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Menace to Propriety

Drew Marshall

    Surrendering my belt forced me to constantly hold up my pants with my left hand. The shoelaces were also “requested.” My sweat socks were replaced by something paper thin. They barely reached my ankles. My sneakers wouldn’t stay on my feet without the laces. I walked on the freezing floor without any protection.
    Once the staff had determined I was somewhat articulate, not obviously violent and seriously disturbed (at that moment anyway) they agreed with me that the situation was degrading.
    The light switch was not inside the room. It was on a wall in the hallway. A speck of light snuck through a tiny window. It is darker than I would imagine hell to be. It seemed my fellow inmate was asleep. When I switched on the light, he suddenly sprang out of his comatose state screaming; “SHUT THAT LIGHT! I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!”
    My roommate was about my age in years, several months before the mid-century mark. This short stout man exuded a burnt-out charisma. I remained awake most of the night, frightened and starving. I must wait until their clocks told the administrators of the ward; it was time for a morning meal.

    Today’s electroshock therapy menu includes, rage appetizers, terror soup, and an anger soufflé. For the main course, feel free to try my fear on for size. As a side dish, what’s left of my selfish kindness is on the house. Eat here now!
    The female employee’s words came at me in slow fragments. I faced her, but my eyes were distracted by an unrealistically thin, flat-chested, black woman in her late twenties. She sprang up from her chair, violently throwing her head downwards as she sped past me.
    The young girl was heading directly into the wall. Stopping just short of a collision, she then spun on her heels to the right.
    This woman quickly offered up a military salute, while calmly saying; “Good morning!” She then retrieved her salute and spun back around, looking at the ground. Walking at a slower pace, she nestled into the chair. The security camera she addressed did not return her salute or greeting.
    The ward keeps no prisoners. Standing guard are strategically placed video cameras. They warn the warden of any wrongdoing. The inhabitants hidden in this unsafe harbor are a menace to propriety.
    On occasion the occupants can endure, even outwit this set-up. The vigilance demanded however, is relentless. The mad house mirrors are blinding, and can only see what’s in front of them, not beyond.
    When I returned my gaze to the nurse she waited for a reply. I told her I understood. The lady smiled sweetly, and went to speak to another ward employee. I was expected to attend all scheduled meetings and activities, be aware of my surroundings, and participate in the groups. This would show I was ready to be discharged when the time came.
    Back in my room, I was anxious about the first meeting with my assigned doctor. My thoughts threw me back to being strapped down on that gurney. I was placed into the ambulance, looking out at strange faces set against the night sky. I had never felt so useless or helpless, in my entire life.
    The tall doctor in his mid-thirties had short, thick, black hair. He wore large framed glasses. He remained expressionless as he asked me to tell him about myself, and why I was in this hospital. He seemed distant.
    I have been in a year-long suicidal depression. The only reason I’m still walking this earth, was due to my 14-year-old shepherd lab, Brando. He is being boarded at my vets, in a cage that was too small for him.
    I mention my father was a psychiatrist with his own practice. He died a few weeks before my fifth birthday. He is not impressed. I explained that my mother, ten years earlier, was admitted to this hospital for depression. About a year after her lumpectomy, she had become suicidal and depressed.
    As part of my strategy to be transferred, I told him how she had been placed in a small two-story, building, without a roommate. She had been free to go out onto the grounds, walk around, and sit by the garden. It just happened to be the truth.
    He indifferently said that those were different circumstances, which occurred a very long time ago. I would remain in the ward until I was discharged. After a few more questions he abruptly exited. There was no blood dripping from this stone. I did not feel confident that I was in good hands with this machine.
    You appear to want to suck my mind, but it’s absolutely dry. No cells or original thoughts left alive. Since those are the results you’re after, I’m of ahead of you in that department. I am the poet’s fist. I don’t need facts or statistics. I believe it’s better to be gone but not forgotten, then to be forgotten, but not gone.
    The community room doubled as dining hall, where my fellow refugees from reality met. One young man in his mid-thirties eerily resembled an old college friend that I hadn’t heard from in several years. This person was the intermediary between us and the staff. He was in charge of our setting up tables and chairs for activities and meals. The man saw to it that we kept the place clean and orderly.
    The Awareness group session was beginning. I observed my fellow vacationers at this resort from sanity, while trying to ignore them at the same time. There are about two dozen of us, ethnically mixed, including several females.
    A young Hispanic man, whom I had observed to be reserved, sat down to my left.
    “I am Alfonso Fernandez. It is a gray moose day. No? Snow buries fire under heaven.”
