High Desert High

by Steven Schindler

  Paul put his hands behind him and heard that unmistakable sound of zip handcuffs being tightened around his wrists.

  “Is that too tight?”

  “No. Fine. Can you give me a hand to get up? My knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  “That’s your SUV by the front gate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A tow truck will come and get it,” the cop said as he led Paul to his patrol car. “Do you have ID on you?”

  “Yes, sir. In my left rear pocket is my wallet.”

  The officer took out the wallet just before he sat him in the back seat of this car. “NYPD? Retired? Damn. Sorry, bud. But I’ve got to take you in.”

  “I totally understand.”

  Paul sat in the back as another patrol car showed up, and the officer handed the other cop Paul’s wallet. “He’s gonna run your info.”

  “Okay.”

  Paul didn’t know what was going to happen. He was sure he’d be booked on trespassing, but figured that would be it. Probably a summons to appear in court, plead guilty, and pay the fine. Served him right.

  “You’re under arrest for….”

  Paul listened intently to the cop’s arrest pitch, and noted there were just a few slight differences from the speech he gave, oh, several hundred times. They started driving out of Desert Christ Park, and he noticed the tow truck hitching up his vehicle.

  “Where’s your precinct?” Paul asked, as he watched his Escape being winched onto a flatbed.

  “We call it a station. Yucca Valley, in the town center by the post office. But you’re not going there.”

  “I’m not?” Paul asked, perplexed.

  “No, sir.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “You’re going down to the Medical Center in Palm Springs. You’re getting a psych evaluation down there. They’re the only ones staffed for that at this time.”

  “Psych evaluation? Why?”

  “Weren’t you involved in an accident not too long ago in the BLM?”

  “Oh that.”

  “Captain says, you need a psych evaluation. Sorry, bud.”

  “No worries.”

  Paul started thinking about the big picture. His recent accident. The story he told the doctors about chasing a UFO. His having a clean toxicology result. Of course, he thought, they think I’m out of my ever-loving mind. Am I?

  Paul sat on an uncomfortable steel chair in a small, brightly lit, spic-and-span room at the hospital with the arresting officer at his side. At least his cuffs were off. His attempts at small talk were rebuffed by the young sheriff deputy, Jesse Ramirez, who was staring at his smartphone, just as Paul himself used to do, so he wouldn’t get involved with perps after an arrest. The room was in stark contrast to the roach-infested waiting-room holding pens he had been stuck in at assorted New York courthouses, precincts, stadiums, subways, bus terminals, and public hospitals.

  The door opened and a fortyish female wearing black slacks and a gray blazer entered with a single file folder. Only her ID tag gave a clue that she was a doctor.

  “I’m Doctor Slater, Mr. Santo. I’m a psychiatrist. Officer Ramirez will remain in the room as I conduct a preliminary interview,” she said, sitting across from Paul at a small table.

  “Interview? Am I up for a job?”

  “This is not a laughing matter, Mr. Santo.”

  “Sorry. You’re right.”

  “You were arrested this evening for reckless driving, leaving the scene of an accident, destruction of property and trespass. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You were involved in an accident several weeks ago and admitted to a hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember the circumstances of that accident?”

  “Well, I kind of blacked out after crashing. But yes, I remember what I told the police and the doctors.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was, I thought I was chasing a UFO, is what I told them at the time.”

  Officer Ramirez looked up from his smartphone for the first time.

  “And tonight, what were you doing when you were arrested?”

  “I was talking to the statues of Jesus and his Apostles in the park.”

  “Have you ever taken drugs?”

  “Doc, I don’t know what you have in your file there, but I was an NYPD narc.”

  “I know that. Please answer the question.”

  “I’ve never knowingly taken any illicit drugs.”

  “And why do you say knowingly?”

  “I think maybe I could have been slipped something on the night of the accident.”

  “And what about tonight?”

  “No. Not tonight.”

  “Have you been under any strain lately, Mr. Santo?”

  Paul looked at young Officer Ramirez and wondered what he had witnessed on the job as a cop up here in the high desert during his short career. Paul had seen a dead body cut in half on the railroad tracks, a friend killed on a high tension wire, witnessed a gunfight in the street, and smelled a rotting human body in his own apartment building hallway. And that was all before he was thirteen years old, just growing up on the streets of the Bronx.

  “Officer Ramirez, you can step outside and observe from the door window,” the doctor said to the deputy. He gave a weak smile to Paul and exited the room.

  Dr. Slater took notes as Paul gave her just the facts ma’am about ending his law enforcement career in a rage, his wife’s drug-addled life and suicide, moving to the desert with his estranged daughter, and experiencing things that he could not explain very well, including chasing a UFO. As the words left his lips, he realized he could be nuts. Textbook case of losing it.

  “In your years of being a police officer, did you experience trauma?”

  Paul laughed. Like an old soldier, he didn’t like to look back at the horrors of his sworn duties, swimming in the filth mixed with blood and despair as he trolled the abandoned tenements of New York’s Lower East Side, in the very same apartments and cellars haunted by the ghosts of so many immigrants who died from the disease of poverty over a hundred years ago. But while giving his highlight reel of death and desperation of innocents, he realized where she was going with all this.

