It's Kind of a Funny Story

by Ned Vizzini

  I don’t want to be completely crazy. I don’t like being here that much. I like being a little crazy: enough to volunteer here, not enough to ever, ever, ever come back.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes. I have thought about it.”

  “When? Just now?”

  I smile. “Absolutely.”

  “And what do you think?”

  I clap my hands together and stand up. “I think I should call my parents and tell them that I want to transfer schools.”

  forty-five

  “Visitor, Craig,” Smitty pokes his head into the dining room. I slide my chair back from the table, where I’m playing after-lunch poker with Jimmy and Noelle and Armelio. Jimmy doesn’t really have any idea how to play, but we deal him cards and he plays them face down and smiles and we give him more chips (we’re using scraps of paper; the buttons are locked up due to our recklessness) whenever he pockets his or chews them up.

  “I’ll be back,” I say.

  “This guy, so busy,” says Armelio.

  “He thinks he’s all important,” Noelle says.

  “I woke up, and the bed was on fire!” says Jimmy.

  We all look at him. “You okay, Jimmy?” I ask.

  “My mom hit me in the head. She hit me in the head with a hammer.”

  “Oh, wow.” I turn to Armelio. “I heard him say stuff like this down in the ER. Has he talked about this before?”

  “No, nuh-uh, buddy.”

  “Hey, Jimmy, it’s okay.” I put my hand on his shoulder. At the same time, I bite my tongue. You can think someone’s hilarious and want to help them at the same time.

  “She hit me in the head,” he says. “With a hammer!”

  “Yeah, but you’re here now,” Noelle says. “You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hit you in the head with anything.”

  Jimmy nods. I keep my hand on his shoulder. I keep my tongue bit down, but I make little chuffing noises as I try to keep from laughing, and he looks up and notices. He smiles at me, then laughs himself, then picks his cards up and claps my back.

  “It’ll come to ya,” he says.

  “That’s right. I know it will.”

  I excuse myself from the room and head down the hall. Right at the end is Aaron, holding the record I want. Dad didn’t have it.

  “Hey, man,” he says sheepishly, and as I approach, he leans it against the wall. He’s a dick, but I’m not perfect either so I come up and hug him.

  “Hey.”

  “Well, you were right. My dad had it—Egyptian Masters Volume Three.”

  “I so appreciate this.” I take the record. It’s got a picture on the cover of what looks like the Nile at dusk, with a palm tree lilting left, echoing the brightening moon, and the purple sky rolling up from the horizon.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about everything,” Aaron says. “I. .. uh … I’ve had a weird couple of days.”

  “You know what?” I look him in the eyes. “Me too.”

  “I bet.” He smiles.

  “Yeah, from now on, whenever crap goes down, you can be like ‘Oh, Craig, I had a bad few days,’because I will get what you’re talking about.”

  “What’s it like in here?” he asks.

  “There’s people whose lives have been screwed up for a long time, and then there are people like me, whose lives have been screwed up for . . . you know . . . shorter.”

  “Did they put you on new drugs?”

  “No, same ones I was on before.”

  “So are you feeling better?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What changed?”

  “I’m going to leave school.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m done. I’m going somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m going to talk it over with my parents. Somewhere for art.”

  “You want to do art?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been doing some in here. I’m good at it.”

  “You’re pretty good at school too, man.”

  I shrug. I don’t really need to explain this to Aaron. He’s been demoted from most important friend to friend, and he’s going to have to earn that, even. And you know what else? I don’t owe people anything, and I don’t have to talk to them any more than I feel I need to.

  “What’s up with Nia?” I ask. Have to tread care fully here. “I got your message, about how things were bad.”

  “They got worked out. It was my fault. I got all freaked out about her being on pills and we broke up for like, a few days.”

  “Why did that freak you out?”

  “I don’t need any more of that in my life, you know? I mean, it’s bad enough with my dad.”

  “He’s on medication?”

  “Every form of medication in the book. Mom, too. And then me, with the pot… when you come right down to it, there isn’t anybody in the household who isn’t seriously drugged except the fish.”

  “And you didn’t want your girlfriend to be, too.”

  “Her smoking is one thing; I just … I can’t really explain it. I guess you’ll have to go out with someone for a long time to understand. If you’re with somebody and then you learn that they need to … take something on a daily basis, you wonder— how good can you be for them?”

  “That’s pretty stupid,” I say. “I met this girl in here—”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, and she’s really screwed up, as screwed up as me, but I don’t look at that as an insult. I look at that as a chance to connect.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “People are screwed up in this world. I’d rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and . . . you know . . . ready to explode.”

  “I’m sorry, Craig.” Aaron looks at me deep and holds out a hand for me to slap. “I’m sorry I was a bitch to you.”

  “You were a bitch.” I slap his hand. “This album partly makes up for it. Just, don’t do it again.”

  “All right.” He nods.

  We stand still a minute. We haven’t moved from the crux of the hallways near the entrance of Six North. The double doors that I came in through are eight feet behind him.

