hang in there. It’s medication time in an hour.”
We stopped at the big front desk so I could ask for towels. There were about four women on duty, yet it took forever to even get one’s attention. Finally one told me they only had hand towels. I tried to be good-humored about it, not wanting to get on their bad side, and stationed Judy outside the shower room door. “Look, maybe you should go use the bathroom now, I don’t want you running off in the middle of my shower, you know?”
She came back and I shut the shower door behind me. There was no curtain, no anything.
There’s my roommate Judy. “Hey!” I wave her over. She is wearing the huge hood on her pink robe, which means she doesn’t want to be disturbed. To me, this is all the more reason to disturb her. The hood is so huge it actually covers the upper half of her face. I have told her we should cut little eye-holes for her to stare at Michael,kind of like those middle-eastern women. She trudges over, complaining yet again of constipation from the methadone. She’s trying to de-tox off of pain pills, heroin, and other drugs I’ve never heard of. She’s really pretty, but slightly overweight . She looks like the nurse in The English Patient—Juliette Binoche in a huge pink hooded monk’s robe.. I warn her that if she orders another laxative tonight I will be ordering another roommate. She can’t help but laugh.
I wonder if I should work up the courage to take a shower. I’m always paranoid that one of the convicts will walk in-- especially the giant pervert who’s been eying me. The door doesn’t lock. Maybe I’ll just take a really quick one and ask Judy to stand guard.
“Hey, did you order your lunch yet? Oh God, here she comes…” said Judy as she pulls her hood down even further. It’s Margo, the one who hears voices constantly telling her to jump out the window. She’d probably be really pretty if she lost about 100lbs. She has a freckled face and long, caramel-coloured hair down to her waist. She always wears three hospital gowns, one on top of the other, and the hospital issued blue socks. She said she gained all the weight because her uncles raped her. She doesn’t want to look attractive. Makes sense to me. She’s just had her first shower of the day. Normally she takes three. “Mind if I sit here?”
“No, go ahead, how are you?”
“I’ve decided to let them do the ECT on me”.
“You’re going to have shock therapy?”
“Yeah , they said it will stop the voices.”
“It’s going to stop everything. I saw a girl come out of electro-shock and she couldn’t remember her last name for days,” said Judy.
“Hey, Michael just changed the channel…should I tell him I liked the other one? Just to get him talking?”
“Judy, maybe you should put some normal clothes on so he doesn’t think he’s hallucinating that the Grim Reaper, in a pink robe, is stalking him. Also, maybe a quick shower would be in order after last night’s Ex-Lax. I’ll watch the door for you, if you do for me.”
“Did you order your breakfast last night?”
This was a big thing. I think because it was one of the few choices we could exercise. We could call a special #, and substitute what we really wanted to eat for what was on the set menu. I was constantly substituting fresh fruit plates. I had to place calls for lots of the new patients, who were too doped up and confused to dial themselves.
“Yeah, I ordered. Margo,when is your first shock treatment?”
“Tomorrow. So I have to fast tonight. The voices right now, are telling me to go to the window, to jump.”
“Tell the voices that the windows are sealed shut, so they’ll have to come up with a different plan.”
Judy giggled.
I got up to take a shower. “Judy, can you please watch the door while I take a shower? I don’t want one of the patients walking in on me.”
“Allllriiiiighhht. But then you have to figure out a plan of how I can get Michael to talk to me. ?”
“ Looks aren’t everything.”
I got up, downing the rest of the decaf. “We’ll be back Margo. My Dad had shock treatment when he was in his 30’s and he felt brilliant afterwards. He could play anything on the piano. It totally dissolved all the negativity. It was the only thing that worked. Hang in there. It’s medication time in an hour.”
We stopped at the big front desk so I could ask for towels. There were about four women on duty, yet it took forever to even get one’s attention. Finally one told me they only had hand towels. I tried to be good-humored about it, not wanting to get on their bad side, and stationed Judy outside the shower room door. “Look, maybe you should go use the bathroom now, I don’t want you running off in the middle of my shower, you know?”
She came back and I shut the shower door behind me. There was no curtain, no anything.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Third Floor Rehab
Finally. I hear the cart creak in, see the flashlight. It must be 6am. Time for vitals. Not that I’m excited about getting my blood pressure taken and my heart listened to, but this means my night of lying in bed, staring at the locked window next to my cot and listening to my roommate peacefully snoring while sleep escapes me is over. The arrival of the cart means I can get up, go have a decaf coffee in the Day Room(no “real” coffee til 8) and watch the news, without staff writing up a report that I’m restless, or worse, manic. . Now I’ve learned if I get up in the middle of the night to have a good reason. Last night it was that I had menstrual cramps and needed Tylenol and a hot water bottle. All lies. I just couldn’t stand to lie here on this cot another minute. I was thinking too much about the windows being sealed shut. No fresh air.