    He then looked straight ahead, remaining silent and motionless.
    The disease bids high here and rarely loses. I hold on to a shredding veneer of awareness. I am now void of all alibis, and seek shelter under the trees of pity.
    The matronly woman kept emphasizing the need to report any changes in thoughts or feelings, which may result in inappropriate behavior, for themselves or others. We must comply with the doctor’s instructions. Maintain all medication regimens. Keep all clinical appointments. She must have given this speech a thousand times. Despite this fact, this person seemed very warm, and concerned for our well-being.
    Sitting behind me was a young, intense, bearded man. He looked menacing, like an angry homeless person who was dragged here kicking and screaming. His hostility was palpable. Towards the end of the meeting, he jumped from his seat shouting; “YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME! YOU ARE KEEPING ME FROM MY ADDICTIONS! YOU’RE ALL WELL RINSED BANDITS!” The nurse reprimanded him about shouting. He dropped back into his seat, cursing under his breath.
    As I got up to leave, my eyes caught his for a second. They were an incandescent blue that leered at me. I froze for a moment, like a deer in the headlights. This derelict’s laser like stare seared through me, smothering me with his rage.
    I returned to my closet like room, shut the door, and sat on the small bed. I engaged in a relaxation breathing exercise when the door slowly opened.
    I looked for a weapon to defend myself. I flew into my fight or flight mode. A familiar stance, when employed at my current day job. The enslaver was an alleged, mental health provider. The ones I hold responsible for my being housed here, at inpatients anonymous.
    The staff employee entered. I was asked by the social worker to leave the room.
    My co-tenant’s parents had arrived for a visit. My parents were long dead. So was I.
    We are the results of our evasions.
    I suffered a breakdown a few years ago and had refused hospitalization. I was already in therapy. I started attending a day program several months later. Through the program, I was able to obtain a part time office support position with a mental health provider.
    Their consumers were trained in janitorial maintenance. The employer was located at the former site of the state mental institution. No one made any effort to tell me they served a mostly felon population. I had served several weeks’ time in the felon colony, when my mother suddenly died.
    She was being treated at the local hospital for a routine procedure. Pneumonia was listed as the cause of death.
    In the year prior to my mother’s death, I had lost most of my support network. Three close friends had moved, and were now scattered across the country. My girlfriend returned to her home state, to be with her terminally ill father. My childhood friend had adapted a beautiful baby girl from China. He was a special education teacher. His plate was full.
    At Felons Incorporated, obnoxious and aggressive behavior was the order of the day. Confrontations and verbal threats were par for the course. Occasionally, there were physical confrontations. Every day I wondered if I’d make it home, or wind up in jail, the hospital or the graveyard. This was supposed to be a low pressure clerical job. One which would help me make the transition back into the work place.
    I was unemployed for the previous two years. I had been laid off from my Benefits Analyst position, with a large insurance company.
    The Deputy Director was not sympathetic to my plight. I was accused of bringing my personal problems to the job. I was told I was considered a regular employee, and not disabled in any way. I was at my most vulnerable, went sent to this place of torment.
    I was beaten into submission. I accepted the fact that my life was over. I had murdered faith. Now I must pay for my fate. It is no surprise; I now reside in the debtor’s prison of the mind.
    Felons take pawn. Checkmate. Endgame!
    Tonight’s exciting activity was bingo. Some seemed to find this exciting, most were indifferent, others oblivious. I found myself sitting on the end of a long table. The conductor of tonight’s group activity, sat to my immediate right. We sat elbow to elbow.
    The person sitting directly across the table zeroed in on me. He was less than three feet away.
    I continued having difficulty focusing in the moment. At the same time, I was acutely aware that I must go through the motions of participation. Towards the end of the third game, I found myself looking down the table at all these fatalities.
    I wondered if I would become another of these shredded souls. Fugitives from sanity, warehoused, hidden away in an eternal limbo. Would I become part of a population, doomed to pace forgotten hallways in a wounded sanctuary for malcontents?
    I was grabbed by the throat, and then ripped from these thoughts. A balding senior, sitting in front of me, sprang from his seat. He pointed his finger at me, shouting; “HE WON! HE WON! HE’S NOT TELLING ANYONE HE WON BINGO! HE’S CHEATING!”
    I tried to regain my composure, while looking at the Bingo card. I turned towards the staff member.
    She handed me a small child’s toy. I put my hand out and offered it to this disturbed mind, encased in a human body. With lightning speed, he grabbed it from my hand. A happy child with his candy, he sat back down. Thank you was not in his vocabulary. That ended this evening’s Bingo session.
