GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #389: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 2

Now imagine him without that smile.

Ever watch Parks and Recs? There is an overweight middle-aged character on the show named Jerry. He’s the nicest, easiest-going person on the show. You could probably shit on his head, and he’d take it in stride. And this doctor looked exactly like him. So much so that when I got home, I went to IMDB to see what the actor was doing now. I was relieved to learn that this was absolutely not the same person as the actor. Because this guy was a fucking tool. 

He released a sigh of annoyance when he sat at the table across from me. Keep in mind, I had my Covid mask on from the moment I entered the ER. This guy also wore a mask, but this so-called doctor’s nose poked out the top, and he never pulled it up. I would later learn that he was not a doctor, but here’s the thing. He called himself a doctor, as did the rest of the staff. That’s a problem with psych wards and rehabs, but I’m not going to go into it here. Suffice it to say, these places have almost zero government oversight. 

“All right,” he said. He glanced at his clipboard, then looked up at me over it. “John Bruni.” He pronounced it right. Most say Brun-eye. It’s Brew-nee. “What drugs do you take?” 

I mentioned both of my ‘Beetus meds, then my hypertension med, my cholesterol med. “And alcohol,” I said. 

He slapped the clipboard down. “Bullshit. Tell me the truth.” 

“I did. Those are the only drugs I take.” At the time it was true. It had been a while since I’d been in the hospital, so the morphine was long gone from my system. They hadn’t given me Vicodin since my foot broke. That was it. 

“You gotta stop lying to me if you want to get better,” Jerry said. 

“I’m not lying,” I said. 

“You are so full of shit,” he said. “We found benzos in your blood.” 

Now I knew he was a liar. I hadn’t had one of those in three years. A friend gave me half a Xanax in her attempt to get me to stop drinking. Obviously it didn’t work. “I haven’t taken any benzos,” I said. 

He sighed again. “Fine. Be that way.” And then he started asking me the milligrams of my regular meds. Holy fuck. Who actually pays attention to that shit? I barely remembered the names of the drugs. I only knew my metformin mg because I was told it was the highest a human can tolerate, which is 1000 mg. The rest of it? I had no clue. 

“I need to know this information,” he said. “Stop playing games with me.” 

“I honestly don’t know. It’s on the bottles, I’m sure, but those are back home. But you can check with Elmhurst. They have that all on file.” 

“I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to you.” 

I shrugged. “I don’t have that information.” 

Another sigh. He then asked me about every sickness and every inoculation I have ever gotten in my life. At 42, that is a metric shit ton of information that has long been forgotten. I could tell he was aggravated with me, but so far trying to get information that I don’t have out of me had been unfruitful for him. He moved on. “Weight?” 

“Last I checked, 210.” These days I fluctuate between 210 and 220, and not in a healthy way. 

“Height?” 

“Six-one.” 

“Bullshit. You are not six-one.” 

“Sir, I assure you I am six-one.” 

He slapped the clipboard down again. “On the scale. Right now.” He pointed to the medical scale. 

My shoes were already gone, so I stood barefoot as he adjusted the black bar to the top of my head. The scale read six-one (plus an extra half-inch). He glared at me, but he didn’t say a word about it. “Why the fuck are you still wearing that?” Pointing to the gown I’d been given at the ER. 

“The ER gave it to me,” I said. 

“You’re supposed to have our clothes on. Didn’t the last guy give you your clothes?” 

“No.” 

He had me remove the gown. At that moment he saw one of my scars. He pointed at it. “The clipboard says you have no scars.” 

“I have a lot. See?” I started pointing to more. 

“That fuckin’ kid. He’s new. I’m gonna chew him out.” 

“There’s one more thing,” I said. I pointed down to my bare right foot, the one missing the big toe.

“Son of a bitch.” He scribbled on the clipboard like a maniac and threw some clothes at me. There were two half-shirts. I was to wear one around my back and the other around my front. I also got paper slippers, sort of like the kind that crime scene cleanup crews wear. They would later be replaced by non-slip socks. 

“All right,” he said. “We’re done here.” 

Thank fuck. 

“Follow me.” 

