“Yeah” Loser moved in as the fourth member of the party. “What’s the problem.”
“Would you mind opening your driver’s door. There appears to be some paint transfer and we’d like to see if it matches.”
Loser dumped his backpack on the cement and opened the door.
“I’ll take it from here.” The officer stepped in and swung the door until it nearly touched the neighboring car. There could be no mistake, the doorframe matched the dent.
“Jesus, it’s just a scratch.” Loser protested. But the cop wasn’t done. “And what can you tell me about that.” He pointed the other way, to the interior of the Vega.
Occupying the passenger seat was a baggie; its substance of highly questionable content. And more obvious, a pipe; one that very unlikely had been used for late evening bowls of Borkum Riff.
Busted.
In his hurry to salvage his final year of school, he had toked up, scarred the bitches car, and then left his goods right out in the open.
It was the pot. It makes you forget.
Chapter 2
1
True to his name, Loser lost everything.
He lost his standing as ‘member of the senior class -1977.’ He lost his driver’s license on the spot, impounded for 90 days. He lost his baggie and his pipe. His job at the prospect hole (now a dishwasher) he lost in the form of a handwritten note mailed to his home along with his final check.
“We don’t employ dopers. Final check enclosed.” B.M.
Word certainly did travel fast.
And as his court hearing approached, he lost the most important thing of all – his mind.
The first few days without pot, Loser struggled to endure. The physical cravings were tough, but the psychological cravings were unbearable. As time passed and the residual THC in his body was eliminated, the cravings became maddening.
For two years the receptors in his brain had been pacified by daily doses of weed. Their demand had been insatiable and Loser had responded with higher and more frequent doses. Now denied, they screamed for more.
The artificial wall that he had created in his brain was crumbling. And the evil blackness that lived within him roared against its rusting cage. Where there had once been mere filaments threaded through pinpricks, there were now multi-tentacled arms extending through gaping portholes.
The blackness threaded through his mind, ravaging emotional receptors that had been smoked into oblivion. Loser’s thoughts became a jumbled mass of unease, paranoia, and in a last ditch effort to deal with the unknown, hate.
“Cocksuckers!” He screamed. For about the hundredth time, he toyed with the idea. He could jump in his car, cash his final check, go to ‘the house,’ roll a doob with newspaper if he had to, and get busted all over again.
No. It was no good. Even if he got away with it, he had heard of the piss tests they could make you take. He would have to tough it out, accept whatever probation or community service bullshit he had to fulfill and then go back to smoking doob.
2
Loser seethed as he entered the courthouse and faced the judge.
Save for the bailiff, the judge and the two attorneys, one county and one public, the courtroom was vacant. This did nothing to ease his paranoia or his madness. His mind cycled uncontrolled. Belligerent, penitent, obstinate, shameful, hateful.
The evil blackness fed greedily on the confused mind. It pulsed and surged. Full sections of the protective cage gave way. The evil shrieked victoriously and redoubled its efforts, slamming itself into the crumbling ruins.
“You know the charges before you, do you have anything to say in your defense.”
Tears were cascading down Loser’s face. “It wasn’t my fault. She parked too close!”
“We’re not talking about the car Mr.—“ the judge referred to his notes.
Loser’s mind flipped. “She’s a canyon! I’ll come in her mouth!” He laughed hysterically and then amended. “And she’ll swallow it!” He sank to his knees braying manically.
“Counselor, control your client!”
But Loser wasn’t done, more accurately, the black mass of malevolence wasn’t done, it exploded out of its dungeon. After 15 years of dormancy, it raced through a labyrinth of nerves, smashed into Loser’s brain and enveloped it like a squid devouring a puffer fish.
“She has pink underwear you Georgie Porgie girl! I’m not touching that Greaser! Demons in my eyes! Demons in my ears! He fucked me in the ass! Look at the stars! You must see heaven! When you see heaven it will stop!”
Writhing on the courtroom floor, laughing, screaming, crying, Loser was oblivious to the words uttered by his subconscious.
“Bailiff!” The judge roared. “Get that man out of here!”
The bailiff complied, dragging the out-of-control offender from the chambers.
Jesus, the judge mused. It’s just a crummy possession charge, was the guy bucking for an insanity plea?
“Counselors, approach the bench.” In a practice that is more common than most think, the county attorney and the public defender consulted with the judge (off the record) on what they thought would be best for the freak show they had just observed.
‘Let me talk to his parents first’ the defender offered.
The judge concurred; the visit conducted that afternoon. The ‘evidence’ provided via the talk with his parents made it overwhelming. These people were nuts.
