by Phil Stern
Ping pong was the recreation of choice in the ward. All day long patients would play one another, most of us becoming quite good by the time we left. To this day when I hear the sounds of a ping pong table I’m taken back to my time in the facility. (By the way, watch out next time you meet someone skillful at ping pong. If you were to line up a hundred such people in a row, I’d bet fifty of them have done time in a funny farm.)
And ping pong privileges were used to control the patients. If you refused to eat that night, or said you didn’t want to speak with your doctor that morning, well, no ping pong for you. Believe it or not, this proved effective in controlling many of the patients. Of course, there were some guys there who absolutely hated losing at ping pong, and it even led to a few pacifications…but hey, it passed the time.
There was a television set, but one strict rule was it was never to be turned on before five o’clock in the afternoon, and if any patients argued over the channel, the tv was turned off for the rest of the evening. Most days the television was off by 5:30.
When you’re locked up, the little things from your previous life take on a tremendous significance. There was a regal white birch tree in a small courtyard outside one of the few windows in the ward. I can remember, like it was yesterday, sitting on the window sill and staring down at that tree. At times I would have given anything just to walk outside, unmolested, and lay my hand on the rippled white bark. It provided a welcome counterpoint to the incessant tension and threat of violence in the ward. And the idea that such a simple thing, like walking outside and touching a tree, is now forbidden to you is a very depressing thought.
I think everyone in that kind of situation develops escape fantasies. One bizarre scenario took hold in my imagination, played over again and again. I envisioned magic tunnels appearing in the walls that only I could see, leading me out into the world-at-large. One day I simply left, the tunnel closing off behind me. When the nurses toured the ward for their hourly head count, checking everyone as present on another ubiquitous clipboard, they simply wouldn’t be able to find Miller, David, Bed 4C. The soft gong of the alarm would sound, signaling all the patients to congregate at one end of the ward, guarded by attendants, while the rest of the staff handled whatever emergency had arisen. But I would be long gone, no one the wiser as to how I’d escaped.
Enraged, the puggish attendants would then transform in gargoyles, screaming in fury as they scoured the countryside. I’d spend the rest of my life dodging them, watching them prowl around in both human and gargoyle form, laughing at their inability to catch me.
The closest I ever came to acting on any real-life escape fantasies was a sudden decision to pull the fire alarm. Hell, if there was a fire, they couldn’t keep us locked up, right? So, imbued with a sense of purpose, I marched off in search of a fire alarm to activate.
But they’d thought of that one. There was a metal cage around the fire alarm you needed a key to open. I cried in my room for the next hour.
Scientists will tell you that time and space are constants, one hour, or minute, neither longer nor shorter than any another.
But clearly the great 20th century physicists never spent any time in a mental hospital. Because if they had, they’d understand how twenty-one days can stretch out into an eternity.
STEVE LEVINE
People ask me all the time why I left radio. Actually, it’s more accurate to say talk radio left me.
Basically the entire talk radio industry more or less vanished. Oh, there are still the conservative shills on the cable television channels, but the regular “general interest” radio guys are generally all gone.
For example, I’ve personally held seven regular talk radio slots in my career. Upon my departure, five of the seven slots were simply eliminated, replaced by music or network programming. Extrapolate that process over an entire industry and you’ll get the picture.
But to be more specific, my radio life ended suddenly late one Friday afternoon. Like a supernova incinerating a solar system, my entire career was instantly blotted out, reduced to nothing more than vacuous ribbons of light streaking across the night sky.
My producer had booked some internet “Sex-Pert” to appear on the show. I didn’t know much about the esteemed Jessica Smith, but thought it sounded interesting. A Sex-Pert? Hell, how could that go wrong? So before I even knew it, this dark-haired, super hot chick in a tight, red dress is sitting down in my studio.
