“Garlic is good for you,” Bethany answers, “They say it’s supposed to be healthy for your heart.”
“Well,” Benjamin began, “While I get that, I think they’re talking about fresh cloves, not this bogue, artificial, imitation syrup.”
“I liked what they served us last night,” Bethany said. “I liked the toast points.”
“You know they just take slices of white bread and shove them in muffin tins with the corners sticking out, and then toast it in the oven until they’re golden brown,” Benjamin explained. “When they come out, they are like little cups that stand on their own, and that’s how they filled them with the SOS last night.”
“Yeah,” Bethany said, “That creamed chipped beef was good, but I really prefer it when it’s filled with Chicken a la King,” she said, licking her lips, “My mother used to make it with mushrooms. She made really good zucchini bread too. She’d cook this Flower Pot Bread, with raisins, and our family would dip it in this cheese Fondue.”
“Bethany,” Benjamin said, irritated that his friend is making him hungry for some real food. “Are you listening to me? We’re being handed bunk meals here,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they start giving us a steady diet of stale Zagnut bars and cold SpaghettiOs.”
Kenneth, who had special permission to sit on a recliner (since he was much too heavy for the regular chairs), was holding his finished plate out in front of him, and turning it all kinds of ways, so that he could clean every drop of grease and lard off his plate, with his equally repugnant tongue. Kenneth scarfed down every last bit of grub from his plate, but wasn’t nearly satisfied.
“Anyone who doesn’t want their food,” Kenneth asked aloud, “I’m happy to take it. I could eat gobs of this shit,” he said, as if talking to himself, as well as to the others.
Reuben noticed that Joshua had eaten everything off his plate, but that he was staring at it now, with an intense focus, as if he were a pyrokinetic, trying to set the plate aflame with his eyes.
When the patients were told to bring their paper plates to the designated trash bins, Reuben had to very carefully and cautiously carry his full plate, which kept him from this opportunity to talk to her, which he was too nervous to do anyway. Reuben moved up in line, as he watched the unexpected object of his desire walk away to her room. He paid close attention to what room she stopped in front of and went in, so he’d know where to find her later. When Reuben finally got up to the trash bins, Nurse Monica was standing behind the bins, to make sure the patients disposed of their trash properly and respectfully. She immediately observed that Reuben hadn’t eaten anything off of his plate.
“What’s the matter,” Nurse Monica asked him, “Don’t you dig our food?”
Reuben looked up at her. She, much unlike Nurse Claire, was very easy on the eyes. That being said, however, she was no match for the much younger brunette that Reuben had instantly fallen into hopeless infatuation with, who could have easily led the sexual revolution all on her own.
“Uhh,” Reuben tried to respond to Nurse Monica’s question, but although he had heard her speak to him, he completely missed out on what she had said, as his focused mind was clearly elsewhere.
“I suggest you either clean your plate from now on, or skip breakfast next time,” she said, “They frown on wasting food here.”
“Yes mam,” Reuben said back. “Ten-four,” he said, this time comprehending and retaining what came out of her pretty mouth.
Dawn was alone in her room, with the door closed. She had been craving some moonshine, like a starved alcoholic, and had left her cherished flask under her mattress.
Reuben spotted her sometime later that afternoon, using one of the common phones. The patients were permitted to make local calls only, and could only do so once a day. The calls were monitored and recorded, which kept the majority of patients away from using the phones at all. The rule was that the calls were to last no more than ten minutes, but this policy was roundly ignored, unless a RN happened to catch you chatting longer, at which point you were made to immediately hang up.
Reuben didn’t have anyone to call, but was more than content, just watching her use the phone. This time, she did notice him. She caught him staring at her. But, to his surprise, she didn’t appear to mind. In fact, she smiled at him briefly, but benevolently, before returning to concentrating on her phone conversation. Reuben, embarrassed but relieved, was about to briskly walk away and out of sight, when he noticed that Dawn was recklessly rocking back in the chair, that she had pulled up to the phone. Just as Reuben noticed this, she suddenly lost her balance and began to fall backward. Reuben instinctively rushed over to her aide and caught the back of her chair before it hit the ground. As soon as Reuben had brought he rack up to safety, Dawn turned around in her chair to thank him, but he was gone.
“Hello? Hello? Dawn?” the male voice called out on the other end of the phone, which now hung and swung back and forth against the wall, on the spiral cord. Dawn leaned forward, reached over and picked up the phone, after once again looking over her shoulder to see if she spotted her fleeting rescuer.
It was time for Reuben to meet his assigned therapist. He would see this man every day, for an hour’s session of one-on-one counseling.
“Please,” the psychiatrist began, “have a seat. I’m Doctor Aaron. I will be your shrink and social worker. Tell me why you’re here.”
“I don’t know,” Reuben answered honestly.
“Tell me why you think you’re here.”
“As I said, I don’t know. I have no idea how I got here, or who checked me in, or who undressed me...and put me in that...”
“Your mother brought you in, Mr. Peterson,” the doctor interrupted, “She told us that she found you cutting yourself with an unsanitary fillet knife, over the upstairs sink, when you didn’t answer her call for supper. She said she gave you the option of submitting to this treatment, or being arrested.”