In May of 1977, Psycho was committed to the state mental institution in Broward County.
Part 7
Psycho
Chapter 1
1
They juiced him up good and proper. Still, through the fog of the anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-ability to control open-mouth drooling drugs, Psycho upheld a modest amount of cognitive ability.
Most of his thoughts began with the word ‘why.’
Why am I here?
Why do they have to keep changing my meds?
Why didn’t I just get probation or community service?
Why can’t we wear belts?
Why, why, why…
The staff at the facility helped with the answers. You’re here because you’re sick, your meds are changed to find the combination that works best for you. This setting is more appropriate for you than probation or community service. And the belts, well, that’s just a precaution.
Psycho heard the responses but processed them on only the most primitive level. He had been in the institution for only two weeks of his 3 month commitment.
Following his outburst in the courtroom, the bailiff had muscled him into one of the ten cells that constituted the county jail. There he collapsed on the dirty cement floor, shouting profanities and gibberish. “Ass fucker! You’re a John-John! Shit myself in the bathtub! It’ll rot your teeth out!” The four other prisoners, all seasoned revolving-door types, tolerated the disruption, knowing that the fresh fish would tire after 10, 15 minutes max before resorting to either sobs or silence. When an hour had passed, they were all pleading for the guard.
From cell two: “For the love of God! Can’t you shut that psycho up!” Cell six: “I want a lawyer, this is cruel and unusual punishment! Lemme out, please! I swear I won’t break the law again!” Cell seven: “Shut the fuck up you psycho!”
Psycho did not shut the fuck up. His brain had detached from reality. “You’re nothing but a psycho freak! You should be in the loony bin! Guard! For the love of God! Make it stop!” It didn’t stop. For twenty-four hours it didn’t stop. The prisoners appealed to the guard, the guard to the bailiff, the bailiff to the judge. The judge expedited the commitment papers.
As he was being restrained and escorted from the county jail the other prisoners took up the chant: “Psycho! Psycho! Psycho!” And peppered the chant with their independent words of farewell. “Eat shit and die you mother fucker!” “I hope you get lost in the nuthouse and never find your way out!”
And now, here he was.
He learned that he and the o
ther patients could spend their time in one of three ways, laying on their beds, walking the halls, or congregating in the smoke room for thirty minutes at the magic hours of ten, one and six.
Also, with a good conduct record (and a staff escort) they could take the security elevator to the lower level and make a purchase from the banks of vending machines in the staff commissary.
Psycho hated it. His emotions may have been muted by the drugs, but intellectually he knew he hated it.
The curiosity of his arrival, of every new arrival for that matter, brought the long-timers drifting by the room, peering in to see if the new guy was a threat, or, more important, had brought anything of interest. A deck of cards, a carton of smokes, maybe even a magazine with more pictures than words.
They also came by with advice, some of it useful: “Whatever you do, don’t tell the doctor you feel suicidal. You’ll end up sitting in the suicide chair.”
“Don’t leave your toothpaste out in the open. Frank will steal it and eat it.”
The long-timers seemed harmless enough, there were others though that petrified him. One, a silent bald giant who sat in the same chair day after day; grinning a malevolent ‘I killed 100 people and devoured their flesh’ expression. And others, not as intimidating by size or expression, but who would unpredictably lash out, screaming threats before being restrained and led off to the ‘quiet room.’
Psycho learned the routine.
The first few days he spent bottled up in his room. But without television, music or pot (the only things that had ever filled his free time) he soon had no choice but to engage in option two. He joined the shuffling zombies who walked the halls.
His pace was slowed by the psychoactive drugs but also by a strange curiosity. The floors of the wing were tiled light blue, yet broken every 10 feet by a single black tile. Psycho discovered a compulsion that on his walks, if his right foot touched a black title, then the next black one had to be, must be touched by his left. If the heel of his right shoe happened to scuff while taking a step, then the heel of his left must do the same to make things even.
The end of each hall was marked by a heavy wire mesh security window with milky smoked glass. Their views to the outside world were negligible; but their compulsion, was paramount.
Psycho had to, had to, touch one of the sills with his right hand, the other with his left. If some zombie was in his way, staring out one of the windows at some world that they could see only in their minds, he would wait. If the wait became too long, he would journey back to the other end, promising himself to touch the sill twice upon his return.
The obsession. The compulsion. The monotony.
It was only in the smoke room where Psycho found some semblance of community. On the unit, everything revolved around smoke break. Even those few patients who didn’t smoke, gathered in the smoke room at the appointed times for just a little reminder of what it used to be like on the outside.