Smiling brightly while slipping on the headphones, Jessica Smith reached across the small table to touch my hand. “Mr. Levine,” she purred as the last commercial was ending. “I’m a big fan! It’s such an honor to be here.” I gotta admit, I was a little turned on.
So anyway, my theme music begins and we’re on-air.
“And we’re back with more of the Steve Levine Show,” I announced, picking up an info sheet provided by my producer a moment before. Of course, I hadn’t bothered to read it yet. “Joining us live in-studio is Ms. Jessica Smith, who writes the, uh….
“Let’s Get It On!” Jessica nearly shrieked.
“That’s right,” I said, quickly scanning down the sheet for more bombs. “Jessica is the author of…well, it’s called, uh, “Let’s Get It On,” which is, uh, a column appearing daily on www-dot…” I paused, taking a deep breath. “Well, let’s just say…”
“Oh, come on Steve, don’t be such an old fogey!” my precocious guest interjected. “I write for www-dot-Get-It-On-Like-You’re-Jessica-Smith-dot-com!”
“Sure,” I hesitantly concurred. “Get it on like…”
“Everyone can do it!” Jessica gushed.
Should I have ended it right there? Of course I should have. But by that point in life I was a glutton for punishment, and Jessica was kind of interesting in some weird, lonely guy kind of way. Listen, sometimes you just have to go with the flow.
But still, I was going to be in charge of this interview. “Well, Jessica, thank you so much for being here today.”
“My pleasure,” she purred.
“Jessica,” I began. “The role of women in our society has changed dramatically over just a few generations. Women used to get married very early, have children right away. Now, I guess you might say, young women are often more concerned about positioning themselves for a career.” There was a question there somewhere, I assure you.
But the Sex-Pert beat me to it. “Sure, Steve. Some young women position themselves for a career. But many others simply position themselves astride a variety of well-endowed, wealthy men!”
“Uh…right.”
“Being a so-called Sugar Baby, or even an out-and-out call girl, provides a great income, plenty of travel and social opportunities, as well as a constant supply of new sexual partners and experiences!” Jessica laughed. “That’s what getting laid is all about! Come on, Steve. Let’s Get It On!”
It’s always unnaturally silent in a radio studio, but some silences are more poignant than others. Gathering myself, I quickly continued. “Absolutely. But Jessica, let’s come at this from another direction.”
“Sure! I love it from all directions!”
All I had to do was keep this on a more cerebral level. Easy as cake. “Jessica, do you think the young women of today are generally fulfilled, or was there some measure of comfort in the defined gender roles of the 1950's that’s lacking today?”
Clearly, Jessica was puzzled. “Steve, I don’t think June Cleaver ever had an orgasm. Do you?”
“Probably not. At least not on set,” I slowly agreed. “All right, let’s talk about cloning. Many people say it’s wrong to manipulate DNA…”
Jessica firmly interrupted. “Now Steve, the DNA thing all depends.”
“Really?” I asked. Finally it seemed like we were climbing onto solid ground. “What does it depend on?”
“On whether girls are on the pill.”
“On whether girls are on the pill?” I numbly repeated. “How so, Jessica?”
“Well, if a girl’s on t
he pill, she can always say ‘Yeah’ to her boyfriend’s DNA!”
I tried to laugh it off. “Wow, Jessica, that’s something. But you know, somehow, I don’t think that’s what Doctor Seuss had in mind with this whole rhyming thing.”
“Hmmmm.” Now Jessica looked thoughtful, bimbo Sex-Pert transforming into dangerous intellectual. Clearly it was time to put me in my place. “You know, Steve, I’m glad you bring that up. I’ve always thought Dr. Seuss was a transmutation of the so-called antagonistic structure of reality.”
“Uh…yeah.”
“You see, Steve, according to the philosopher Herbert Marcuse, people feel alienation from their essential nature, attracting them to an abstract mode of contingent nature.”
“Contingent nature?” I mumbled.
“Uh huh. Now you’re getting it!”
“Like…strangely colored foods and bizarre cartoon universes?”
