Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  “What?”

  “He’s here. He’s right outside in the hallway. Let’s fucking ask him how it would make him feel.”

  Monty looked at the door then back at Robby, and for a second, he actually almost believed his lie. But then he quickly came to his senses. The kid was in New Mexico with his grandparents—there was no way in hell they’d bring him all the way out here. “You’re full of shit,” Monty said, slouching backwards, calling his bluff with a confident smile.

  “Oh am I?” Robby smiled and reached into his pocket then pulled out his phone and flipped it open. “Care to make a wager on that?”

  Monty looked at the phone. His heart began to flutter, his hands began to shake, and his eyes grew wide.

  “Come on Monty, make a wager. How much you wanna bet he’s not right outside that door?”

  He knew right then that Robby was serious. He could tell by the sadistic look in his eyes.

  “No wait,” Monty said, reaching outward, like he was trying to pull Robby away from the door. “Don’t do it. Please. I can’t.

  “Oh, yes you can, Monty. That kid just lost his mother and, now, you’re gonna explain to him why he’s about to lose his best god damn friend.”

  Robby looked at the display on his cell phone then turned toward Deborah and said, “They’re here, Deborah. Is it okay if I bring ‘em in?”

  “Yes, Robby, go ahead. Bring them on in.”

  Monty shot up from his seat and pleaded with Deborah: “No please, I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “You have to.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Robby walked to the door and removed the deadbolt, then grabbed the handle and opened the door. “Come on in ya’ll,” he said, as he held the door open. “We’re right in here. Come on in.”

  It was Vicky’s parents, Al and Martha. They walked in like they were in a funeral procession—heads down, hands folded, neither one of them uttering a single word. Tommy trailed in right after them, his little hand tugging at the back of his grandmother’s black dress.

  “Tommy,” Robby said, getting down on one knee in the center of the room. “Can you come over here for a minute?”

  Tommy looked around the room like a frightened rabbit then hid in terror behind his grandmother’s leg.

  “Please Tommy. It’s just for a minute.”

  The kid looked to his grandmother for some kind of direction. His grandmother nodded and said, “it’s okay honey. It’ll be okay.” Then, she placed her hand on the kid’s shoulders and led him to Robby in the center of the room. Robby put his hands around the kid’s tiny abdomen and leaned him back against the side of his knee. “I want you to take a good look, Monty. Take a good look at this kid right here and tell him. Tell him that you’re gonna die.”

  Monty stood frozen, completely paralyzed, unable to speak, unable to blink. It was eerie—the kid looked just like his mother, everything from his dark, curly hair to his chipmunk-like cheeks—same nose, same eyes, same olive skin complexion, the resemblance was so close that it made it hard to breathe.

  “Tell him, Monty,” Robby said.

  “God damn you, Robby, don’t do this to me.”

  “Tell him. Tell him you’re gonna die.”

  Tommy pushed himself out from between Robby’s knee caps then walked towards Monty on the other side of the room. When he got to him, the boy reached outward, and took Monty’s hand and put it in his. “Monty,” he said, looking up at him, his small body trembling like a puppy shivering in the snow. “Please don’t die. I don’t want you to die.”

  The words were like razors ripping through Monty’s insides, tearing away the dead layer of his calloused heart. “I’m sorry, Tommy,” he said, looking down at him, holding back the tears pounding against his eyes. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

  “Please don’t die, Monty. Please don’t leave me.”

  Monty could barely stand up straight. The room was spinning. He had to get out of here. He had to leave.

  He released the boy’s hand and moved towards the doorway, but Deborah got up and blocked his path. “Where are you going?” she said, her flabby arms raised outward, like a rodeo clown trying to coral a wild bull.

  “I’m leaving,” Monty said. “I’m not going to some fucking rehab. And there’s nothing you can do that’ll make me go.”

