5150, p.11
5150, page 11
part #1 of The Psychotic Break Series
I didn’t think it was going to be this simple. They told me I was going to have to fill out an application for Northeast Lodge. I was dreading it from the moment I heard about it. I pictured it full of essay questions, number two pencil bubbles, the works. It’s one piece of paper. It asks for my name, my date of birth, social security number. Easy. The “essay question” (and there’s only one) reads: “How do you think you could benefit from your stay at Northeast Lodge?” Most of the rest of the page says “For Office Use Only.” I can sum it up in one sentence: “It sounds like a nice place to rest up and get better.” For a minute I worry that I might get rejected based on that answer. I show it to Barbara, and she smiles in a most condescending way and says, “Perfect, Ethan. What a lovely job you’ve done filling this out.” And I never see it again. She takes it in to the doctor and that’s that.
*
A man from the Social Security Administration comes to talk to me and take down my information. He wants to know all the places I’ve worked:
The Union Cafe
Marriott’s Great America
Second Coming Records
The Milk Bar
The Stud
Then he wants to know where my mother was born
Brooklyn
Then he wants to know who my primary caregiver is:
Me
Do I have difficulties completing tasks that used to be no problem for me?
Yes
Please give me some examples
Tying my shoes
Shaving
Dancing
Have I been unable to work for any length of time because of my disability?
Yes. I lost my job at the Stud because I went crazy.
Describe your daily activities
I wake up, shower (sometimes), smoke, eat, smoke, go to meeting or group art, smoke, eat, smoke, try to shave and/or brush my teeth, watch TV, eat, take an Ativan, smoke, lie down and wait to fall asleep.
Do you have any hobbies?
Witchcraft and UFOlogy
How often do you watch television?
Once or twice a day
What shows do you typically watch?
Bewitched and I Dream of Jeanie. Anything magical.
Do you have difficulty following instructions?
I forget as soon as they tell me.
He is sort of cute, and he laughs at a lot of the things I say in a way which means he likes me. I like him too. I guess if this was a different situation, where I wasn’t an inmate at an asylum and he wasn’t a licensed social worker, then maybe I could ask him out. Oh well. The medicine they’re giving me is too strong and I can’t get it up much anyway. Who wants to go on a date with a limp-dicked psychotic?
*
Barbara told me that my discharge date is one week from today! I got accepted at Northeast Lodge! I’m going to get out of here! She says it will be two to three months before I hear whether or not I get SSI. They said I haven’t worked enough to get social security. I don’t know what that means. Jimmy is happy for me. He brought me some photos of him on his skateboard. He said his mother took them because he doesn’t have any friends. He looks really happy when he’s catching air. That’s why he had to run up and down the halls pretending to be on his board. He needs to be happy.
The medicine they’re giving me is so awful. Every time I take it, it makes me dizzy and tired. It’s called “Prolixin.” Barbara says it comes from the Latin Prolix, meaning abundance. Abundance of pain, discomfort, and nausea, I say. Last night I had a dream that I was three years old again. My father held my hand, and I was very happy. In a crowded room, a dog tried to bite my butt. I started to cry, and my father picked me up in his arms and held me there, tightly, until I stopped crying and then I started playing with his beard. Everyone in the room smiled at me and I felt like I belonged there. It stung hard to wake up from that. It hurt to come back to this reality, where there’s no one to pick me up and hold me tightly, and where I feel the abundance of unwanted sensations that Prolixin has to offer me. I want to sleep all the time now, because my dreams are the only place this medicine can’t get to, where I feel like I belong again. I hate being alive. I hope we still dream when we’re dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunlight is pouring into my room. The summer fog didn’t come today. The nurses complained that it was hot outside. In here, it’s still just a balmy 71 degrees, as always. Nothing changes in here. There is no outside in here. The weather is just a vague phenomenon outside the window. The window won’t open, so I can only place my hand against the glass. Sure enough, there is heat beyond this window; the glass is warm to the touch. I can see the sun. The ultraviolet rays can’t penetrate this glass. If I was an iguana, it would be deadly for me to stay here. My bones would dissolve into rubber and my mouth would hang open. Eventually my bones would break and my parietal eye would go blind. How good can it be for a human to be deprived of sunlight?
“Not very.” I turn around but no one is there. A moment later Betsy rolls quickly past my door. I guess I don’t hate it when she does that.
“Better not,” she replies from halfway down the hall.
In less than a week I’ll be out of here. I’ll stand in the sun and feel the breeze on my cheek. How long have I been in this shit hole? I think the last thing I remember it was June. Now it must be July or even August. What day is it? My internal clock, which was out of order for quite a while, seems to be working again. I’ll go test it. I think it’s three o’clock.
“Barbara, what time is it?”
“It’s two-forty.”
“And what day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday.” She didn’t understand my question
“I mean what month, what day?”
“Wednesday, July 29th.” I’m glad she knew that, but I still don’t know how long I’ve been in this place.
“So, when did I get here?”
“I think it was June 8th or so.” She is busy, another patient is tugging on her arm. She snaps at them, “no touching.”