“Exactly.” Smiling, Jessica once more touched my hand. “Though Freud was more direct. He would have said people just want to Get Laid! Woo-hoo!” she yelled. “Come on, Steve. Let’s Get It On!”
So I took the ultimate radio copout. I went to the phones. “All right, Jessica, let’s take some calls. Nick, you’re on the air.”
Nick sounded as if he were 19 or so. “Yeah, Jessica. This hot girl just asked me out.”
“That’s great, Nick!”
“The problem is she kind of gets around, you know? Like, I think she’s slept with half the dorm.”
Jessica seemed genuinely puzzled. “Well, Nick, you don’t want to be in the half that’s left out, do you?”
“There’s something to that,” I agreed, dumping Nick. “Aaron, you’re on the air with advice columnist Jessica Smith.”
“Jessica, listen.” Aaron sounded like another college student. “I just met this really hot girl, and I brought her to my room…”
“Cool, Aaron! I hope you Got Laid!”
“Well, that was the plan,” Aaron admitted. “But then she saw my pink giggle snake…”
“Stop!” Jessica commanded. “So you call it a giggle snake? Smart move, Aaron! The girls must think that’s really cute!”
“Or they think he’s gay,” I sulked. By this point I decided things really weren’t going very well.
Jessica looked shocked. “Steve, that’s mean!”
“Wait a minute.” Gathering my flagging energies, I tried to round things out. “Aaron, let me see if I’m hearing you correctly. You brought a young lady to your room, and then referred your manly parts as a ‘pink giggle snake?’”
“No, no! Steve, you don’t understand,” Aaron said. “I’m not saying anything dirty. My mother made a pink stuffed giggle snake before I left for school. He sits on the head of my bed, next to the pillow.”
“So, you see Steve,” Jessica helpfully supplied. “Aaron isn’t talking about his cock! He’s talking about a stuffed animal!”
“Uh…yeah, Jessica, I get it.”
“Hey Aaron,” she continued, addressing herself to the caller once more. “Does giggle snake get you a lot of action? I bet the girls love him!”
“Some do. But Steve’s right, some girls think he’s gay.”
“So anyway, Aaron.” A good, all-purpose talk radio technique was to keep the conversation moving. “Gay or not, you say this girl liked your stuffed giggle snake?”
“Yeah, she did.” Aaron sounded pleased. “She said it set me apart from all the old perverts in their 30's who want her to dress up like a Catholic school girl.”
“Like Steve!” Jessica gushed.
“Right,” I automatically agreed. “So what’s your point?”
“Hey, Steve, it’s not always about sex.” Aaron sounded vaguely dismissive of my 30-something pervert perspective. “Sometimes it’s the little things that matter.”
“Aaron, please!” Jessica, of all people, now came to my rescue. “Listen, the only thing that matters is whether this girl can suck giggle snake through six feet of garden hose!”
“Well, you know,” Aaron mused, “you might have a point there…”
“Okay, we have time for one more call.” I never hesitated to hang up on callers. Everyone complained about it, but I didn’t give a shit. “Amanda, you’re on the air with Steve Levine and advice columnist Jessica Smith.” Maybe a female caller would help me get things back on track.
“Hey, Jessica,” Amanda began. “Look, I like sucking cock as much as the next girl, but sucking giggle snake though six feet of garden hose? That sounds like a lot of work.”
“Come on Amanda, you can do it! Let’s Get It On! Woo-hoo!”
“But Jessica!” Clearly, Amanda wanted to work this all out. “That’s an awfully lot of garden hose, don’t you think?”
“For God’s sake, Amanda, she wasn’t speaking literally!” I nearly yelled. “Jessica wasn’t actually suggesting young women should suck stuffed animals through garden hoses!”
Amanda went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “I could see, well, maybe a foot of garden hose,” she slowly opined. “If the hose was wide enough, I guess.”
“You might also need some lubrication,” Jessica added.