Dr. Aaron found it disturbing, and somewhat pathetic, that this grown man still resided with his parents, and that they still treated him like a child, not knowing the full story behind Reuben’s health situation, or even caring about the reasons why.
“Is there someone I can consult with regarding the meals here?” Reuben asked. “I couldn’t eat breakfast, because of my food allergy to garlic.”
“When you checked in, a nurse took a basic medical history, mostly focusing on medical conditions you currently have that we might have to treat, and a rather more in depth mental health history, including what medications you’ve taken, what diagnoses you’ve gotten, and what therapists you’ve gone to and when. They asked you about dietary restrictions as well,” Dr. Aaron explained.
“Well, one, as I explained already, I have no recollection of any of that happening. Two, if they did ask me about my dietary restrictions, it was clearly for no readily apparent reason, given the obvious fact that the cooks do not seem to hear about them or care to respect them,” Reuben said in a sarcastic tone, but seriously trying to make a valid point. “I certainly would have mentioned my serious aversion to garlic, which your staff bathed my breakfast in this morning.”
“Mr. Peterson,” the doctor began again, “What insurance are you using to pay for your treatment here?”
“I don’t have any health coverage, none that I’ve been informed of anyway,” Reuben replied.
“I see. So, unless your parents are insanely rich, and have a ton of bread, which I haven’t seen any evidence of, that tells me that the state is picking up the bill,” Dr. Aaron calculated.
“Meaning?” Reuben asked.
“Meaning, you have no valid right to complain about anything, do you?”
“Well...” Reuben began, but found himself at a loss for words.
“That was a rhetorical question, Mr. Peterson...meaning it doesn’t require an answer.”
“Wow,” Reuben said, “You’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you?”
“Interesting. How does t
hat make you feel?” Dr. Aaron asked him, figuratively putting on his Freud hat.
The psychotherapist seemed less than helpful for the remainder of the session, as he generally just rephrased what Reuben told him, but repeated it back as a question. When they were out of time, Reuben was excused, and allowed to have some downtime before dinner. Patients weren’t given lunch at this incompetent, unethical facility, which didn’t bother Reuben in the slightest, as he decided to fast for the remainder of his sentence.
Reuben had nothing to look forward to. His stomach churned, and his flamboyant bunkmate was no positive distraction, so he decided to go against his better judgment and sit in on art therapy. This was held in an enclosed recreational area, where patients often walked in circles just to get exercise, since the patients were never authorized to venture outdoors, even for a transient period.
There were also tables off on the side, where patients either participated in art therapy, or entertained themselves with various toys. There was a SIMON electronic memory game, a Raggedy Ann doll, a complete set of Charlie’s Angels dolls, and a set of walkie talkies. Art therapy was at least an activity that wasn’t supervised, so that was appealing. Reuben was worried about being made to feel like a circus freak again, but would quickly learn that the patients who partook in this crafts diversion, were too tranquilized to notice. There were four people in total, including Reuben. He sat across from Bethany, at the white granite heavy-duty folding table. She was visibly heavily medicated, which explained how she was able to sit at the table, with others. Benjamin was there sitting beside her, of course, to make certain that she wasn’t touched by anyone, and that people respected her feelings. Benjamin wasn’t actively participating, but simply there for Bethany’s comfort and support. Thomas was the other person involved in this activity.
“You guys mind if I join you for this?” Reuben inquired politely, as he pulled out the chair he intended to sit upon.
“Don’t invade Bethany’s personal space,” Benjamin stated, making his terms and conditions absolutely concrete up front.
Reuben dangled his head in the beginning, but once he saw how disconsolate Bethany was, it put him inexplicably at ease. He figured that his presence was inconsequential, which made him more comfortable around the others. The small gathering at the table seemed to be sad, but somehow gentle. They were kind people, who had just given up, in more ways than one. As Reuben spent time with them, he got the depressing feeling that his wretched peers were melancholy, but also content, giving no indication of ever expecting to (or even wishing to) be released or discharged.
“You ever wonder,” Reuben began, “why we’re not permitted to keep a toothbrush in our rooms, or have sheets or blankets on our mattresses, but yet...they provide us with battery operated toys? What’s to stop any of us from sucking on a battery?”
“Mind your potatoes,” William said, as he walked by them, showing them the Mr. Potato Head that he had chosen to play with. “Mind your potatoes,” William said again, as he pushed the toy in Reuben’s face, just close enough to where it came inches away from his nose.
Reuben found himself outside of his comfort zone, as he was engaging in dialogue with these total strangers, which was a breakthrough in itself. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the people who ran the joint were the ones who should be locked up, and the ones who were stuck there, were actually not as crazy as they were told they were.
These psychiatric inmates had been put down for so long, that they had just accepted that they were useless and dysfunctional. Reuben sensed that many of them were scared to return to society, as if they had grown dependent on the stability of the facility, even though it was the facility that was slowly killing them. He also had the vague suspicion that the sole purpose of this art therapy was to merely entertain the bored mental patients. Reuben had begun to sense that most of the patients were quiet and too consumed in their own afflictions and adversities to pay much attention to him, but when he let his guard down, and let them in, he discovered that they were more interesting than they appeared to be on the surface.