But now I can get up. I take my tiny hospital-issued bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and towel to the sink in the middle of the room with the mirror above it and wash up. No make-up. My Mom hadn’t dropped that off for me, and besides, I don’t really want to look attractive here. I comb my hair—no blowdryer—I guess you can kill yourself with one, so they’re not allowed. Then I went into the bathroom to change into my clothes, black jeans and an oversized-sweater. It was a large bathroom, sterile, with nothing but a toilet and sink. I heard my name called over the loudspeaker for bloodwork. Damn. You couldn’t have any coffee before bloodwork. Oh well, it was a good reason to be up. So I left my still-snoring roommate Judy, and went to the room set up for bloodwork at the other end of the corridor. There was a skinhead punk guy and an old wild-haired woman who reportedly had orgasms if she touched any male ahead of me. I studied the bland paintings on the wall. My turn. “If you don’t give me orange juice directly after drawing blood, I’ll pass out,” I tell them. They send someone to get my orange-juice, acting all put out,like I’m a prima donna. I tell the phlebotomist that I hope she’s gentle as I’m afraid of needles. “I try to be”, she says grimly. I turn my head, I cannot bear to look at the needle in my arm, and soon it’s over. The assistant gives me one of those little sample cups of orange juice. Now I can go to the Day Room. I wonder if Michael is there. There he is, sitting up near the TV, looking like he’s totally mesmerized by the News. Michael is the only attractive male patient on the floor. He is very handsome in a wasted sort of way. He has clear blue eyes , is tall and thin, and has longish curling brown hair.The only bad thing is he’s a paranoid schizophrenic and totally keeps to himself. My roommate has a huge crush on him, and calls him #37—he’s always wearing one of those over-sized athletic number shirts. Lot’s of girls have tried to approach him, but he just ignores them or moves to another table. I can tell he’s not conceited. He just knows he’s totally screwed up and doesn’t care about popularity or girls. I’ve heard he has nowhere to go when he’s released. I make a note in my head to make friends with him today. He fascinates me. But then the messed up ones always do.
Decaf only. Real coffee from 8-2. And their “real coffee” is just that instant Nescafe crap. The Day Room is the only room on the Third Floor with any color. It is decorated in bright blue and orange. There are paintings on the walls. Big windows looking out over the Detroit River. I asked one of the attendants the other day why the rest of the floor and rooms were so grey and depressing and he said that bright colours were known to cause mania in bipolar patients.. I take a seat over by the window and gaze out at the boats on the river. At least there’s a beautiful view from the Day Room. Michael and I are the only patients up. There are two staff members sitting in the back of the room, talking about last night’s Red Wings game. No doubt they have made notes on their clipboards that we’re up earlier than the rest.
The TV is the focal point in the Day Room. It is on all day except for when there are “activities” or meetings. TV is almost impossible for me to watch. Any violence is like a kick in the stomach. I fear any sexy stuff because there are so many sex-starved men on the ward that could be “triggered” I even found out yesterday from one of the staff that now they’re sending inmates from the state prison to the ward to come off drugs like heroin and crack cocaine. Before they had a separate ward for them. Now, because of all the cuts the government’s made , here they are, possibly sleeping in a room next to me. No regular security guards on duty.
But now I can get up. I take my tiny hospital-issued bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and towel to the sink in the middle of the room with the mirror above it and wash up. No make-up. My Mom hadn’t dropped that off for me, and besides, I don’t really want to look attractive here. I comb my hair—no blowdryer—I guess you can kill yourself with one, so they’re not allowed. Then I went into the bathroom to change into my clothes, black jeans and an oversized-sweater. It was a large bathroom, sterile, with nothing but a toilet and sink. I heard my name called over the loudspeaker for bloodwork. Damn. You couldn’t have any coffee before bloodwork. Oh well, it was a good reason to be up. So I left my still-snoring roommate Judy, and went to the room set up for bloodwork at the other end of the corridor. There was a skinhead punk guy and an old wild-haired woman who reportedly had orgasms if she touched any male ahead of me. I studied the bland paintings on the wall. My turn. “If you don’t give me orange juice directly after drawing blood, I’ll pass out,” I tell them. They send someone to get my orange-juice, acting all put out,like I’m a prima donna. I tell the phlebotomist that I hope she’s gentle as I’m afraid of needles. “I try to be”, she says grimly. I turn my head, I cannot bear to look at the needle in my arm, and soon it’s over. The assistant gives me one of those little sample cups of orange juice. Now I can go to the Day Room. I wonder if Michael is there. There he is, sitting up near the TV, looking like he’s totally mesmerized by the News. Michael is the only attractive male patient on the floor. He is very handsome in a wasted sort of way. He has clear blue eyes , is tall and thin, and has longish curling brown hair.The only bad thing is he’s a paranoid schizophrenic and totally keeps to himself. My roommate has a huge crush on him, and calls him #37—he’s always wearing one of those over-sized athletic number shirts. Lot’s of girls have tried to approach him, but he just ignores them or moves to another table. I can tell he’s not conceited. He just knows he’s totally screwed up and doesn’t care about popularity or girls. I’ve heard he has nowhere to go when he’s released. I make a note in my head to make friends with him today. He fascinates me. But then the messed up ones always do.
Decaf only. Real coffee from 8-2. And their “real coffee” is just that instant Nescafe crap. The Day Room is the only room on the Third Floor with any color. It is decorated in bright blue and orange. There are paintings on the walls. Big windows looking out over the Detroit River. I asked one of the attendants the other day why the rest of the floor and rooms were so grey and depressing and he said that bright colours were known to cause mania in bipolar patients.. I take a seat over by the window and gaze out at the boats on the river. At least there’s a beautiful view from the Day Room. Michael and I are the only patients up. There are two staff members sitting in the back of the room, talking about last night’s Red Wings game. No doubt they have made notes on their clipboards that we’re up earlier than the rest.
The TV is the focal point in the Day Room. It is on all day except for when there are “activities” or meetings. TV is almost impossible for me to watch. Any violence is like a kick in the stomach. I fear any sexy stuff because there are so many sex-starved men on the ward that could be “triggered” I even found out yesterday from one of the staff that now they’re sending inmates from the state prison to the ward to come off drugs like heroin and crack cocaine. Before they had a separate ward for them. Now, because of all the cuts the government’s made , here they are, possibly sleeping in a room next to me. No regular security guards on duty.
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