Ward 15

 They put me in Ward 15. Two of the possibly only 4 people in the world that still seem to care about my whereabouts caught me at the train station, asked me where I was going, and seemed unhappy with my answer of "anywhere but here." They brought me here mostly willingly, and I was given this new set of clothes to wear, and a nice lady asked me a lot of somewhat personal questions. My friends left before this happened, they had done their duty by me, and they left me here. I guess my answers to those questions is what led me to being put in Ward 15. No one ever really told me why I got put here, and I didn't then, and don't now really care. The hospital had several wards, and their own way of designating who went to which ward. I wasn't overly concerned with the number, and I didn't really care to ask any questions of my own. I am tired of asking questions. I am even more tired of hearing the answers.

My fellow citizens/inmates of Ward 15 were excited for my arrival. I guess a newbie is a cause for excitement around here, doesn't bode well for the social scene, but then again I'm not overly social anyway. After listening to their chatter about "welcome to Ward 15 and other nonsense" I inquired what was the reason for me being in Ward 15. A couple of them vaguely mentioned there were 17 Wards, and Ward 17 was where they put the truly hopeless. I guess it was a small mercy that landed me in Ward 15. They also shared the news that Ward 15 was called the "Omega" Ward, which made no sense to me since it wasn't the last Ward, but I was listening to the denizens of a madhouse. One old timer (he looked 80 at least) told me. "well, they say the higher the number, the less unwell you are, they don't like using the term "sick" too politically incorrect, and it might hurt our feelings. Which, if you ask me, is our fault for having feelings in the first place. Then again, I've been here neigh on 18 years, so asking me might not be the best idea." He laughed quite loudly, and a bit too much for my liking, but I didn't have anywhere else to be so I listened to him prattle on as he explained my current situation. "They also say that the opposite is true, that the higher the number, the more hopeless your case is, and they just shift you out here to live and die with as much dignity as your mad ass can manage. I don't know which rumor to believe, I've been in Ward 15 for my entire time here. I guess that means I've not gotten any "better" but on the upside it also could mean that I've not gotten any "worse". No, I am pretty sure I will die here in Ward 15, unmourned and unmarked except by my roommate if he happens to be lucid that day."

I replied "well they told me that I would be here a maximum of three weeks, and maybe only two if I responded well. I'm not sure what I am supposed to respond to, but two weeks doesn't seem that long or that bad, maybe I'll get some rest, and get "better". Though I am not exactly sure that I am sick." The old geezer cackled again and said "Three weeks is what they told me 18 years ago, though they left out the possibility of shortening it to 2, guess they've gotten more hopeful now days. Anyway, if things go as usual they will leave you alone for a couple of days, and then on day 3 they will start trying to "cure" you. Of course, they won't call it "curing" you cure meat, they will call it "getting you well" but the idea is the same." I nodded vaguely, I didn't want to listen to this damn fool, after all he had been here 18 years, he was clearly as mad as a March hare, but he wasn't the type to leave a man in peace. Sure I didn't want to be here, but I was really unsure where I wanted to be, or if I wanted to be anywhere at all. "Nowhere" doesn't exist in the geographical sense, but I sure wanted to go looking for it just to be sure. That's why I was at the train station when my friends intercepted me. 

On day two it somehow got around the Ward as to who I was, and what I did for a living. Which led to all sorts of citizens/inmates coming to me and asking me for advice. I wasn't in the mood to practice my "craft" and politely told them. "I am not here to practice my craft, this is a madhouse right? I am here to be mad." Some of them laughed at that remark, some of them just stared, and a couple swore at me with great fervor, but it was as honest an answer as I was ever going to give anyone here. It was this day that I made the decision that has me still here, and it's been a damn sight longer than 3 weeks. I looked at my roommate John, James, or Jack, I don't really remember his name, said "I'm sorry" and punched him as hard as I could right in the ribs. In my defense, I hit him with my weaker left hand, not in the face, and to be honest it wasn't that much of a punch. I'm a lover not a fighter, it wasn't designed to hurt him over much, it was designed to get my own room. It worked like a charm. He folded over like a tent, and two large, burly gentleman rushed into our room, and frog marched me to my own private Idaho i.e. an isolation cell. I felt like Steve McQueen's character from the Great Escape, except no one threw me a baseball and a glove to use to pass the time in the "cooler".

I was provided with a lovely "jacket" which buttoned at the back, but luckily for me one of those burly fellows buckled it for me, and tossed me onto the bed, which was the only "furniture" in my new private room. Luxurious it was not, but it was my own, and that was what mattered to me. Alone time was necessary, it gave me time to think of a way out of Ward 15. Surely there had to be a way out, without giving away my soul. Eventually, they came and pulled out of my own head, and led me to an office. I had expected this, I was sure I was going to meet some nice lady or fellow that just wanted to talk to me about my feelings, and make sure I was "better." I sat down, and a bearded fellow walked in, sat down and introduced himself as Doctor K____. He asked me if I knew why I was here, and I told him that as much as I cared that I did. He seemed to think that was progress, and went on about how it was a good sign. I don't know what the good Doctor was expecting from me, but I was in no mood to provide it to him.

A few more fruitless trips to Doctor K did not result in any further progress, and I kept my private room because I was able to convince the turnkeys that if they put be back in a shared room, my new roommate would meet the same fate as my previous one. I wasn't just saying that for the luxury of the private room. A toilet, and a bed that was bolted down, was not exactly the Hilton, but at least it was private. Here I remain in Ward 15 wondering if I am going to eventually have to give the same welcoming "I've been here 18 years speech" to some newbie like myself with me playing the role of grizzled old timer. I hope that is not to be the case, but as the saying goes, only time will tell. 