  “Oh yes there is,” Deborah said, nodding her head slowly, meeting his eyes with a grave snarl. “I didn’t want to have to play this card. I was hoping you’d agree to go on your own fruition. But, since you’re obviously not going to cooperate, I have no other choice.”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila file folder that had the seal of Colorado stamped on the front. “Do you know what this is?” she said, as she opened the folder, pulled out a form, and held it print side up. “This is what’s called an Application for Emergency Commitment. Colorado is one of a few states that allow for a person to be involuntarily committed if they are both intoxicated and clearly dangerous to themselves and/or others. And I think last night, with your little escapade in the hospital, you’ve proven that you fit both criteria.”

  “You can’t do this to me,” Monty said, as he inched towards the doorway. “This isn’t legal.”

  “I’m afraid it is. The application’s been signed by myself, your parents, and the attending physician at the hospital. We’ve all recommended that you be committed to a detoxification program. Now, it’s your choice—you can either go back to the hospital and spend your detox strapped to a bed by your wrists and ankles, or you can go up to Sanctuary, where I think you’ll be a little bit more comfortable. I’ll let you decide. Either way, you’re going to get treatment even if we have to get you there by force.”

  Deborah nodded in Robby’s direction.

  “Now?” Robby said.

  “Yes, you can call them.”

  Robby got up from the bed and moved towards the doorway, while punching the keypad on his cell phone. “Hello,” he said, as he held up the receiver, “yeah, this is Robby. We’re ready for you. It’s room 1520.”

  Monty looked around the room in a state of panic. What the hell was happening? Who was he talking to?

  As Robby flipped the phone closed, he removed the deadbolt then pulled open the door and propped it open. A few seconds later, a pair of uniformed policemen appeared in the doorway, their heavy black boots clunking against the hotel’s pistachio green floor.

  “Come on in,” Robby said, as he ushered them forward, “we’re right in here. Thanks for coming.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Monty said, as he backed away towards the windows. “What are they doing here? Are you’re having me arrested?”

  “No,” Deborah said, “they’re not here to arrest you. They’re only here to observe and make sure no one gets hurt.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Monty said. “They’re here to arrest me. They’re here to put me in a straight jacket and take me to a fucking mental hospital.”

  “No, I assure you,” Deborah said, “that’s not what’s going to happen. Not as long as you’re willing to cooperate with us.”

  Monty glanced at his parents. They were both quiet, holding each other’s hands, staring down at the floor. “Why are you doing this to me?” Monty screamed at them. “What are you hoping to accomplish? Don’t you know this isn’t going to change anything?”

  “Now wait a minute,” Deborah snapped, “it’s not just their decision. It’s all of ours. Everyone in this room wants to see you get better.”

  “Fuck you, you cunt. I don’t even know you. Who are you? Why are you even here?”

  “Hey,” one of the officers said, as he lifted his gloved hand out towards Monty, “there’s no need for that. We’re only here to help you. But, if you start putting up a fight, we’re going to have to detain you.”

  “It’s okay,” Deborah said, motioning to the officer. “He’s not going to fight. He’s going to d
o the right thing. Aren’t you, Monty?”

  Chapter 19

  The Pod

  THE pod is what they called it. A small housing cluster consisting of two tiers of cells—ten on the top and ten on the bottom arranged in a perfect octahedron around a central, open dayroom. The dayroom was where Dave and his fellow inmates at the Boulder County Detention Center ate their meals, watched television, played checkers, and made phone calls. The dayroom was small, probably not much bigger than the faculty lounge at Dave’s high school, with a couple of metal tables scattered unevenly around an old, tube television that was bolted to the top of a concrete pillar standing in the middle of the floor.

