by Tom Lally
“Sorry,” Harlan said suddenly.
I turned my attention back to him so my eyes were fixated on his thousand-yard stare.
“I didn’t mean to put that shit on you,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I said.
This seemed like the moment when I should grab his shoulder or pat his back, but an invisible presence stopped me before I could move my arms. Harlan maintained a wall between himself and the rest of the world, using nothing other than his silence and the mystery of what he could be thinking about. To the onlooker, one might say it was self-imposed, but when I looked at him sealing himself off from the rest of the psychiatric ward, whether it be by locking himself in his room, or simply just acting the way he did, I would say he was imprisoned by something.
“I’m sorry,” he said before standing up.
“Harlan,” I said, but he didn’t acknowledge me.
He slowly walked around the couch and back to his room, arms lightly swaying against his hips with his eyes staring down at the tiles. He closed the door gently behind him while I continued to stare. I wanted to get help as I could only see him hanging from the ceiling in my head, but something told me that I should remain still. Psychiatric wards paint a strange picture for those who are not familiar. Solitude signals sickness, but something, a silent entity or maybe just your own morality tells you that that person needs to be alone. It’s a strange contradiction between why it is some of us are here and what is sometimes needed to help us get out.
I stood up after a few seconds and pondered if a cigarette was the right call. Inexplicably, I just started walking to the side door that led to the outside stairwell. As I walked, I felt someone staring at me, waiting to see if I was walking to the door. I turned around and saw Lucky standing with a mop in his hands.
We stared at each other for a few seconds before I hesitantly nodded.
“I’m heading out,” I said.
Lucky didn’t say anything as he leaned the mop on the wall next to the yellow bucket. I started walking without him, but he caught up quickly through a few quick steps. He got in front of me and opened the door.
“Thanks,” I said, letting the gust of wind blow my hair from my eyes.
I pulled out my pack of cigarettes from my pocket. It felt strange only having them in my pocket and I thought I was missing my belongings for a few seconds before remembering.
“What? Thought you lost something?” Lucky asked.
“Yeah, I forgot everything was taken,” I said with a self-deprecating smile.
“Wait till you get in a car,” he said as he handed me a lighter.
“Why?” I asked.
“Motion sickness,” he said. “You won’t realize it until you start moving, but it takes a little bit to get used to if you stay here awhile.”
“Am I gonna stay here awhile?” I asked, taking the lighter and lighting my cigarette before giving it back to him.
“Honestly, Drew, I don’t know. I don’t mean this to sound like you should be here long, but suicide watch is a different ballpark. We can’t accurately say that you’re fine after a week, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we have to keep you here for six months,” he said.
I took a long drag from my cigarette, ashing it with a single flick of my finger. The wind took the fried remnants and sprinkled it through the small holes in the fence.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked Lucky.
“Shoot,” Lucky said, folding his arms while he spat through the fence.
“What’s wrong with Harlan?” I asked.
Lucky seemed to mull over his answer, as if he was running it over in his head on a loop, or deciphering if it was something he wanted to tell me.
“Harlan will need to tell you that,” he said. “I don’t want to be rude, but it’s not my business to tell you what’s going on with his life. I don’t think that’ll be fair if you find out through anybody but him.”
He sighed and lightly kicked his foot against the ground.
“Did he do something?” Lucky asked.
“No, not to me. He just walked up and seemed down all of a sudden,” I said.
“If you’re thinking you did something, you didn’t. He goes through bad spells sometimes. It makes it hard for him,” Lucky said. “He’ll be okay though.”
We walked back inside once I was finished smoking. Lucky let me pass him and smiled at me gently as if to remind me that I was going to be okay. I returned to the common room and the dull television with static frames.
“Don’t sit,” Lucky said behind me.
“Why?” I asked him.
“They’re going to call rec time in a few seconds,” he said.
Just when he finished his sentence, I saw Natalie standing at the counter behind the glass. She pulled the microphone on the desk closer to her mouth.
“Recreation time, line up against the wall if you are going to head outside,” she said. Her voice poured through the speakers in the ceiling.
A few people stood up from their seats. Others appeared from their rooms. I turned back to Lucky who was still standing behind me with his arms folded. His eyes followed me, but his body remained still.
“Is rec time mandatory?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “it’s just nice to get out of the building. It kills the smell of this place.”
I followed Lucky’s advice. Something in my head told me that behind the gray beard and singed eyebrows, a thirty-year experience knew better. We lined up against the wall, though it was only eight of us.
Natalie came out with a red-haired nurse who’d assisted in Jared’s restraint before. They both stood next to Lucky as we followed one another out of the building and down the enclosed staircase I’d just been standing in.
As I emerged from the mask of shade lying on the ground by the door, I could smell the cigarette I recently had. I looked down as I planted my feet on each step towards the ground below. Dust particles had filtered down from the breeze and aligned within the cracks and crevices of chipped paint and poor masonry. We reached a turn where the stairwell ended and the path turned left from the metal fence enclosing the stairs. I followed the others in front of me and listened to the loose cement crunch under the stress of our shoes. The path was a blacktop walkway to the recreation yard.