    A woman pushing sixty, who never stopped talking, was standing by the exit. She had hard-core vanities and was always primping herself, pulling on her long curled, silver- gold hair. Her bangs almost covered the tops of her dead eyes. This troll constantly claimed she was descendent from Russian aristocracy. Her husband was an important diplomat at the United Nations.
    Her faithful servant was by her side. The devotee was a short, round- shouldered black man, in his late twenties. He was a hulking mass of symptoms. He spoke in staccato bursts, starting at a high volume, and then shorting out before finishing sentences. By that time his words were reduced to inaudible, incomprehensible, mumbles. He moved like he spoke and appeared to be on fire, revolving in a perpetual state of panic. Whatever false music was whirling around these war -torn minds, it was obvious these two had retreated from logic long ago.
    The hospital employee who ran this group entered, as the others took their seats. The exception being the noble woman and her friend. They had to be told to sit down. I looked around and wondered if these people were abandoned by law, or by love?
    Maybe they reached their outer limits for bearing the unbearable. Then again, these humans may never have been glued together correctly in the first place.
    The nurse, who had seen me through the admission process, entered the room. She called my name and motioned for me to come see her. The young lady asked for the name, address and phone number of a family member.
    I had given the hospital the name of the therapist that I have been seeing, for the past year. I was hoping to avoid giving out this information. There was only one family member, and I didn’t want my cousin to see me like this. I listed his dental office address and phone number.
    I turned around, and saw the descendant from royalty, had taken my seat. Her right-hand man was overwhelming Fernandez, trying to convince him to move.
    The group leader told everyone to take their seats. The aristocrat’s aide spotted a folded chair in the corner. Racing toward it, he grabbed the chair, and planted himself by the lady in waiting.
    I had taken an instant, intense, disliking, to this blue-blood. She served as constant reminder, as to how far I had fallen. A symbol of how thin the line was between us.
    I took a seat in the middle of the third row. I was surrounded. Here I sat on the oblivion borderline, surrounded by ravaged minds. These stunted souls made up the armies of the forgotten. They marched in this shut-ins jamboree; down Exile Road. Time has no memory. If it did, it fell on blind ears and deaf hearts.
    From the moment I landed on this foreign soil, I wanted to escape. I needed to break Brando out of stir, and retreat back to my small apartment. Suicide was no longer a part of my waking thoughts.
    When the meeting was over, we were instructed to fold the chairs and put them up against the walls. It was now time for “social interaction’’. For the next sixty minutes, we existed aimlessly for the allotted time, in the assigned space.
    As the happy hour ended, Mr. Fernandez stepped in front of me, smiling as usual. “God bless you.” He then drifted off into a corner and started sobbing silently.
    These unfortunates were definitely dancing on an underground porch, while their brains bashed through the back stairs of their thoughts.
    I headed through the lobby towards the bathroom. I stopped dead in my tracks, as I witnessed my cousin being ushered in by one of the attendants.
    Anxiety and embarrassment quickly turned into relief. I waved to get his attention. His sudden appearance was an oasis on this demented desert. We went to my room. My lethargic bunk-mate had been discharged earlier in the day. Ronald had received a call from the hospital, letting him know I was inpatient. He left his office to meet with me.
    Ronald couldn’t stay long; he had a dinner engagement with his wife and another couple. I hadn’t seen him in several months. I tried explaining my situation to him.
    Thirty minutes later, I escorted Ron thru the madness maze, back to the exit of this unsavory destination. I was scheduled for a dental appointment the following month. We would stop for a meal afterwards.
    I looked at the clock and noticed it was almost ten minutes past dinner time. When I arrived for my meal, all the seats were taken except one. There was a lone chair, next to the czar’s wife.
    Fernandez was sitting to her left of the empty chair. I strolled up to him and asked how he was doing. He smiled, stood up and pulled his chair back, so I could slip in. I thanked him as he sat back down. He stared at me while saying a quick prayer to the Lord. This mortal thanked him for the hospital bounty. He then began picking at his food.
    The Soviet premier’s wife was displeased with tonight’s dinner menu. She took a bite out of her burger and then spit it out.
    The monarch reached for the soft drink, took a sip, and swallowed. The Queen-bee abruptly slammed the paper cup down on the table. It spilled over into her right-hand man’s rice. She stormed away from the table shouting “WHERE IS THE CHEF? I ORDERED COGNAC WITH MY CHATEAU BRIGNON!” Her confidant followed at her highness’s heels.