I followed him out the door and by the nurse station. There was a long hall, and he brought me all the way to the end. There was only one room beyond mine, and then there was a caged window. He brought me into my room, and the first thing I saw was that there were two beds. Holy shit, was it possible that I’d get a roomie? I hoped not. It’s bad enough dealing with my own shit in this hellhole. Dealing with someone else’s was not my idea of fun. 

“Pick your bed. That’ll be your side of the room. And here.” He shoved a folder into my hand. “Read that. Those are the rules. Do it now.” He then turned to head for the door. As soon as he was out, he turned back. “Don’t ever close this door all the way.” 

“Okay.” 

He left, and I weighed the pros and cons of each bed. If I picked the one by the door, there was a corner so no one would be able to see me sleeping. But I kind of wanted to pick the one by the window even though I couldn’t see through all the steel protection. I picked that one. 

There were two desks connected to each other by a short bookcase. I sat on my side and opened up the folder. I read the rules, and they were pretty strict. The one about never closing the door seemed obvious to me, but it was stated several times. It also said that I didn’t have to attend group therapy, but if I did I would be more likely to get out. There were three sessions a day, just as there were three meals a day. In the morning you had to take your meds. In the evening you had to take your meds. If you wanted a phone call, you had to let a nurse know well in advance. There was only one time period when you could use the phone. Otherwise, they didn’t even have the phones on the wall. No visitors allowed. And then followed a list of items I could not possess, and it was pretty lengthy. I didn’t read the whole thing. It struck me as a common sense kind of thing. One of the items, for example, was a firearm. Oddly enough, hardcover books were forbidden, too. I guess you could use one as a weapon. I’d rather just read it. 

The book that started me down my Vidal rabbit hole.

Speaking of books, the previous resident left his books behind. I thought about my books being held captive by the powers that be. Softcovers, all three. If you’re curious, one was Covenant by John Everson. I also had The Wettest County in the World, which is a true story and the basis of the movie Lawless (written by a descendant of the family involved!). The last was The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. I loved the movie, and I thought it was about time to read the book. 

I don’t remember most of the books on that shelf. There were maybe eight of them? One of them was a hardcover. On the off chance that someone thought it was mine, I pushed it to the back of the shelf, behind the spare pillow. Of them all, I only recognized one author’s name. I decided that I would read this one book while I waited for my own books to be returned to me. Little did I know that it would change the course of my life. 

I brought my signed copy with me. Everson lives close to me and I see him at cons often.

It was Empire by Gore Vidal. I knew Vidal primarily as the screenwriter of one of my favorite movies, Caligula. I kind of doubted he was responsible for the pornography in the film, but now that I’ve read more of him I can hear his voice come through, especially when Tiberius attempts to poison Caligula. Other than that, I’d read a few of his essays while pretending to work at the library. I’d never read a novel of his before. That changed very quickly. This one sucked me in immediately, especially with a pair of misanthropes named John Hay and Henry Adams. The former I knew little of, just what I learned in elementary school. I’ve studied him a lot more since, and he’s one of my favorite historical figures. The latter I’d never heard of, but I surmised that his ancestors included John Adams and John Quincy Adams. There was also the granddaughter of Charles Schuyler, the main character from book one. This one was the fourth. I learned in this one that Charlie was the bastard son of Aaron Burr, which annoyed me when I read the first book, Burr. Charlie doesn’t find out about his lineage until the very last sentence of that book. 

Uh, spoiler alert. 

And then there’s William Randolph Hearst, the early 20th Century version of Donald Trump. I’m not going to publish this, but on the off chance I do, I highly recommend Vidal’s Narratives of the Empire. 

Great book. READ IT.

A nurse came in and checked on me. She was shocked to see me reading a book. I got the feeling that this didn’t happen often in this place. It was more or less confirmed when I met the other residents. “But what I’d really like are my own books,” I said. “They’re among my belongings.” 

Another great book. I can't recommend it highly enough.

“Hardcover?” she asked. 

I assured her that one was a paperback book, and the other two were softcover. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

Not much later, she returned with my own books. I put them on hold as I continued with Vidal.

TO BE CONTINUED! Next time we'll meet a few of my fellow psych ward patients.

Dammit. I wish I'd thought of this last night. It would be perfect to use this when indicating that the story will continue tomorrow night. 'Cause Looney Tunes. Get it?

*sigh* That's all, folks.