Maybe, Maybe Not: Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 5
Weeks pass. I try, without success, to make sense of the betrayals I've suffered at the hands of so many that love me, that want the best for me. Not just my mother, but all the people, famous or not, I had had interaction with through the complex system of cameras and microphones I keep encountering. The hospital has become a nice place to be but I have bigger things in mind for my life, that's for sure.
One day I am led to a conference room in the ward where a half dozen or so very sober and serious looking men dressed in suits are waiting for me. The thought occurs to me that these folks are extemely important, and that one of them is on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I am that important, and this knowledge makes my heart fairly sing. The problem is picking out which one is the general and which ones are of lesser rank. I can't tell, but decide, as several of them ask me meaningless questions about how I am getting along with the other patients, that the one not talking must be the most important man in the room. He is an aristocratic, middle aged man with closely cropped salt and pepper hair, with a regal bearing. Yes, this is the man who will decide my fate. I make eye contact. Our thoughts seem to meet: he likes me and respects my work, I know. The meeting breaks up and I am proud of myself for withstanding the pressure of this important moment.
Back to the routine of the ward. We play kickball every few days in the gym, and one time I can hear Jerry Remy, the Red Sox beloved color man, telling some people how terrific my instincts are on a double play ball. Where is his camera? Or is he here, out of sight?
The hospital is safe ground, but going outside is risky. I am aware that there have been snipers posted on various buildings within the large complex where the hospital is located. Are they friends sent to protect me, or foes who will take me out should I try to scale the eight foot fence surrounding the exercise yard? Every day, weather permitting, we go outside and play wiffleball or throw a football around. Most days I get bored quickly as the other patients motor skills are so poor it becomes an endless exercise in throwing the ball softly then chasing as it skips past the intended recipient. But today I walk over to the fence, which has barbs on the tops, just like in every prison movie I've ever seen: electrified or not? Should I chance it? I make my best "Jesus on the cross" pose and motion to where I think the snipers are: come get me. End this all please. I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.
Returning to the ward, no one mentions my histrionics at the fence, and I find I have a new roommate. He is young, tall, looks clean but is unshaven, athletic looking, and clear eyed. This must be one of the snipers, who's been moved indoors. He most likely is glad to be inside and out of the early April wind and cold. He makes no mention of his assignment and I respect the fact that he can lie in bed for most of the day without moving a muscle: that's exactly how a sniper must sit and wait for their targets to present themselves. The dilemma is as always: Is he friend or foe? Sent to protect me or break me down?
I love to talk to the other patients and hear their stories. Do these soldiers have the freedom to make up their own backstory, or are they given notes and ordered to stick to a basic script? This fascinates me and I try to make the more talkative ones slip up, asking increasingly intrusive questions about their families and psych history. Without fail they answer believably and I am impressed. Things are going well lately and the routine suits me: meals, showers, naps, exercise, newspapers, then to bed early.
My sniper leaves one day and I get another roommate. This one is fucking good: I can smell him from across the room; it's likely he hasn't taken a shower in weeks, his clothes quickly are all over our room, and he sleeps all day. I am in awe of the depth that this actor has taken his role to and want to congratulate him, but know that he cannot break character and will pretend to have no idea what I am talking about.
The highlight of each day is going to the bank. The bank, basically a small glass enclosed desk, is manned by a cashier in the central part of the hospital, off my ward, who has money that my mother has deposited there for my use, maybe twenty bucks. I am allowed to take a couple of dollars out each day, and I spend it at the cafeteria on a Milky Way and a twelve ounce Coke. Junk food never tasted so fucking good. The chocolate practically melts in my mouth.
I am told I'm to be released the next day. This confuses me: they're just going to let me walk out of here, just like that? How can this be? How can all this come to such a simple conclusion? There must be more to going on that I am not aware of. The next day I pack my stuff, am given back my ID and cash, and led to a waiting taxi, which drives me to my Mom's house in Kittery, an hour away. She is not there, so I simply get in my Corolla and drive up I95, home to Portland.
The apartment is the same as I left it, albeit with a massive stack of mail on the coffee table. My Mom told me in the hospital that she had been picking up the stuff in my mailbox, along with feeding my cat. That cat, Hank, is neither happy nor unhappy to see me. She is relentless in her stupidity, I think.
My apartment, the fourth unit on the fourth floor of an old hospital that was converted to low income housing two decades back, has been my home since the summer of 2004. Prior to that I had been staying in Kittery, in a cramped little space on the first floor of my mother's tiny home on Government Street. But since my father's death in 2003 and the resulting life insurance money had finally come in and made the decision to move easier, I had decided to return to Portland, where I had lived from 1998 to 2000.
Not much is going on when I return. The NBA Playoffs have been going on for a few weeks and I am interested in LeBron James and the Cavaliers. He is the best known athlete in the world and someone who has apparently taken an interest in my situation. Back in the hospital, when I was put into the four point restraint, I remember hearing the staff taking his angry call. "What are you doin' to my boy, man!" They assured him that I would be treated well and he was placated. Tonight the Cavs are playing the hated Pistons in Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals, and Bron Bron goes off! After the game LeBron is interviewed. After he moves off camera I hear him ask the interviewer, "Can he hear me?" He then tells me to hang in there and that "Once this war is over maybe we can hang out a little and talk. We might even have a victory parade for y'all to come to. Hang in there, boy."