  “Well, listen,” he says. “Enjoy the record. And— hey, they have a record player in here?”

  “They still smoke in here, Aaron. They’re kind of back in time.”

  “Enjoy it and be in touch, and I’m sorry once again. I guess you won’t be chilling for a while.”

  “I don’t know. I may never be chilling again.”

  “Did you almost kill yourself to get in here?” Aaron asks. “That’s what Nia told me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t capable of dealing with the real world.”

  “Craig, don’t kill yourself, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just.. . don’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll see you soon, man.”

  Aaron turns and the nurses open the door for him. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just someone who hasn’t had his stay on Six North yet. I take the record to Smitty to store behind the nurses’station.

  forty-six

  Six North doesn’t need a PA system, because of President Armelio, but it does have one, used regularly for the simple and rhythmic messages of “Lunch is served,” “Medication,” and “All smokers to the smoking lounge; smokers, get your smokes.” This afternoon it pipes up with a longer message, courtesy of Monica.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon our patient Craig Gilner, who is leaving tomorrow, is going to be drawing his artwork for everyone on the floor. If you’d like your own personal piece of Craig’s art, come to the end of the hallway by the dining room. End of the dining-room hallway, five minutes. Have fun!”

  I sit down in the backmost chair, by the window that peers out over the avenue that crosses the street I live on, so close to my real life. I look over at my conference chair where I meet with my parents and Noelle. I
have a second chair set up in front of me as an art desk, with stacks of board games on it and a chessboard on top. It’s a little flimsy, but it’ll do.

  President Armelio is first to approach. He strides up, barrel-chested and sure of himself, like a torpedo.

  “Hey, buddy, this is great! You gonna make me one of your heads with the maps inside?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well let’s go, buddy. I ain’t got all day!”

  Right. Armelio is going to have to be done fast because he is fast. I sketch the outline of his head and shoulders without a second thought and start in on his brain map. Highways, that’s what Armelio has in his head—six-lane highways running parallel, streaking through a city, with purpose and minimal on-ramps. He doesn’t have any quiet little streets or parks; it’s highways and a grid, and no rivers either. The highways hardly even connect because Armelio doesn’t mix up his thoughts; he has one and does it and then he moves on to the next. It’s a great way to live. Especially when the biggest thought is wanting to play cards. Cards have to be represented in Armelio’s brain somewhere. So I sketch some streets into an ace of spades right in the middle—it’s not a great ace of spades, but Armelio gets it.

  “Spades! Buddy, I crush you in spades.”

  I put my initials on it, big and bold, “CG” like “computer-generated. “

  “I’m gonna keep this, for real,” Armelio says. “You a good guy, Craig.” He shakes my hand. “You want my number for when you go?”

  “Sure.” I take out a piece of paper.

  “It’s an adult home,” Armelio says. “You’re gonna have to ask for Spyros, which is my other name.” He gives me the number and moves aside, and there’s Ebony, with her cane and her velvet pants, smacking her lips.

  “I heard ... that you were making your brains for people,” she says.

  “That’s right! And you know who the first person who said they were brains was?”

  “Me!”

  “Absolutely. Now, look” —I gesture at my stack of work on the floor—"now I’ve got all this.”

  “So I get paid, right?” Ebony laughs.

  “Not quite; I haven’t really made it yet. As an artist.”

  “I know. It’s tough.”

  “So you just get a brain map for yourself, okay?”

  “Good!”

  I trace her head freehand, looking at her, not the paper. I look down and it’s pretty good. Ebony’s brain … what’s in there? A lot of circles, for all the buttons she stole. She was a nut with those buttons. Didn’t mess around. Quite a schemer. And with all of her gambling skill, she needs to have a Strip, like Vegas. So I get a big boulevard in the middle and lots of traffic circles around it, with circular parks, circular malls, little circle lakes. It comes out looking less like a city and more like a necklace with a central band and tons of bunched-up jewels hanging off.

  “It’s pretty!” she says.

  “And you’re done.” I hand it to her.

  “You like doing these, huh?”

  “Yeah. It helps, you know . . . with my depression. I came in here with depression.”

  “Imagine having depression when you were eleven years old,” Ebony says. “If all my children were in this hall, this hall would be full up, I tell you.”

  “You have kids?” I ask, keeping my voice down.

  “I had thirteen miscarriages,” she says. “Imagine that.” And she looks at me without any of the humor or attitude that she usually puts on, just with big wide eyes and empty questions.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “I know. I know you are. That’s the thing.”

  Ebony shuffles away showing off her portrait ("That’s me! See? Me!"); she doesn’t leave a phone number. Humble is next.

  “All right, man, what kinda scam you got going on here?”

  “It’s nothing.” I start in on Humble’s bald head. Bald heads are easy. You know, if I had to right now, I think I could handle the lower tip of Manhattan. I look at Humble. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Make me look good, all right?”

  I laugh. Inside Humble’s head is industrial chaos.