 

Serge and his Apples: An Interlude

 Where Felix and his goons left me that November day, and the following disaster that occurred, will have to wait for another day. This story struck me as needing written first, and since it is my history, I get to tell in the order that I pick.  

As I walked into Sully's one fine night, and by fine I mean it was just a day that I was on the right side of the dirt, Sully gave me the arched eyebrow that meant that the idea of "fine" was about to take a turn for the worse (as most turns in my like are wont to do). I sighed, and considered exiting stage left, and going home to write a long overdue letter to my mother, but decided that would probably not be received any better than what I was about to "receive" either, and since writing isn't my strong suit, I decided to brave it out, and hope for the best. Silly me. 

I walked to my normal booth and was not surprised to see some gangly, bright eyed, fellow already sipping on one of Sully's finest pints of piss. "Careful with that stuff lad, it will put hair on your chest, and by the looks of you it would be the first." He glanced up surprised by my sudden appearance, cleared his throat, and stammered "s.s.she told me you'd be here." I rolled my eyes, sat down, gave Sully the bring me pints till I pass out wave, and replied "well son, you see that there "she" is what us intellectual types call an unattached pronoun. I know a lot of "shes" and many of them know where to find me at given moment of my day. Though most of them only know it so they can avoid those places like the plague. So you're going to have to be a little more precise when you tell me "she told me you'd be here." Are we talking about the tall one, the short one, the left handed one, the mean one, the one who treats me like shit, or any number of other exotically nicknamed bitches who keep sending me fools like you to terrorize me in my dotage." 

He opened his mouth to reply, but I put up a forestalling hand. "Never mind lad, whichever "she" sent you isn't really important to me anymore. I've long since stopped spinning different tales for different "shes" one set of lies is enough to keep track of. So why don't you just tell me which lie "she" wants to hear tonight, and I decide if I'm in the mood to spin it for her or not." He narrowed his eyes at me and said "she said for me to figure out which large R you were tonight, and gave me two envelopes to pick from depending on your answer." I sighed "of course she did. Well lad since I am, sadly, stone cold sober I figure you'll want to open the one marked "Rationalist" and start from there. Did she also tell you to wait around for me to get a few pints in me and then open the other one, and to compare the answers?" He nodded his assent to my statement, took the one marked "Rationalist" and started to read silently to himself, trying my patience even further. 

"Damnit boy don't just read it to your fool self. Aren't there questions or some such bullshit written on there that your "she" wants answered, or is it a love poem that you're steeling yourself up to recite to me afraid that it will sound as gay as Christmas to read out loud. Which in case you're wondering nothing sounds gay in this place. We love all kinds here lad."   His eyes widened at my comment, and he slowly said "it says to give you these" and he pushed a set of several photographs across the table towards me. I picked them up, they weren't the best quality. A bit grainy, and shot from a (safe) distance, and black and white, but the gist of them was immediately clear. I arched an eyebrow at him, more to hide my feelings than any real reason. It seemed to work because he snow plowed his way past the look in my eyes, and read from his script "not exactly sorry to show you these GI, but I figured you needed to know. Even though with your suspicious mind, I figure you had a good guess." Here he stopped and looked up at me with a questioning look. "I don't have an answer for either you or her lad, so stop giving me the dramatic pauses and finish her little love letter then get the fuck out of my sight."

He nodded then swallowed hard, and continued his recitation of the tear down job "she" had planned for me. Seems that my earlier idea of a "fine" day had fallen to shit. "There isn't much else here, it just says that you know what those mean." He pointed at the photos that were still in my hands. "and that you know where to find everyone you need to find in case you want to do something about it." I nodded well lad, you've narrowed some things down for me, but you've also caused me considerable consternation, so I'd suggest you get the hell out of here while you still are able to move all your limbs of their own accord." He blinked, and if it is possible to blink loudly, that is how he blinked. He stood up quickly, and pushed the other letter towards me "She told me to read both to you, but I think I'll take your advice, and find myself a safer drinking companion." He walked out without looking back, and left me to brood in silence, which is best for brooding.

I wasn't about to tell him that even though the photos did tell me which "she" didn't send him, I was still mostly in the dark about which "she" did. Most "shes" don't publish their bile and/or dislike for me, it allows them to have plausible deniability when asked if they know me or not. Generally, they avoid me like I have leprosy, and that is mostly the best plan. A couple of them like to communicate with me when they have something particularly mean that they want to tell me, but those are not everyday occasions. This little photo montage was one of those particularly mean things, and I was beginning to regret not asking the fool lad which "she" it was that sent him to ruin my day, my week, and maybe even my month. Or maybe that was "her" plan all along. She knows me well enough to know that I don't have a high tolerance for fools, and so she sent a fool (or one that seemed to be) to me, knowing I wouldn't listen to more than 4 words he had to say. The photos did tell me something that I already pretty much knew, but they also provided me with new information. Information is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands, and I was decidedly the wrong hands for this information. 

I sighed, and signaled to Sully to bring me the tab, this was a job for the sober me to undertake, and that made me a bit put out, I had planned to get happily drunk. Those plans were now scuppered. I left twice as much money as needed to cover my tab, rose slowly from the booth, and said aloud to myself "well, I guess I need to add a name to my list of enemies, and I guess I need to go see that smug bastard Felix." With that I left Sully's and began to make my way across town....