“Yeah! And by the way, Jessica, just how much bigger is giggle snake than an actual cock…”
With a flick of my finger Amanda was consigned to talk radio oblivion. “All right, we have time for one more call. Ben, you’re on the air with advice columnist Jessica Smith.”
“Hey, Jessica,” Ben said.
“Hi Ben!”
“This girl wants to go out with me, but she’s pregnant by her last boyfriend. Do you think I should have a problem with that?”
“Look at it this way. You know she puts out, and some other guy’s getting stuck with the child support payments no matter what happens.” Jessica sighed. “I’m really having trouble finding a down side here. What do you think, Steve?”
What I thought didn’t really matter. I was fired an hour later. With flagging revenues they were looking to get rid of me anyway, and this final show was the perfect excuse.
The very next week, while moodily watching cable news late one night, I caught a segment featuring both Sophia and Jessica Smith. They were part of a panel discussing sexual mores among today’s youth.
I suppose we all succumb to waves of terrible depression, where it seems like everyone’s made it but you. That evening, though, watching Sophia and Jessica smiling and chatting on national television, might have been the most demoralizing moment of my life.
SOPHIA DANTON
About six years after affair de’ Edgar, my sister Liz began working as a call girl.
Well, maybe call girl is too strong a term. I think her actual title was Client Relation’s Coordinator. Let me explain.
By this time I was 31 years old, having just left television news after publishing my first national magazine article. To celebrate, my whole family was going out to eat at an Italian restaurant.
Still, it wasn’t a great time in my life. I’d just broken off my engagement to Darren, the only really long-term relationship I’ve ever had, after discovering he’d cheated on me with a colleague. Though part of me felt devastated by the revelation, in another way I was greatly relieved at not having to actually go through with it.
Darren, of course, had been a wild departure from my normal routine, which consisted of safely inviting others into my own life stream for short periods of time, then carefully shoving them back out to sea again when things became inconvenient. Like many young women pushing 30, this emotional hit-and-run mentality had become somewhat frightening, while visions of settling down began taking on a hazy, vague appeal.
I’d met Dr. Darren Barrington while doing a story on healthcare two years before. (I used to have a thing for doctors before deciding they’re actually far more noble from a distance.) About five years older, we’d actually been living together for the past eight months.
Want to hear a great modern-day cliche? I found out by accidentally accessi
ng the bimbo’s picture on our shared computer. While doing research late one evening, I ran a search for an unpublished article entitled “The Missing Links Of Climate Change Revealed” I’d written three months before. Rather than entering the whole title, I simply typed “missing” into the “Find” box.
My article came up, all right, along with a .jpeg entitled “Missing You!” Curious, I clicked on it. Up popped a picture of an attractive brunette in her mid-20's, in a nurse’s outfit, lounging back in a hospital bed. A naked leg was provocatively propped up, with most of one breast also exposed. She was smiling at a camera most likely situated on a table several feet away.
Thoughtfully studying the photo for several moments, I then enlarged the image, focusing on the nurse’s name tag. Sure enough she worked at Pennsylvania General, one of the two hospitals Darren practiced from. Saying nothing I merely closed the picture, working most of the night on my article.
The next day, knowing Darren was at the other hospital, I visited Penn Gen, wandering about until I recognized the bimbo in question. Taking her aside, I explained that my next story would be on workplace relationships in hospitals.
“Oh, Miss Danton!” the bimbo gushed, having recognized me from the local television news. “Will I be on camera?”
“No. This is a print article.” Pulling out a recorder, I placed it on the table between us in the small office we’d borrowed. “But I’ll just tape our conversation for accuracy.”
“Sure!”
Then, for the next fifteen minutes, she regaled me with stories of sexual romps with various medical staff. When pressed, she named three doctors she was currently sleeping with, including, of course, Dr. Darren Barrington. Finally winding down, Nurse Easy Lay noticed my engagement ring.