  I don’t make any small blocks, just big ones—the kind of blocks where you’d find lumber shops and factories and bars where Humble would hang out at and work. I put the ocean in there, to represent his hometown, Bensonhurst, which borders the ocean, where he hooked up with all those girls way back when. Then I splash it with highways, erasing the streets and putting them over the top, throwing in crazy interchanges for no reason, making the whole thing look violent and random, but also powerful and true—the kind of mind that could come up with some great stuff if you harnessed it right. When I’m done, I look up.

  “I guess it’s okay.” He shrugs.

  I chuckle. “Thanks, Humble.”

  “I want you to remember me,” he says. “No joke. When you’re a big-time artist or whatever, you gotta invite me to one of the parties.”

  “It’s a deal,” I say. “But how am I going to be in touch?”

  “Oh, right—I got a number!” Humble says. “I’m gonna be staying in Seaside Paradise; it’s the same home that Armelio is going to, but I’m going to be on a different floor.” He gives me the number; I put it on the same sheet as Armelio’s.

  “You’re not gonna be in touch,” Humble says.

  “I will,” I say.

  “No you won’t; I can tell. But it’s okay. You have a lot going for you. Just don’t burn out again.”

  We shake hands. Up next is Noelle.

  “Hey, girl!”

  “Don’t you dare start calling me that. This is very nice of you to do.”

  “Least I could do. They’re all such cool people.”

  “You’re like a celebrity now. Everyone wants to know if I’m your girlfriend.”

  “And what do you tell them?”

  “’No!’And then I walk away.”

  “Good call.”

  “So what are you trying to pull? You already made one of these for me. You just said it wasn’t finished.”

  I pull out the one I made for her, with the guy and girl connected by the bridge, and write my phone number on the back of it.

  “Oh my gosh.”

  “Now it’s done.” I smile, standing up. I lean in and whisper: “It took me like twice as long as any of the others. And I’ll make you an ever better one when I get out—”

  She pushes me away. “Yeah, like I want your stupid art.”

  “You do.” I lean back. “I saw how you looked at it before.”

  “I’ll keep it to make you feel good,” she says. “That’s it.”

  “Fine.”

  She leans in and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, for real.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

  “Well … I thought I’d be hanging out in the psych hospital. What about you?”

  “I’ve got big plans,” I say. “We’ve got a movie coming in—”

  “Right, I’m not seeing that stupid movie.”

  “I know.” I drop to a whisper. “But when it’s halfway done, do you want to meet in my room?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Seriously.”

  “Your roommate will be there! He’s always there!”

  “Trust me. Come to the room.”

  “Are you going to try and make out with me?”

  “If you must know? Yes.”

  “I appreciate your honesty. We’ll see.”

  I give her a hug; she holds the brain map with her hands wrapped around me. “And I already have your number,” I say.

  “You don’t get any second chances if you lose it,” she says. “I don’t give that number out twice.”

  I take a quick wanting look at her as we pull away from each other and she moves off to the side.

  Bobby is next.

  “Who’s that behind you?”

  “Huh, who do you think?” Johnny answers.

  “Come on up tog
ether, guys. I’ll do you both at once.”

  “Cool,” Bobby says, standing off to the side. Johnny stands next to him and I start drawing them, their shaggy hair and baggy clothing making for great outlines.

  “So he’s drawin’ us?” Johnny asks Bobby.

  “Be quiet, all right?”

  “Where did you guys hang out?” I ask Bobby, not looking up from the paper. “Back when you were garbage-heads?”

  “What? You’re gonna draw that?”

  “No.” I look up. “I’m just curious. What neighborhood?”

  “It was the Lower East Side, but don’t draw the Lower East Side,” says Bobby. “I don’t want to go back there.”

  “All right, fair enough. Where do you want to live?”

  “On the Upper East Side, with all the rich people,” Bobby answers.

  “Huh, me too,” says Johnny.

  “Wait, no, you’re getting a guitar,” I say.

  “Oh, cool.”

  I start on Bobby’s and Johnny’s brains. With Johnny, it’s fun to do a guitar in a street grid—some diagonal streets meeting for the body and then a big wide boulevard for the neck, a park for the head. Then I turn to Bobby. I know the Upper East Side pretty well; it’s in Manhattan and the big thing that it has is Central Park, so I draw that on the inside left of his head. Then I put in the stately grid of rich streets. I know the Guggenheim Museum is somewhere up there; I mark that with an arrow And then I put an “X” right next to it, on a corner where an apartment probably costs $20 million, and write Bobby’s pad.

  “Bobby’s pad! That’s right! That’s where I’m headed.” He raises his arms. “Movin’on up.”

  “Enjoy.” I hand them the piece.

  “Who gets what?” Johnny asks. “You want us to rip it apart?”

  “No, man, we’re supposed to keep it together because we’re friends,” says Bobby. “I’ll make a photocopy.”

  “Where’s the photocopy machine in here?”

  “There isn’t one! I’ll do it when I get out.”

  “Where’s that gonna leave me?”

  “With a copy!”

  “I don’t want a copy!”

  “Would you listen to this guy? Nothing’s good enough for him—”