Lost in a Daydream – Part 3
Author © Scott D. Zachary
I’m outside on our smoke break talking with a fellow named Clayton from Delight, Arkansas. (Yes, there is such a place.) Clayton and I instantly bonded, sparking each other’s wit most delightfully. Clayton complained to me in the distinctive voice of James Cagney. “Can you believe it—Nurse Hagar threatened to take away my smoke break privileges cuz I was laughin’ too loud! That dirty, no-good, yellow-bellied, double-crossing stool-pigeon. We’re not supposed to have fun in here, see!”
I responded in my most excellent rendering of John Wayne’s persona. “I’ll tell ya what, pilgrim, we oughta laugh her right outta the Yankee-Doodle nuthouse. That’ll fix her wagon.”
Clayton trumped my John Wayne with a perfect impersonation of Gunsmoke’s Festus. “Well, I don’t rightly know, Meester Dealin, like I’s always says, ‘If a geezard smells bad, it prolly eez bad.’ ”
In the days leading up to my ill-fated camping trip, I had obsessively imitated the voice and antics of Jim Carrey’s character in the movie The Mask to the point of mastery while frazzling my girlfriend Angela’s nerves. I now transitioned into The Mask’s rendition of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry. “You gotta ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk? Bet you can’t laugh loud enough to make her turn green like me!”
“Yer soundin’ more like one of ‘em range rompers than y’ar Meester Dealin,” speculated Festus. “Sides, that thar geezard eez already pert’ near green.”
Solacing my newfound friend, I continued imitating Dirty Harry and briefly depicted how I had flustered the “gizzard” during my evaluation session, to the point of provoking her to snap her pencil and storm out the door. I concluded, “She was sssmokin’! Oooh, sssomebody stop me!” as I flourished the toke on my cigarette and flipped the ash repeatedly to accentuate my character.
It became a competition. A crowd began to gather around to hear our impromptu battle of impersonations. I emptied my sparse entourage of previously practiced characters as a perfect Mr. Rogers. Clayton returned a quip in the voice of Laurel, and I amazed myself with a flawless Hardy. I parried Clayton’s immaculately kooky Popeye with a hilarious rendition of Porky the Pig. Clayton tallied with a precise Mr. T, and I responded impeccably as George Peppard’s Hannibal Smith.
I don’t recall all of the personalities or the exact verbiage of our entire repartee, but it apparently tallied sensational as attested by our audience’s enthusiastic response. Even the nurses gathered around to enjoy our off-the-cuff banter. At last, Nurse Hagar came out to investigate the commotion and put a stop to our fun. The audience of 30 or so patients and half a dozen nurses gleefully applauded our performance.
I went to my room and lay down for a nap. When I woke up, I spoke to my roommate in a scratchy voice that I knew but couldn’t identify. The more I talked to Steve, the more his look of amazement amplified. “That’s a perfect Marge Simpson!” he declared.
I walked out to where Clayton sat in the recreation room. I demonstrated my new iconic personality, and he immediately conceded his defeat. “I can’t top that one—no way!”
“You were good, kid, see. But as long as I’m around, you’ll always be second best.” (The Mask as James Cagney)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My visit to the Arkansas State Hospital was a truly magical time, notably the sparkle that my transformed personality lit in the eyes of nearly everyone I encountered. And as for me—I just had fun! In the process of enjoying my first days off in over a year, I made many friends—patients and staff alike. It was never my intention to provide therapy for anyone, but in actuality, that’s precisely what I did. I made friends with a young man named Kurtis, who was dejected about having been booted out of the Marines. I helped him realize he had one way to go, and that was up. I explained that there were many times that I could’ve easily been ejected from the Air Force during my climb from Airman Basic to Captain; I was just plain lucky.
I had also befriended a retired army sergeant, Harvey, who had served at the end of World War II and during the occupation of Germany. Depression had stolen his self-esteem. Kurtis bounded up to the table in the lounge where Harvey and I were chatting, and he snapped me a salute.
“This is the man you need to be saluting, soldier.” I gestured toward Harvey. “He served our country during wartime—I didn’t.”
Kurtis turned toward Harvey and saluted him. I could see a conspicuously positive change in Harvey’s demeanor as he returned the salute.
“In fact, Harvey served under General Patton in the Third U.S. Army,” I added.
Kurtis’s eyes widened.
“I did? Oh yes, of course, I did.” Harvey grinned.
Having gained their respect, I found it easy to foster a friendship between Harvey and Kurtis. Come to think of it, I don’t recall another instance where I’ve deliberately tried to bond a friendship between two other people except in the Arkansas State Hospital.
I also befriended a muscular black man who had played defensive linebacker for the New Orleans Saints and the Philadelphia Eagles. Stuart’s professional career came to an abrupt end when he lost an eye in an auto accident. He wore a stocking cap pulled down nearly covering his eyes. No one else talked to him, but I did; and in the process, I helped Stuart lift his self-esteem significantly. Stuart showed me his eyeball socket, and I understood why he was so embarrassed. I enlisted one of the nurses to help us make an eye patch for Stuart. That made a huge difference in the way he carried himself.