  “Mr. Santo. Have you heard of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like you to see a specialist. If you agree, I might be able to have the charges against you dropped.”

  “Is there a catch?”

  “I could put you on a 72-hour hold, which according to state law puts in place a series of protocols to determine if you are a danger to yourself or others.”

  “Yea, I’m aware of the protocols. I’ve arrested some real psychos in my day.”

  The doctor shot him a dirty look.

  “Sorry. Mentally ill arrestees. Is there another option? I mean, as far as the hold. That sounds serious.”

  “It is, Mr. Santo. Or you could do a voluntary admission. That way, you could be evaluated without having to go through court proceedings. You’ve had some … unusual episodes. There could be something going on that needs professional help. You’ll get the medical attention you need. With a Marine Base right in the neighborhood, we’re fully enabled to assist PTSD patients. It’s what I would recommend.”

  “You think I’ll avoid the charges? The last thing I want is any kind of criminal record. I mean I was a decorated cop. I retired a lieutenant with all kinds of honors. You know how many times I could have gone dirty? I never, ever took a dime. Not even a cup of coffee! I was clean!” Paul’s heart was racing. He was on the verge of breaking down, but he didn’t let himself. He stiffened himself. Sat up straight. Shook his head. Took a sip of water from a bottle on the table.

  “I’d be shocked if they charged you, if you go for help,” the doctor said, smiling.

  Paul paused and took another sip of water. He thought about his options, and knew he didn’t have many. “I’ll do it
. Is there any kind of … alcohol treatment? Not that I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Yes. All of that will be addressed. It will be good for you.”

  Paul was ready. He had a feeling this day would come eventually. Why wouldn’t it? He had been pushing aside or bottling up or drowning with Guinness or vodka or partying or gambling or raging away those deep-down-in-his-gut emotions that try to bubble to the top. Those things that you busy yourself with, swatting away the annoying mosquitoes, thinking that the charging rhinos coming right at you won’t be a problem. He remembered counting down the months to when he was old enough to take the cop test. One minute he was waiting for life to begin, and now it looked like life as he knew it was over. He had more behind him than ahead. Maybe it wasn’t worth the doctor’s time. Maybe he was a lost cause. He was exhausted and glad he didn’t have to ride in an ambulance to the Mental Health Clinic. He was in an unmarked sheriff’s car. But sitting in that back seat, with the cage in front of him, and no buttons or levers for the windows, made him realize he was now, after all those arrests he made, on the other side.

  The hospital wasn’t really a hospital. It was a two-story clapboard building that looked more like a barracks. He was checked in, searched, given some scrubs and a robe, and sent to a secure room, not unlike the cells he saw in Bellevue where they kept the psycho prisoners. He was able to call his daughter to water the plants in the yard, and keep an eye on his place. Despite the bright florescent light coming through the door window, and the nightlight next to his bed, he was fast asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Seventy-one hours to go.

  Paul’s first day was packed with doctors, nurses, blood tests, and of course several interviews with psychiatric nurses, therapists, and psychiatrists. He answered all the questions to the best of his ability. Every one of the mental health care providers was cordial, respectful, and professional. But he had a feeling they were filling their notebooks, charts, laptops and computers with enough information to justify their recommendations for additional treatment if he needed it. The more he revealed about the decades of battling bad guys in the worst of what New York could throw at him, the more concerned his team of evaluators appeared. He was beginning to understand that although he didn’t have the physical scars like the Marines coming in here with limbs blown off, Seeing Eye dogs, and heads still bandaged, he was nevertheless just as damaged.

  Paul knew Dr. Slater would probably be the person making the final decision on whether he would be locked up for even longer in a psych unit. “And you saw your friend get electrocuted on the high-tension tower?” Dr. Slater asked.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t the only one there.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran to a candy store and told the guy behind the counter to call the police. Then I ran home and cried.”

  “You didn’t try to help?”

  “If you saw what happened, you’d know there was nothing anybody could do except scrape a smoking crispy critter off some steel.”

  “How old were you when you witnessed this?”

  “Around twelve or thirteen.”

  Paul went on and told of the other grisly things he saw before his sixteenth birthday: a wild-west-like running-down-the-street gunfight, a bum who got cut in half on the railroad tracks, and a small kid hit and killed by a bus. Stuff that most cops from small towns wouldn’t see right up until they received a plaque and a nice pension as a parting gift.

  Paul mostly kept his cop memories locked up tight. He never shared them with family members, and rarely with non-cop friends unless it was to prove a point in an argument, say like maybe if somebody thought all drugs should be legal. Cop friends were another matter. Sharing details could mean the difference between life and death the next time a similar circumstance came up. Kind of like when research scientists share their results from experiments at conferences in fancy hotel ballrooms. Except his conferences were usually held in dive bars, like The Buckeye, and his fellow research scientists were cops who patrolled all over New York City. Some were housing cops, trying to keep the vast majority of New York’s poorest families safe in the projects from the scumbags who prey on them. Then there were the subway cops, who literally deal with the scummiest underbelly of New York. Then there’s correction officers, bridge and tunnel guys, school cops, parole officers, court officers, even sanitation and department of health guys. All of them have stories about how a tip, a witness, dumb luck, or a hunch meant the difference between going home to their family or becoming an organ donor at the end of their shift.