  Dave sat by himself at one of these tables, his eyes transfixed on the telephone in the corner of the pod. He’d been staring at that phone all fucking morning, waiting for his turn to make a call. Unfortunately, it had been occupied by the same guy for the last two hours—a six-foot tall ape of a human with biceps twice the size of Dave’s puny skull. His hands were as big and black as a gorilla’s and his fingers looked like bruised bananas wrapped around the phone. Dave didn’t dare go up there and stand next to that monster. One false move and the guy could swat him like a fly. Plus, if he got up now, he might lose his spot at the table. He was lucky the other inmates let him have it all to himself. He could tell already he wasn’t very welcome. It seemed he was the only white guy in the pod. Everyone else was either Black or Mexican, with maybe a few Asians sprinkled in here and there like vegetable stir-fry. He could feel their eyes all pointed in his direction, like radioactive waves burning holes through his uncomfortable, blue, prison-issued shirt. They were sizing him up, looking for his vulnerabilities, waiting for the chance to pounce on his face.

  No, he’d better not get up and just stay where he was seated. Only fifteen more minutes and it’d be visitation time. With any luck, Cheryl would be there waiting for him, standing at the very front of the line. He couldn’t stand not knowing what happened to Larry. These assholes in here wouldn’t tell him a god damn thing. The thought of the poor kid lying there while those bastards tased him was enough to make him want to gouge out his own eyes. What were those idiots thinking? How could they be so stupid? How could they not realize he was just a little boy?

  Dave sighed and lifted his hands to his forehead and slicked back the sweat that was caught in his eyebrows. Why was it so hot in here? Didn’t they have air conditioning? How could it be this hot when it was snowing outside? He was so damn dehydrated, he could barely even swallow. It was like he had no saliva, like he was all dried up inside. His head was pounding, his hands were shaking, and his throat felt like it was gonna collapse in on itself. What were the guards doing? Were they trying to make him miserable? Were they betting on how long it would take until someone died? “Fuck.” He slammed his fists down against the table, so hard that it caused a few inmates at the table in front of him to turn around.

  “The fuck’s the matter with you?” one of them said, his dark, bug-like eyes scanning Dave up and down.

  “Who me?”

  “Yeah you. What’s your problem?”

  “Uh…nothing. I’m fine.” Dave forced a smile then hunched forward, retreating into himself like a frightened hermit crab.

  The inmates shook their heads then turned back towards the television, focusing on the program that was playing on the screen. It was hard to hear above all their hooting and howling, but it looked like the program they were watching was a talk show of sorts. The guy with the microphone, a familiar looking man, with a big nose and curly, unkempt sideburns, appeared to be conducting some sort of carnival-style group therapy session with the mothers of what looked like morbidly obese children. The mothers sat up on stage on rows of sofas next to their two-ton babies, while the man with the microphone took questions from the people in the crowd. The people in the audience were the real freaks of this circus sideshow, not the two-ton babies sitting on the couch. They had bad skin, bad hair, and bad hygiene with brown holes in their gums where their teeth used to be. Their eyes bulged outward from their sockets and their skin sagged like pudding from their cheeks.

  After the Q&A session, the camera cut back to the row of fat babies, and one of the black guys in the pod turned to his buddies and yelled: “That ain’t no kid, that be a mothafuckin’ baby gorilla. Shit.”

  His buddy next to him said: “That ain’t no fuckin’ gorilla, that’s yo momma muthafucka!”

  “Fuck you nigga. Don’t be talking about my momma. Yo momma so fat, when she steps on the scale, it says one at a time please.”

  The black dudes threw their heads back and started laughing; the fat rolls on their necks squishing together like a stack of Goodyear tires. The back of their bald heads looked like half-sucked milk duds, shiny with perspiration from the lights that hung overhead.

  Oh great, Dave thought, again with the momma jokes? How many more of these could they possibly have?

  “Shit. Yo momma so fat, her cereal bowl came with a lifeguard.”

  More giggles, more shouts, more hooting, more hollering.

  “Man, fuck you. Yo momma so fat, when she ran away, they had to use all four sides of the milk carton.”

  “Oh yeah? Well yo momma so fat, when she goes to an all you can eat buffet, they gotta install speed bumps.”

  At this point, the milk duds were falling out of their chairs and holding onto their bellies trying to keep their stomachs from splitting open at the seams.