It's good to be home in my place, Apartment 404.
One day I am led to a conference room in the ward where a half dozen or so very sober and serious looking men dressed in suits are waiting for me. The thought occurs to me that these folks are extemely important, and that one of them is on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I am that important, and this knowledge makes my heart fairly sing. The problem is picking out which one is the general and which ones are of lesser rank. I can't tell, but decide, as several of them ask me meaningless questions about how I am getting along with the other patients, that the one not talking must be the most important man in the room. He is an aristocratic, middle aged man with closely cropped salt and pepper hair, with a regal bearing. Yes, this is the man who will decide my fate. I make eye contact. Our thoughts seem to meet: he likes me and respects my work, I know. The meeting breaks up and I am proud of myself for withstanding the pressure of this important moment.
Back to the routine of the ward. We play kickball every few days in the gym, and one time I can hear Jerry Remy, the Red Sox beloved color man, telling some people how terrific my instincts are on a double play ball. Where is his camera? Or is he here, out of sight?
The hospital is safe ground, but going outside is risky. I am aware that there have been snipers posted on various buildings within the large complex where the hospital is located. Are they friends sent to protect me, or foes who will take me out should I try to scale the eight foot fence surrounding the exercise yard? Every day, weather permitting, we go outside and play wiffleball or throw a football around. Most days I get bored quickly as the other patients motor skills are so poor it becomes an endless exercise in throwing the ball softly then chasing as it skips past the intended recipient. But today I walk over to the fence, which has barbs on the tops, just like in every prison movie I've ever seen: electrified or not? Should I chance it? I make my best "Jesus on the cross" pose and motion to where I think the snipers are: come get me. End this all please. I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.
Returning to the ward, no one mentions my histrionics at the fence, and I find I have a new roommate. He is young, tall, looks clean but is unshaven, athletic looking, and clear eyed. This must be one of the snipers, who's been moved indoors. He most likely is glad to be inside and out of the early April wind and cold. He makes no mention of his assignment and I respect the fact that he can lie in bed for most of the day without moving a muscle: that's exactly how a sniper must sit and wait for their targets to present themselves. The dilemma is as always: Is he friend or foe? Sent to protect me or break me down?
I love to talk to the other patients and hear their stories. Do these soldiers have the freedom to make up their own backstory, or are they given notes and ordered to stick to a basic script? This fascinates me and I try to make the more talkative ones slip up, asking increasingly intrusive questions about their families and psych history. Without fail they answer believably and I am impressed. Things are going well lately and the routine suits me: meals, showers, naps, exercise, newspapers, then to bed early.
My sniper leaves one day and I get another roommate. This one is fucking good: I can smell him from across the room; it's likely he hasn't taken a shower in weeks, his clothes quickly are all over our room, and he sleeps all day. I am in awe of the depth that this actor has taken his role to and want to congratulate him, but know that he cannot break character and will pretend to have no idea what I am talking about.
The highlight of each day is going to the bank. The bank, basically a small glass enclosed desk, is manned by a cashier in the central part of the hospital, off my ward, who has money that my mother has deposited there for my use, maybe twenty bucks. I am allowed to take a couple of dollars out each day, and I spend it at the cafeteria on a Milky Way and a twelve ounce Coke. Junk food never tasted so fucking good. The chocolate practically melts in my mouth.
I am told I'm to be released the next day. This confuses me: they're just going to let me walk out of here, just like that? How can this be? How can all this come to such a simple conclusion? There must be more to going on that I am not aware of. The next day I pack my stuff, am given back my ID and cash, and led to a waiting taxi, which drives me to my Mom's house in Kittery, an hour away. She is not there, so I simply get in my Corolla and drive up I95, home to Portland.
The apartment is the same as I left it, albeit with a massive stack of mail on the coffee table. My Mom told me in the hospital that she had been picking up the stuff in my mailbox, along with feeding my cat. That cat, Hank, is neither happy nor unhappy to see me. She is relentless in her stupidity, I think.
My apartment, the fourth unit on the fourth floor of an old hospital that was converted to low income housing two decades back, has been my home since the summer of 2004. Prior to that I had been staying in Kittery, in a cramped little space on the first floor of my mother's tiny home on Government Street. But since my father's death in 2003 and the resulting life insurance money had finally come in and made the decision to move easier, I had decided to return to Portland, where I had lived from 1998 to 2000.
Not much is going on when I return. The NBA Playoffs have been going on for a few weeks and I am interested in LeBron James and the Cavaliers. He is the best known athlete in the world and someone who has apparently taken an interest in my situation. Back in the hospital, when I was put into the four point restraint, I remember hearing the staff taking his angry call. "What are you doin' to my boy, man!" They assured him that I would be treated well and he was placated. Tonight the Cavs are playing the hated Pistons in Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals, and Bron Bron goes off! After the game LeBron is interviewed. After he moves off camera I hear him ask the interviewer, "Can he hear me?" He then tells me to hang in there and that "Once this war is over maybe we can hang out a little and talk. We might even have a victory parade for y'all to come to. Hang in there, boy."
It's good to be home in my place, Apartment 404.
posted by joe sweeney at 4:11 AM
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