And then there was Elgin, an Air Force Technical Sergeant who’d been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor that was affecting his ability to function. I listened intently to Elgin as he detailed the quarrel he’d been having with God, and I encouraged him to spill his innermost thoughts. He said he couldn’t recall another time when someone absorbed every word he spoke, the way I did. Elgin thanked me for visiting his solitary inner refuge and for lifting his spirits. I thanked him for revealing to me the guideposts that steer his faith in God.
Although I didn’t consciously consider it at the time, it has since become apparent to me that treatment for some forms of mental illness doesn’t necessarily require extensive therapeutic coddling. Sometimes, the right spark by the right person at the right time suffices. For instance, there was Mary, who I met during a smoke break. She was a chubby woman, and her appearance was sloppy. I made a point of remembering her name, as I did for everyone else at the time, and I treated her with utmost respect and kindness. The next time I saw Mary, she had transformed. Most notable, a glistening sparkle decorated her eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sunbathing on a picnic table, I looked up and wondered if Comet Hale-Bopp streaking through the sky overhead had some bearing on my current situation. I applied more suntan lotion and closed my eyes. A moment later, I heard a voice. “I could slit your throat right now, boy.”
“That wouldn’t be much fun,” I said without opening my eyes.
“Doesn’t it scare you that I would love to watch you bleed out?”
I shrugged. “Bleeding out is overrated; it’d be more fun to beat you on a pool table.”
“If I had a blue band, I’d destroy you in a game of eight-ball at the pavilion.”
“That’s possible, but not likely. What’s your name, Slasher?”
“How’d you know that’s my name?”
“Lucky guess,” I chuckled. “If you want to graduate from this place, you might want to change your nickname.”
“Like what?”
“How about ‘Flash’?”
“That’s weird.”
“Is it? Dishonoring yourself with a nickname that makes people distrust you is weird, in my opinion.” I arose from where I was sunbathing and wiped the sweat from my face. “Watch this...” I walked around the smoking area and picked up cigarette butts and trash for a couple of minutes.
“That was sweet of you to pick up all that trash, Scott,” the nurse commended. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, ma’am!” Approaching Flash, I prodded, “You see the response I got from the nurse?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Come with me, and I’ll show you what.”
Flash followed me over to the nurse.
“Is there any way that my friend here—Flash—could have an escort to shoot a couple of games of pool with me in the courtyard some afternoon?”
“I don’t know, but since you were so kind as to pick up trash in the smoking area voluntarily, I’ll see what I can do. Smoke break’s over, folks!”
I held out my hand. “I’m Scott. Nice to meet you, Flash.”
Flash scrutinized me oddly before shaking my hand.
The next day, I persuaded Flash to help me pick up trash around the smoking area. Astonished, the nurse exclaimed, “I daresay, never would I have imagined seeing you picking up trash, Preston. I’ll make sure I get you an escort to the pavilion so you and Scott can shoot pool, even if I have to do it myself.”
That afternoon when the blue bands lined up to go out into the courtyard for recreation, my uplifting effect on many of the patients became quite clear. The nurse visually panned the horde of patients waiting to be released into the courtyard, declaring, “In all my years, I’ve never seen this many blue bands!”
I looked around and saw many of the people that I had befriended since arriving at the Arkansas State Hospital: Harvey, Kurtis, Stuart, Mary, Elgin, Flash, and several others. As well, I had seen a ripple effect. A sort of community mentality had developed in the eight days since I had arrived.
The nurse unlocked the door, and the patients streamed out into the courtyard. Flash and I walked directly to a pool table in the pavilion.
I’ve shot eight-ball ever since I was a little boy. I don’t often run the table, but I love it when I do. Flash and I took turns banking the cue ball off the far rail to see who could come closest to this rail, determining who would break. Flash went first—swastika tattoos lining his forearm. His cue ball stopped a foot shy of the bumper. Mine nearly hugged it. I busted the rack, dropping a solid, and then I smoothly ran the table. I don’t think anything could have garnered so much of Flash’s respect as that did. We became friends.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Pollisha’s and my relationship blossomed rapidly. She and I had begun going for walks in the courtyard. On one occasion, as we returned to our living area, I pulled Pollisha out of the surveillance camera’s view and kissed her. After that, we sneaked a kiss after every meal and every outing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I attended my second evaluation meeting with the psychiatrist, my caseworker, and the oversight nurses on my ninth day at the Hospital. The same people attended, and we are all sitting in the same positions as in my previous evaluation on day five.
“You’ve made a lot of friends here, Scott,” tendered Dr. Anton.
“There are a lot of good people in here. You just need to remember their names and pay them a little respect. Make them feel significant.”
“Humph,” Nurse Hagar interjected.
I zeroed in my focus on her. “If you have a problem with that, then you have no business being a nurse.”
Nurse Hagar flipped her chair over as she stood in a huff and stormed out of the room.
“With exactly one exception, this has been a truly marvelous experience. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely and made some wonderful friends.” I stood and shook each of their hands, saying, “You saved me from myself for which I am profoundly grateful to you.”
Dr. Anton and I agreed that a few more days of rest and relaxation would be ideal to complete my recovery. I didn’t tell him that I was reluctant to leave Pollisha.
Pollisha and I strolled in the courtyard that afternoon. She rested on a bench, and I laid my head on her lap. The weather was perfect: mid-70s, sunny, and a slight breeze. I looked up into Pollisha’s dazzling blue eyes as she stroked my hair and sang to me prettier than the angels.
This is exactly where I want to be.