And while nicotine may be a poor substitute for pot, if even for the briefest moment the pleasure receptors are fooled, then there’s something to it. The conditions of his commitment had stated that tobacco was acceptable in patient rooms. Fortuitously Psycho had invested in a fresh carton of Kool Filter Kings about the time everything went down. And the public service officer who had visited Psycho’s home to retrieve clothes and personal affects, had seen the carton and considerately tossed it in with the works.
It made him everybody’s best friend.
His first smoke break upon arrival, he had given out sticks to four different moochers. The next smoke break, five hours later, there were eight people lined up in front of him.
“I can’t he pleaded.”
Sixteen eyes pleaded back.
He struck on a compromise. “Okay, one cigarette. Take a drag. Pass it on.”
He watched as the line was satisfied. The final puffer getting more filter than tobacco.
After that he learned to bring only a single cigarette into the smoke room. Still he got asked, to which he would pat down his pockets to demonstrate their emptiness. However within moments of crushing out his single smoke, there would be a scramble to retrieve the buttsie from the tray, fire up the char, and nurse out one or two more precious puffs.
2
As a newcomer, Psycho had a room to himself, but as the need for beds was growing and state budgets were shrinking, this was about to change.
“You’ll be getting a roommate tomorrow.” One of the psychiatric techs delivered the obligatory news in tired routine. “Make sure your stuff is off the other bed and only in your closet.”
Psycho froze. Not even the mind numbing therapeutic drugs could pacify his current paranoia. He had never shared a room with anyone in his life, had not done so much as attended or hosted a sleep over. A crazy person, in his room! He feared for his cigarettes, he feared for the $22 (a princely sum!) that he had brought with him, he feared that the new arrival would be a monster, a thing that would choke, smother, do other…(Don’t go there!)… who would hurt him. Please god, don’t let it be the bald headed guy, please don’t let him hurt me.
That afternoon he was scheduled for one of his bi-weekly appointments with the resident psychotherapist. Until now, he had kept these sessions one sided. The mind-jockey probing, him stonewalling. Today was different.
He entered the session and let a single tear escape before sitting down. “What would you like to talk about.” The therapist, a young slender guy with vague effeminate features prompted.
Psycho took a hitching breath and squeaked: “I’m scared.”
“Why don’t we talk about it. Being scared is a natural emotion. There are times when I’m scared. Everybody gets scared.” The therapist guided the discussion without asking the question suspended in the air. A revelation from a patient was more therapeutic when volunteered, not forced.
“I’m getting a roommate.” The tears now rolled freely from both ducts. “I’m afraid that he will…” (Don’t go there!)
Psycho winced the lower half of his body and sat rigid. He wiped at his face and then dropped hands protectively to his sides. He was done.
Scott Thelen was fresh out of the graduate program at the University of Minnesota medical center. He had fully intended to pursue his doctorate, but when his life partner succumbed to a mysterious new illness, for which there was no definitive diagnosis and no cure, he had a harsh wakeup call. The doctors at the Mayo clinic admitted that while they weren’t positive, it could be related to homosexual activity. There were no tests to determine if someone was a carrier of the disease, and certainly the world was years away from a cure.
He had considered his options: Either get out and do some good with the time he might have left, or sit for four more years in stuffy classrooms and libraries waiting for his body to show similar signs of deterioration.
He looked at his patient in empathy, knowing that his statement, had it ended, would have been with the words ‘hurt me.’ He knew too, by the sudden wince and rapid change in demeanor, that there was a repressed memory at work. Being scared of a new roommate was just a symptom. It was the repressed memory that he was now after.
“Yes, new things can be scary. But you need to remember that you’re in a safe, controlled environment. That’s why you came here.”
His patient looked at the floor, a slight indicator of a possible opening.
“Let’s talk about you and your room and how this is going to work. Tomorrow you’ll meet your new roommate. He will have his side and you will have yours.”
Psycho shuffled one foot, then followed it with the other to make things even.
“Have you moved your things to one side?” The therapist ventured.
Slowly, and still looking down. “Yes.”
“That’s a good start. It shows that you’re getting ready, it shows that you’ve accepted the fact that another person will be in your room.”
Psycho was not an emotionally strong person, but intellectually he could see the wi
sdom of the of the therapists assessment.
“But I’m still afraid.”
“Let’s talk about that. Maybe there are some things I can suggest that will help.”
It barreled out of Psycho’s throat. “I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me! Just like the telescope!”
Scott Thelen latched onto two things. One, something he already knew; the final two words would be ‘hurt me.’ The other, was intriguing. Telescope? He wasn’t even sure if the patient was aware he had said the word. Clearly though it would be a topic that they would revisit.
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