So I’ve been here almost two months. Two months of my life just vanished like sand from a broken hourglass. “Thanks.”
Back in my room, I stand at the window and look at the sky. Let me see if I can remember what happened in these two months. I remember my father, but I’m not sure if he was really here. I sort of wish my mother hadn’t come, but I think she did. I’m really embarrassed by her. She always makes a stink about stuff. I think there were some art classes and a few meetings with doctors. I vaguely remember them putting me in a big machine to look at my head and they told me that there were no organic complications. And I wanted them to make me a doctor so I asked but they refused. It seems like a silly request now. Wanda came and Sue and they wanted to take me away from here but the cops came, and one knocked me to the ground. That’s how I got the diaper-sized bandage on the back of my head. Jimmy Simple left but they dragged him back. That accounts for a few hours of the last two months. Where did the rest go? As if in answer to my question, my eye catches the little night stand by my bed. There lies my journal. I don’t remember writing in it, but I have to check just in case.
I’m horrified to discover that I did write in there. I seemed to know the dates, and I even made sense in a few places. A lot of it is scribbles and drawings and diagrams of ideas that made much more sense to me at the time I drew them. I drew a cross section of my head with a star of David where the brain should be. I wrote “Pie Sees Stein.”
There are a number of places where the words come together in crosses:
S
E
C
A R Y A N
E
S T A T E
And lots of doodles that mean nothing to me. Since I was in such a different head space, I’m not really surprised by the nonsense. What really scares me is the stuff I wrote that almost makes sense, but not quite like a letter to Donny that I wrote:
June 19
Dear Donny,
Allow me to elaborate (in explicit detail) what my memory of what happened was
1. I convinced myself that I indeed was Gertrude Stein, and I was the last man on Earth that believed in Earthly principles.
2. I went to where I felt the safest, (Top of the Mark Hopkins)
3. I choose the pen and I choose the camera
4. Black Magic + White Magic = Rainbow Magic
Spirit of ‘77 that’s my name. Animosity + Espionage = Good Film.
Or the story I wrote:
Children’s Story
One day there was a tired old Math teacher who never spoke of life, love, or anything. He was a miserable math teacher. He often thought of all his illness, but he never remembered the good ole days when life itself was free of cost. He watched the Flintstones on TV and grew inspired. He went to Art School, but it was never any good, for him. For me, I thought about helicopters and the principles of keeping quiet. Writing for me was a good outlet. I was finally buried under a cloud of smoke. Thank you.
There is nothing else in there I can learn. I close the journal and walk to the TV room. I lost something but I’m getting it back. I look around the room at the people shuffling in their slippers and talking to themselves. I am one of them, but I’m getting better. I am not going to stay here. This is not my home. I am going home. I got accepted. I’m leaving. I get it back and they don’t. I have something.
The medicine cart is here, and we all shuffle toward it in one big mass, like some weird outtake from Night of the Living Dead. I hate this place, but I won’t tell anyone. I will keep quiet. I will behave and I will leave this place. I will drink my orange juice that stings the sides of my mouth and I will not say anything. I can feel a burn as the medicine goes down. Where is my pillow? I want my pillow, so I can hide my face from the nurses that will ask me what is wrong if they see my face. My bed is so far away, can I make it? I shuffle, as fast as possible, down the hallway and back to my bed. If they see my face I won’t get that something back. They’ll keep it from me and ask me questions until my head hurts and I cry for water. They won’t let me go. I don’t feel well at all. Are they taking it back from me right now? I’m in a movie. I’m in a cruel, dark, human movie. There is a narrator, and he’s taking away my freedom. He’s telling the audience what I’m going to do next. My pillow is here. It’s not a feather pillow. It’s filled with hypoallergenic spun plastic wool. The case is 80% polyester. It feels like I’m burying my face in a mop bucket, not a pillow. There is so little comfort here. I want to go home. I can’t wait another fucking week.
“I can’t wait a fucking week!” I scream it so loud my throat hurts. There are running footsteps in the hall, and they come into my room. I can’t take my face out of the pillow. The scream was too loud.
“Ethan, what’s going on?”
It’s James, the fucking bastard head nurse that I’d like to kill.
“Nothing.”
“Why is your face in that pillow.”
“I have a headache.” There’s a long pause. I think he’s buying that one.
“Do you want a Cogentin?”
“Yeah, I’m sorta having a bad reaction to the Prolixin.” Wow, that sounded really convincing, even I believe it.
“I’ll get you a PRN right now. But you have to take your face out of that pillow, okay?”
“Okay, I will.” I close my eyes as tightly as they will close. I close them so tightly that I see red behind the eyelids. Is that blood? Am I seeing blood in the blackness? I still haven’t taken my head out of the pillow. James is waiting, he wants to see my face so he can ask me a thousand questions and keep me here for the rest of my life. Gently I lift my head and turn it toward him. I open my eyes, and there he is, with his hands on his hips. He’s not nice.
“Are you going to write this down?”
“That’s my job, Ethan.”
“Please just say that it’s a bad reaction to the medicine.”