  Dave just sat in the back and said absolutely nothing, trying to keep his eyes glued to the television screen. He couldn’t understand how these guys could be so indifferent. Didn’t it matter that they were stuck in prison? Maybe this was normal for them. Maybe it was a typical weekend. Maybe they actually enjoyed being in this place.

  A few minutes later, the doors at the opposite end of the pod slung open and a pair of uniformed guards came walking out. They were dressed in all green with a pair of leather, workout gloves and set of white, plastic twisty-ties dangling from their black, utility belts.

  “Alright,” one of them said, as he approached the center of the dayroom. “Everybody listen up. It’s visitation time. If I call your name, I need you to come here and stand at this black line.”

  The guard unfolded a white sheet of paper and called out the names that were written on the top: “Hernandez, Ramirez, Washington, Bell.”

  Oh thank god, Dave thought. It was Cheryl. Hopefully, she was gonna get him out of this fucking hellhole.

  He stood up and shuffled quickly across the dayroom. As instructed, he placed the balls of his feet on the solid black line.

  “Okay,” the guard said, turning to his partner. “Let’s get these guys down to visitation C.”

  “Ten-four.”

  The guards pulled off a couple of plastic twisty-ties then tightly secured them around each of the inmate’s wrists. Once they got everyone tied off, one of the guards radioed to the control booth and said he had four prisoners that were ready to be walked down. A voice came back and said, “Ten-four. Copy. Go ahead, bring ‘em on down.”

  The guard nodded then turned towards the line of inmates and said, “Follow me. Single file.”

  Dave was the last one in line. He followed the guy in front of him to a set of metal doors on the opposite side of the pod. Once the doors opened, they marched single file down a long, fluorescently lit hallway that was lined with windows and security guards working on the other side. The guards sat at long, angular desks, and stared at sets of video monitors that were stacked on top of one another in rows of perfectly lined cubes. They glanced up at the inmates as they walked past them, nodded their heads at the guards then returned to their cubes.

  When they got to the end of the hall, the guards stopped at another set of large, metal doors then turned around to face the men. “Alright,” the one in charge said. “Who hasn’t done this before?”

  Dave looked around and slowly lifted his hand. He wasn’t surprised that his was the only hand in th
e air.

  “It’s simple,” the guard said, looking in Dave’s direction. “We’re going to get you in there one at a time. When these doors open, you go in and stand in front of the black line. State your name into the camera and wait for the next set of doors to open. Once they do, go into the holding area and take the number that the guard’s going to give you. Match that number with the number written on the top of the viewing stall. Then, go to that stall and look directly into the video monitor and pick up the phone that’s mounted on the wall. You can see them and they can see you. Any questions?”

  Dave shook his head.

  “Alright,” the guard said, “Hernandez, you’re first…then Ramirez…then Washington…and, finally, Bell.”

  The men disappeared through the doors in five-minute increments, one after the other, like they were being ushered into an exclusive nightclub. Dave waited patiently staring at the back of the man’s head in front of him, watching as the sweat beaded down his neck. Once it was his turn, the guard put his hand on Dave’s shoulders and guided him to the front of the metal doors. There was a camera mounted on the wall just above the doorway with a little red light blinking beside the lens. The guard looked up into the camera and said, “Last one to go. Dave Bell. Open it up please.”

  Something unlocked and the doors opened slowly. Dave waited for the guard’s permission then slowly shuffled through. But the room wasn’t a room—it was a small holding area, like the bucking chute a bull stands in before it’s released into the pen. Dave walked to the end of the chute and placed his feet squarely on the black marking, then looked up into the camera and stated his name.

  He waited a few seconds, but nothing happened. A few minutes later, still, there was nothing. Exactly five minutes later, the next set of doors opened. Dave moved from the line and walked on through. There was a female guard on the other side, Hispanic or maybe Italian, with those familiar black gloves strapped to each hand. She looked up at Dave then down at her clipboard, checked something off and held out a small, laminated card, “Dave Bell,” she said, “you’re gonna be in stall number twelve today.”