    Since I was first hauled away in that midnight ambulance, I had seen many strange faces attached to unknown bodies. Dozens of names had been hurled at me. Few could stick. I was not able to remember most of them. Except for certain staff, I made only a superficial effort to blend in.
    We rearranged the furniture for tonight’s animated movie. This was the big social event of the week. I was able to grab the first chair in the last row. I was furthest from the entrance and staff.
    This film has something to do with a penguin that is shunned, because he can’t sing. He can never attract a mate. Years go by, until it is discovered this penguin can dance. He then becomes quite popular.
    This nonsense seemed to go on forever. About fifteen minutes into this cartoon, a middle-aged woman sitting up front, stood and started clapping and wildly cheering. After thirty seconds she sat down.
    I took this opportunity to rest my eyes, closing them for about five minutes. At some point I heard the familiar introduction to one of my favorite songs from the nineteen sixties. The sound was emanating from the screen, part of the soundtrack. I can never enjoy this song again. It will drown out my wonderful childhood memories. It is now indelible engrained in my brain, as the one song I heard, while voluntarily imprisoned.
    The dignitary was conspicuous by her absence from breakfast. Rumors began escalating. I heard bits and pieces of various conversations. One woman, who had never once uttered a sound, since my arrival last week, stood up. She announced that “Tubby”, a nickname thrust upon her, because of her weight, had tripped.
    She was unconscious, and taken to the emergency room. The Bingo policeman, who accused me of cheating said to no one in particular, “That woman, had a heart attack. She died!” He then calmly proceeded stuffing his face with the morning meal in front of him.
    The formerly silent middle-aged woman, who announced Tubby had tripped, reminded me of my late aunt. There was some physical resemblance. My mother youngest sister had been an aspiring artist. In the nineteen forties, she left home to move in with another male artist, fifteen years her senior.
    My grandparents, uneducated immigrants, somehow managed to get their daughter committed to the campus of the state mental institution.
    The cure for a Bohemian lifestyle was electroshock treatments. This “therapy”, continued on and off for several years.
    My Bingo buddy, started shouting;” MY LIGHTER AND CIGARETTES WERE STOLEN”! He then proceeded to devour the remainder of his meal.
    I tripped back through my memories time tunnel, almost thirty years before.
    I had the summer off from college, and took a job waxing floors at the state mental institution. I was majoring in psychology and interested in clinical research as a profession.
    The inhabitants in these wards were convicted, violent criminals. These frightening specimens roamed freely as we worked. This joint was housing savage cargo. They constantly approached the work crew, asking for cigarettes and a light. Sometimes they snuck up from behind, slapping our backs, before making their demands. I spent half my time apologizing over the fact that I did not smoke.
    The following week in the women’s ward, we were subject to crude come ons. Many struck seductive poses, sometimes flashing their flesh. If their looks could kill, we would all be dead. I quit at the end of the second week.
    You can’t escape your past. No man can run that fast!
    Doctor Stoneface arrived exactly at the scheduled time. Never one for the social amenities, he sat down and start rifling through my file. He looked up and said I would be discharged at noon.
    For a man in his mid-thirties, he was quite solemn. He seemed to be carrying the weight of the universe on his thin frame. I don’t know if it was his policy, or the lack of a personality, that kept him so remote from his patients. He seemed determined to say as little as possible, and spend as little time with us pathetic creatures, as he could.
    I thanked him for his help. He looked at me oddly for a moment, nodded, and then disappeared. This professional epitomized lobotomy cool. My former cellmate had a better bedside manner.
    I raised myself from the wheelchair, turned around, and thanked the nurse. She smiled, and pushed the chair back into the hospital. I was elated to be out in the world again, with socks and shoes under my feet, and a belt around my waist. I waited for the bus, inhaling deeply, all that surrounded me.
    I gently pulled on Brando’s leash so we could stop at the corner. I poured out the large pills from the container into the sewer. The bottlee followed. The hospital medication caused constant chills. It’s was a warm, wonderful, spring day. Perfect, for a man and his dog to take a long, lazy walk.
    I didn’t think about returning to the cesspool from hell, employer. That was two weeks from now. I would storm across, and hopefully burn that bridge, when I came to it. I don’t know what earthly good; that weeklong hospital stay did for me.
    There was one unknown side effect no one knew of or spoke about. My visit resulted in thoughts, feelings and sensations of sanity. I would never again volunteer to be an inpatient, of a hospital psychiatric ward.

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