“I will. Did you have any reason to think I wouldn’t? Is it something else that’s bothering you?”
“No.” Like I’d tell him. What would I say? ‘Oh yeah, I was just thinking how much I’d like to kill you. I am pissed off at the narrator and I think you’re in on his conspiracy.’ Nope. I keep quiet and everything is fine. It’s like a bad storm that passes through my consciousness, taking little brain cells and connecting them in bad ways and leaving things in a state of disorder. That would be a good thing to tell James. No. I’ll keep quiet. James turns on his heels and saunters out to the medicine cart. He comes back with my Cogentin and a tiny glass of water.
“Do they save money by giving us smaller cups?”
“I don’t know why they use such small cups. That’s a good question, Ethan.”
I think that’s the first time he’s said that I did anything good. I’ll leave it at that. “Thank you for the PRN.”
“No problem. I have to go write it up now.”
“Bye.” He’s gone. Thank the Lord.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They said I have to wait another week, because my medicine is reacting badly and they want to stabilize me on a lower dose. I hope it’s not like college, where they give away your spot if you defer, like it says in the letter I got in the mail yesterday.
Columbia College of Columbia University in the City of New York
Office of the Dean
July 31
Dear Mr. Lloyd,
It has come to our attention that during your leave of absence from our University you have become ill. Our wishes go out to you for a speedy recovery. It is the policy of Columbia University that a student who succumbs to an illness of your nature while on leave of absence must present a certificate of good health in order to return. The terms of your leave were for one semester only, and if you wish to return, we require a written request for extension. Barring receipt of those two items, we will be forced to give your spot to another incoming student. You may always reapply to our University in the future. I sincerely hope that California is working out well for you. Once again, get well soon.
Sincerely,
Lauren Crane
Dean of Studies
Fuck them. I hated it there anyway. I’m glad I have my journal with me. There are some good passages in here that remind me of how much I suffered there. Here’s one that I wrote last year:
September 16
Another all-nighter. It’s sad that I still can’t love and I want to and the only thing that’s changed is the seriousness of my situation. If I get too depressed, I’ll just hop on a train and kiss this shit goodbye. I am still not in love. I’ve never been kissed, but I’ve done XTC and coke. There’s a whole bevy of intriguing male specimens at Columbia, all of whom recognize me for the insane outcast that I am. They chortle at me. I wish I were a football player, hard and impenetrable. My tender soul has an instinct of its own which tells me to bug out of here. I’m going to get hurt too much in this inhumane institution of the humanities. HIGHER LEARNING IS FOR THE BIRDS. I’m insane. I can’t fit into my pre-programmed place in society. I have been “prepped” for this experience and I call it SHIT. PURE BULL-FUCKING-SHIT.
I definitely wasn’t happy there. So fuck you, Dean Crane.
*
I feel much better on my lower dose of Prolixin. I ran around the hospital today talking to everyone and feeling much more like my usual self. I rode imaginary skateboards with Jimmy for almost an hour before the staff stopped us. They made me clean up the places on the wall where my shoes left scuff marks. Jimmy helped. Sue came to visit, and we laughed and I said I was sorry for kissing her. She said that’s okay, as long as I do it again. So I did. I felt much better about the second kiss. I think I do love her. But she’s not a man. I guess we can work that out later.
Barbara says not to worry, because Northeast Lodge has accepted me and once you’re accepted there they hold your spot. I want to see Northeast Lodge. Barbara says that it can be arranged! She calls up David and he tells her that he would like to see me and maybe interview me again at the Lodge. It’s all happening so fast. Barbara has two taxi vouchers for me, and she tells me the address, 272 9th Street. She writes it on a piece of paper for me. I haven’t been outside since the day the cop knocked me to the ground. Barbara walks me out of the door, past the “No patients beyond this point” sign. She says that there’s a taxi waiting downstairs for me, Luxor Cab. Why are they letting me go? Didn’t I run last time? I don’t feel like running now, so maybe they can tell that. There’s the cab, right out front, just like she promised.
*
Out the window of the taxi I can see familiar sights going past. He goes past Martin de Porres, where I sometimes would get a free vegetarian meal. There’s the Vats, the old brewery that became a music practice space. There’s no fog today, and everything gleams. We’re underneath the freeway, and then he turns up Tenth street. There’s the DNA lounge, where I did crystal. It’s good to be back in San Francisco. The outer limits of the universe were not as comfortable as all this. Northeast Lodge is only a block away from the Stud, just like David said. It’s a three story building. The whole building is covered in bright murals. The taxi driver lets me off at the front door. There’s a little doorbell with a speaker box. I press it. After a minute, still nothing happens. I start to panic. What if they aren’t there today? Why isn’t anybody answering the doorbell? I ring it again. This time, someone answers. The voice comes out of the little box.
“Who’s there?”
“Ethan.”
“Who? Oh wait, are you here to see David?” I think it’s a woman talking. She has a gravelly voice, probably a smoker.
“I think so. Who are you?”
“I’m Connie. David is expecting you, come right up.”