I heard someone start whistling and I looked up to see a skinny frame clothed by a black hoodie standing in front of me. The figure walked a few steps further, but he turned slowly. I guessed he sensed my eyes on his back, silently characterizing him through the few traits that were visible to me. He glanced for only a few short seconds, seemingly just to figure out who was standing behind him. His hood came down over his eyebrows and the tilt of his head made it hard to get a picture of his face, but the green teeth and dreadlocks told me it was Otis.
I tried to scurry past him when the pathway ended and we were allowed to enter the concrete jungle that acted as the recreation center where there was a full-length basketball court and two handball courts on separate sides of a tall, white wall. Painted on the side facing me was a view of an ocean, from the sandy shores to the horizon where the blue sea disappeared under white clouds. Non-distinct as it might have been, it did have a certain degree of purpose in this place. Names were scrolled in black paint on the clouds.
I walked past Lucky, who was leaning against the brick wall of the building which cornered us in along with barbed wire fences on the other three sides.
“You like it?” he asked me.
“I guess so. I’m not one to really judge art,” I said.
“A patient painted it a few years back,” he said.
“Why are there names in the clouds?” I asked.
“People sign it if they want to when they leave,” he said.
I nodded at him though I was wondering why they signed the clouds. It made it seem like the names were written in memoriam for those who left this place by way of their own hand. I wanted to ask Lucky about this, but I stopped myself. I’d lea
rned a few things during the initial hours I’d spent in the psychiatric wing. Looney Tunes was the most ironic show to watch for those in the loony bin. Olga shouldn’t ever be around the emotionally unstable, in any capacity whatsoever. A job existed where people would get paid to watch at-risk adults shower. Signatures in the clouds of those who’d been discharged was not something that I should have found strange.
I walked onto the basketball court and stood under the hoop. Someone was dribbling at the top of the key. I recognized Morgan immediately. I’d remembered his face when Jared urged him to continue his habit of smoking for a few pieces of gum. A few strands of black hair sprouted under his chin. His hair was jet black and cropped, closely knit to his cranium. He wore carpenter’s jeans, spattered with paint and holes that looked like they’d been sheared as he ran through a hallway full of nails. His pants were tucked into two pairs of socks that came up to his calves and his Velcro sandals hugged his feet tightly, almost seeming to suffocate his ankles.
He shot a basketball towards the hoop. He laughed as he did so, chucking the ball from his hip with awkwardly positioned hands and body thrusts that looked like he was jumping into a pool. His feet flailed behind him, kicking the air to create enough thrust for the ball to reach the hoop. The ball fell short though, barely grazing the chain net and bounced high in the air before landing in my hands. I quickly threw a light bounce pass back to Morgan who fumbled it and nearly tripped over his own feet.
“Thank you,” he said.
I nodded and continued walking to the far hoop. A lone basketball sat on the free throw line, perfectly centered, with the Jet logo facing me. The brown skin had worn, but it gave the ball character. I hated fresh balls from the bag. I loved the ones that looked like myself if I was an inflated piece of sporting equipment. I picked it up. The vibrations from dribbling hurt slightly, but I didn’t want to stop playing. I hadn’t touched a ball in months and this seemed like the perfect place to re-activate former pastimes. It beat all of my other choices.
The first shots felt terrible. My shoulders jittered every time I raised the ball to the right of my head. The ball lightly bounced out of my grasp as I went through the legs and behind the back.
A strange voice in my head came through and told me, Oh shit. Oh shit.
I remembered my mom telling me a story about her dad who’d been a high school star in the early 50s. They were once playing basketball in their backyard when she was in elementary school.
I remembered my mom talking about my grandpa’s face when he dribbled off his foot on the way to the hoop. The ball clipped the toe of his shoe and went into the neighbor’s yard. My mom told me he looked like he had aged more in that split second than he had in the past ten years. His hair looked grayer and he seemed to lose his once proud athletic splendor. The cheap smirk on his face followed by the dismal look he gave each of his palms told him a part of his life was over and there was no chance he could ever fully get it back.
I couldn’t see myself in the same situation though. It wasn’t the dirt outlining my fingerprints that I stared at; but instead, it was the bandages wrapped around my wrist and slight discoloration in my palms. I knew then that I was never going to be the same. My basketball skills suffered from lack of practice and that was something that could be managed. My mind, however, was scarred and it was public knowledge. Everything anybody wanted to know about my past would be answered through two ugly scars.
After ten minutes, my distances started to come back. Three-pointers no longer clanged off of the back of the rim or against the backboard. I started hearing that sweet sound of rubber pouring through the chain net. My hands started to hurt less as my mind drifted from my reality to the shot I was taking. I let the ball fall through my legs, guiding it with my fingertips as it wrapped around my back and one quick stutter step later left me finger rolling the ball through the basket without the help of the backboard.