“I sure miss Barbara,” Thomas said aloud, out of the blue.
“Who’s Barbara?” Reuben asked, making an effort to show interest.
“She’s a patient that used to do crafts with us, who is undergoing electroshock therapy now,” Benjamin answered.
“Why? What happened?” Reuben asked, once again trying to be attentive and inquisitive, at least for the purpose of simulation.
“She tried to strangle Nurse Carl, when he pulled her away from art therapy to meet with her psychiatrist,” Thomas replied.
“Most of the time, life in the ward is utterly predictable. You get used to their humdrum routine, which can be comforting in its own right. But sometimes the doctors like to fuck with your head, and will change your schedule on a dime, inevitably when you’re in the middle of playing cards, talking to the other patients, sleeping, reading, or watching television,” Benjamin contributed.
“Yeah, and Nurse Carl was the worst one she could have chosen to lash out at,” Thomas added, completely clueless that Nurse Carl had attempted to pull her away, that day, for something else entirely.
“Yeah, he’s a real grueler,” William chimed in again, eavesdropping on their private conversation, while walking around their table, and now stopping behind Reuben’s chair. “He deserved what Barbara gave him, but I don’t think she realized the nightmare that he’d unleash on her, as a result,” William said to Reuben, putting his hands on the back of his chair, gripping it tightly, as if expecting the chair to magically launch into space.
Thomas suddenly put his index finger up to his face, so that his knuckle was pressed up against his nostrils. His nose scrunched up, as if he were about to lose control of his sinuses. Reuben kept thinking Thomas would courteously turn around, or at least cover his mouth, but apparently Thomas wasn’t concerned about spreading germs...he was just terrified of catching them.
“A-A-Ah choo!” Thomas let out, as he sneezed on the table in front of him, misting the others with his liquid mucus.
“Damn, Thomas,” Benjamin said, “You sprayed flem everywhere. Cover your mouth next time, man.”
“Oh man,” Thomas said, as he started to panic, “This is it,” he added, as he clearly began to get overwhelmed with a blizzard of anxiety.
“What’s it?” Reuben asked.
“This is the beginning of the flu. I’ve got the flu. Or maybe it’s something worse? Yeah, I bet it is. I bet I’ve got something worse. And my throat is hurting now, when I swallow. That’s strep throat right there, at the very least.”
“Maybe you just have a common cold? You ever consider that possibility?” Benjamin asked.
“No. I’m never that blessed. I’m susceptible to getting every scourge and syndrome under the sun,” Thomas insisted. “God makes sure of that.”
“You sure you’re not self-diagnosing some of these ailments, you profess to get so frequently?” Benjamin asked.
“Yeah, he’s a dick,” Bethany said, who hadn’t spoken at the table until now, offering a belated, delayed response to the comment made earlier about Nurse Carl being the bringer of Barbara’s grief, and the primary source of her agony.
As they continued to utilize and play with their wicker box of crayons and their huge knitted bag of intricate stick-ons, glitter, foam shapes and rubber creatures, to make their childlike pictures, their creative collaboration was bluntly impeded by Nurse Gregory, who rolled in a metal, two-layered cart, stacked and packed with books. Everyone, but the small group at the table, immediately rushed over to search through the literary selection. Chad hurried over to ask Nurse Gregory, once again, if he could hook him up with some adult reading material.
“Okay,” Nurse Gregory said, “You guys know the rules. Only one book per customer,” he said, even though there was obviously no charge for checking out the used paperbacks, especially since they had to return what they took, the following wee
k.
“Hey, Nurse Gregory,” Chad said, casually, “Any chance of getting a righteous magazine from you today? Particularly either a Hustler or a Penthouse?”
“Look, Chad,” Nurse Gregory said, “You know I try and be there for you guys, but I can only do what’s within reason. If I brought material like that in this place, it would mean my job. I got a wife and a couple of ninos at home. I can’t be irresponsible. I don’t have that luxury of being reckless, or slacking off.”
“Hey Chad,” Kenneth called out, “What do you need those monthly periodicals for? Is something wrong with your mojo? Why don’t you gather up all your phantoms and phantasms, that only you can see, and have a fake orgy with them in your room?” he said, mocking Chad’s mental illness in front of the audience, “Since you can’t snag any real pelt.”
“Up your nose with a rubber hose, asshole! Not that it’s any of your fucking business,” the self-proclaimed Casanova said in his own defense, “but you don’t know jack squat about anything! For your information, I happened to have lost a stellar bunny of mine years ago, who meant everything to me, and whom I miss more than words! So, though I don’t need to explain myself to the likes of you, I don’t find it very funny when you make fun of me when she comes to visit,” he said, confirming that he does, in fact, see his deceased lover. “I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t spew your defamatory insults about her as loud as you do, since she’s sleeping in my bunk at this very moment, from the party hardy we did last night” Chad added, digging his own grave even deeper.
“You’re so out to lunch, Chad,” William said, “but we love you anyway,” he said, patting the flustered Chad on the back of his shoulder blade.
Dawn's Tale Page 4