  But he liked Dr. Slater. She was young, attractive, and had on a honking big wedding ring. She had a no-nonsense way about asking questions, and a poker face when reacting to his stories as she made notes on her laptop.

  “How often do you think about the trauma you’ve experienced in your life?”

  “Frankly, never.”

  “Never?”

  “Oh, I think about the friends who have died. Just like you do. But I’m not beating myself up about my job. It was a job.”

  “Would you say you repress the trauma you’ve experienced in your life?”

  “If by repressed you mean block it out of my mind, then yes.”

  “Do you think you have anger issues?”

  Paul paused longer than he had after any of her other questions. Did somebody rat him out? Who would know out here? Tracy? Maybe. He knew they must have talked to her about him. But she’s really only known him for like a couple page-turns on a calendar. But then again, she grew up listening to her mother bad-mouth him like Rachel Maddow on Trump.

  “I can lose my cool. I’m not a robot. I hate to think somebody’s getting over on me when I know I’m right.”

  “We all have those decisions to make every day in our lives. When to fight and when to compromise.”

  “Sometimes compromise can have deadly consequences.”

  “With friends and family?”

  “You got to my daughter, Tracy, didn’t you?”

  “Mr. Santo, your daughter is a lovely person. And she loves you unconditionally. She thinks the world of you and wants nothing more than for you to be well.”

  Paul felt like an ass. Ashamed that he was about to go off on his daughter. Probably the one person who actually did love him right now.

  “I’m a mess. I’m a fool. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Mr. Santo, have you ever been to an AA meeting?”

  “No. I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. A binge drinker, yeah. A social drinker, yeah. An everyday drinker, yeah. That doesn’t sound too good, does it?”

  “A lot of people get help at AA and AlAnon meetings. They have a lot to offer. Some people need … reminders. Some need more. Think about it.”

  “Does that mean I’m not being held any longer?”

  “No, I’m recommending your release. You’re more sane than most of the people I work with. Just take this next day or so as a chance to reflect on things. Good luck, Mr. Santo,” the doctor said, holding out her hand to shake. “Be well.”

  Paul thought that was it. But it wasn’t over. He had a clean bill of health, more or less mentally, but physically was another matter. After his lab results came back, his blood pressure, cholesterol, and liver functions were in the red. They prescribed diet, exercise, and abstaining from alcohol. And if in six months his numbers didn’t improve, he’d have to go on meds. Maybe for the rest of his life. Paul contemplated all this over the next day and a half while he was still technically on hold. He could do it. Why not? He could have an entirely new start. Not just a geographic one of changing your scenery to temporarily trick yourself into thinking you’ve changed, but really changing. Eat right. Exercise. Stop drinking. Calm down. Simple enough.

  First thing Paul did after being released from the hospital was call a cab and head right for a pizza joint, where he ordered a pepperoni pizza and a pitcher of beer. He only ate half the pizza and drank two glasses of beer, so figured he was on the right track.

  H
e was determined to make things right. That is, once he got things straightened out with Ash, Jasmine, Kate and his daughter, Tracy. He knew he wasn’t crazy. And now that he felt that Jasmine wasn’t responsible for slipping him the acid, he was convinced that it had to be Ash. Doing nothing wasn’t an option. But the timing had to be right, so first things first.

  Tracy was nervous. She thought she was doing the right thing by being honest with Dr. Slater. She thought he’d get help with his issues. She didn’t realize that he could just be released and be back where he left off. And now he was hurrying over to talk to her in the middle of the day, when Heidi was on duty at the base. She knew part of the reason she could do what she was doing with her life at this point was due to the strength of Heidi – both emotionally and physically. Just looking at Heidi – with her Marine posture, steadfast composure, and straight talk – reminded her that she had the strength to survive and thrive. Meeting her dad under these conditions would be a good test for her. She placed the official portrait of Heidi in her Marine uniform right next to where Paul would be sitting on the sofa so he would be sure to see it. She knew it was the picture that would be in the papers if Heidi were to die while she was in the service. Just as she knew that if Paul died, even after retirement, his official NYPD photo would be next to his coffin. And she wanted her official photo to be in a uniform as well. She placed Paul’s framed picture on the other side of the room.

  Paul took ten deep breaths after he turned off his engine, as one of his therapists suggested he do when he felt anger rising up in his bones. He looked at his firm grasp on the wheel and stretched out his fingers, hoping to dissipate the tension. He needed to know who was on his side once and for all.

  He stepped out of his SUV and walked across the gravel, thinking about clearing the air with Tracy, then Jasmine, then Kate, and then Ash. One by one he’d know where he stood. Who was with him and who was against him.

  He looked through the screen and saw Tracy at the sink washing something. He knocked softly on the metal part of the door.

  “Delivery,” Paul said holding up a brown bag with some left-over pizza. “That pizza place on Old Woman Spring road up by me isn’t that bad. It’s not Bronx good, but it’s California good.”