It felt good. It reminded me of when I was in high school. Lacking ambition, responsibilities, and needing an escape from my home life, I would sit in the school gym for hours running off imaginary screens and letting the ball sail from NBA three-point range. I never thought about the death of my mother or my dad’s bullshit or my siblings whom I could never compete with. I was simply living in the moment, shot by shot quite literally, and the feelings of despair and emptiness took a backseat to my amusement in hearing the metal chain rattle with each bucket.
I dribbled the ball out to the top of the key before sitting on top of it. I was breathing heavily and started rubbing my fingers, itching for a cigarette. My hands were dirty and only then did I realize that they were starting to get sore. My bandages were wrinkled badly and stained with soot from the ball. I cupped my hands over my eyes and listened to the wind rattle the nets on each side of the court.
The sound was interrupted, though, by a faint noise of shoes hitting the court. I turned to see Otis walking towards me. He waved at half court where his eyes met mine and silently asked if he could play with me. I stood up with the ball resting in between my bandaged arm and my hip.
“What’s going on?” Otis asked.
“Hello,” I said back.
“I’m Otis. We had group before this,” he said.
“Right. Nice to meet you,” I said.
I stuck my hand out and he met it with his. His grasp was firm, shockingly so being that his frame was so fragile. His teeth smiled at me displaying the green matte color that was similar to one on my index and middle finger from smoking.
“You mind if I shoot with you?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” I lied.
I wanted him to disappear. It had nothing to do with him nor with my judgment. I tried not to do the latter. It didn’t seem fair to him, being that I was there too. The only difference between us was our internal problems that stimulated nurses and shrinks with notepads and access to medical drugs that could cure us, but I still felt a burning desire to be alone.
Otis seemed friendly, but that didn’t matter to me. He was a person with a brain who reached conclusions regarding those he met. I was soon to be a new conclusion as I’d never met him beforehand, nor was he related to me which would’ve forced a certain bond. A wave of heat funneled through my bloodstream and the tingling in my fingers appeared when I bounced the ball to Otis. Hot sweats overtook the former beads of cool sweat that slowly ran down my brow ridge.
I took a breath and turned away from him. I heard him start dribbling and glanced back. His meek figure effortlessly glided the ball through his legs. His fingertips took the ball down to his ankles before sending it through his legs, typing a figure eight. His dreadlocks swayed from under his hood as his body slightly shifted to let the ball pass through his legs undeterred. He quickly snatched the ball when he realized I’d been watching for a little.
“My bad. I just haven’t touched a ball in a minute,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. “It doesn’t seem like it.”
“I guess some stuff comes back quicker than others,” he said.
Otis took one dribble and stepped into his shot near the top of the key. His form was nice. The ball left his right hand while his left fell off once he reached the apex of his jump. The ball glided off of his fingertips, fluidly spinning so the JET label was still easy to read. It clanged off of the back of the rim and shot back out to him. Otis groaned quickly while he reached for the ball and took another dribble. I remained standing at the free throw line and watched him put up another shot. His legs lifted his body from the black cement and he effortlessly released the ball again. I watched the slow spin connect with the net, dropping through without touching an inch of iron. The net jiggled and shot up through the hole it created. Similar to a pitcher whose throws make a popping sound against a catcher’s mitt, a good shooter’s ball swishes so that the net looks like it has imploded before reverting back to its old form.
“Thought you said you hadn’t played in a while?” I asked.
“Yeah,
some stuff just comes right back,” he smiled.
I threw the ball back to him.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Hayley’s Cove,” I said.
“Goldencrest or Hayley’s Cove?” he asked.
The question threw me off for a second. I had told people in the past I was from Haley’s Cove and none of them ever questioned me.
“Goldencrest,” I said hesitantly.
“Nice neighborhood,” Otis smiled at me. “Why’d you say it like that?”
He took a few dribbles while he waited for me to answer.
“Sounds snobbish, I guess,” I said.
“You’re not a fan, huh?” He asked.
I shook my head.
“I know what you mean,” Otis’s said.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Upper East Side. Talk about snobbish. Those people are fucking parasites,” he said.
He shot the ball and it ricocheted off the rim, popping straight up in the air before falling into my hands. Otis walked down to the block while I walked to the three-point line on the wing.
“Not a fan, I assume?” I asked him.
“Not one bit,” he said curtly.
It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about why he disliked it and I didn’t blame him, but following this came the uncomfortable silence that one of us would eventually have to break.
“Did you play ball in high school?” I asked.
“Yeah, all four years,” he said.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“Chelsea Prep,” he said.
“Really?” I asked excitedly.
“Yeah, why?” he asked me.
“I played for St. Thomas,” I said. “We used to play you guys twice a year.”
“No shit, I remember you clowns,” Otis said and chuckled. “You guys had a weak ass crowd.”
“I only played for the JV team, but your crowd still scared the shit outta me,” I said. “They used to throw toilet paper at us when we walked out of the locker room for warm-ups.”
