Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  “Let me put your mind at ease. All of our roommates are carefully matched, we base it on age and interests. Plus you need to remember that none of the patients in this unit have committed any crimes of physical harm. There’s a special security unit, I’m sure you heard about it from some of the other patients, where those people are treated.”

  Psycho had indeed heard about the security unit. Some of the long-timers eagerly shared stories about their own roommates going ballistic, attacking them, staff and other patients, and only then being transferred to the security unit.

  As they continued the session he balanced his inner fears of the stories he had heard and matched them up against the therapist’s reassurances.

  “Okay.” He resigned. All the talk in the world would not change things. He was going to get a roommate. He just prayed that he would be a nice person. He also prayed that staff would hear him and coming running when he started screaming for help.

  The next day, Psycho worried himself for hours, and as the afternoon got late, the tech returned; this time not alone.

  “Here.” He motioned to a figure just beyond the doorframe. The tech then turned to Psycho. This is your new roommate, his name is Bill.

  As the figure filled the doorway, Psycho looked up, and into, the black grizzled face of a behemoth; the dreaded archenemy of Popeye the Sailor man, the bearded strongman, the menacing Brutus.

  3

  If not for his current cocktail of Thorazine, Adavan and Anafranil, Psycho wouldn’t have slept a wink that night. He had watched as Brutus invaded his room. The big man had no extra clothes for his closet, no personal items for the shelf. Without speaking he lumbered onto the open bed where he lay grunting but otherwise motionless.

  The only time Brutus did move was just prior to dinnertime. Some internal clock told him that it was time. He rolled out of bed, the springs gasping in relief, exited the room and went knowingly to the dining hall door, waiting patiently, first in line, for the magic moment when the door would open and dinner would be served.

  Obviously Brutus had been here before.

  During the 6 o’clock smoke break, Brutus paced the room strategically. He looked from face to face, and shirt pocket to shirt pocket, trying to assess his best mark. Then he made his move.

  “May I have a ‘igarette please? The question came from a mouth that had lost many a tooth to dental neglect, face smashing or a combination of both.

  Psycho readily gave up the lower half of his butt.

  “hank you.” The words came out choppy, with a tone of gratitude. Or was it an ‘I’ve got you by the balls now my diminutive friend!’

  Psycho anguished over his gesture. Had he just shown an act of kindness that would be respected by Brutus, or had he just become a sucker, displaying his weakness. A weakness that would be exploited. ‘I know you got ‘igorettes in ‘ta room. Give ‘em to me or I’ll ‘urt you! And even after I’ve got ‘em I’ll ‘urt you. ‘urt you bad!

  Psycho bailed out. He hurried to the room (the room he now shared) and grabbed his carton of smokes. He stuffed the elongated box into the arm of a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned the cuff at its tightest point, and re-hung the shirt deep in the closet.

  At least now his smokes were safe. If Brutus demanded ‘igorettes, Psycho would claim that he too had been bumming them.

  Brutus returned to the room after smoke break and immediately hit the rack. Psycho hit the halls. Walking, touching, matching black tiles to his steps; right, left, right, left. If only he could walk all night, he would be safe.

  Lights out came at 10 o’clock. Psycho came back to the room and found the giant sleeping silently. He dared a look in the closet. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. He quietly reached his hand to the back corner, finding comfort in the stiff edges of the carton masked by the shirt sleeve.

  In bed, he vacillated. If he slept with his back to his roommate, he would be at risk. If he turned on his other side, he would be looking directly at the source of his paranoia.

  As he switched from side to side, ominous images tormented his brain. He saw a defenseless little boy, Swee pea, being grabbed roughly from behind by an evil Brutus. They were in the captain’s quarters of an old wooden ship. Swee pea was sobbing as Brutus placed him on a stool. “You have to see it!” The evil strongman bellowed. “When you see it, it will stop!” Swee pea looked around desperately. There was a large globe, the captains mahogany desk, and on the desk, a large book. A book with colored tassels to mark important pages. A book of… maps.

  None of these items appeased the sinister sailor. “You need to see the stars!” Brutus was now cramming a handheld nautical spyglass into Swee peas face while cramming his backside with…

  Psycho rolled to the other side. He couldn’t remember how the cartoon ended, couldn’t remember if Popeye eventually came to save the day.

  He turned his thoughts to his cigarettes, while a mysterious body memory tormented his anus. The giant in the next bed slept on, and eventually, mercifully, so did Psycho.

  4

  At some point during the next week, Psycho dispensed with the image of Brutus, and came to know his roommate as Bill.

  Giant, gentle, borderline retarded, in and out of prisons and mental institutions, Bill.

  One of the first objective things he had noticed about his roommate was his feet. Bill stuffed his feet into his tennis shoes, not unlacing and lacing, just stuffing. His heels remained exposed; squashed down on the fabric that was intended to surround and hold the back of his foot in place.

  He can’t tie his shoes. Psycho mused.

  When Bill gave him 55 cents and asked Psycho to ‘et him a ‘ack of ‘arlborough’s’ from the vending machine, it wasn’t due to lack of privileges. He innocently admitted that he didn’t know how.

  *Insert coin.

  *Select product by letter and number.

  *Press A-4 and get a toothbrush.

  *Press B-3 for a little cylinder of Rolaids.

  If Bill had tried to puzzle out the letters and numbers on his own he would have likely ended up with a package of dental floss or a single Playtex tampon; items of marginal use for a toothless tower of testosterone.

  Any final reservations vanished when Bill divulged his own groundless anxiety. “I’m ‘lad I ‘ot a ‘ice roommate. I’ve been in ‘ome bad ‘laces.” He pointed to scars on his cheek and forehead along with the nearly vacant rows of his gum-line. “hank you for being ‘ice to me.”

  It was a threshold moment for Psycho. He made the connection between his own jaded perceptions and that of reality. He felt enormous relief having a living arrangement in which he was viewed as primary; his roommate subordinate. Yet it was an odd feeling. Never had he been in a relationship in which he was the leader of all things intellectual and social. Before, he had always been the subordinate. And even if it was just a mentally retarded man with the disposition of a newborn duckling, Psycho felt hope.

  He also found sympathy. When Bill exhausted his meager pocket change, he had to resort to smoking buttsies. Psycho thought of his own inexhaustible supply of cigarettes and money and took a risky proposition of charity. “Look” He waved his carton in front of Bill while they were alone in the room. Bill’s eyes lit up, then became wary. He had been brutalized in the past for the sake of half a deck of smokes.

  “I can give you one cigarette before each smoke break. But you can’t tell anyone I have these.” Bill doubted, then asked conditionally: “For free? I don’t ‘ave to do ‘othing?” The large man was nearly quivering.

  “Nothing.” Psycho assured. To demonstrate, he gave Bill a cigarette in advance.

  Bill turned it over and over in his hands. Feeling assured he said: “hank you. You are ‘ice to me.”

  During his next session with Mr. Thelen Psycho shared his thoughts (and even some feelings).

  “I’m glad to hear things are working out.” Scott Thelen was seeing a big opening here. His patient had talked more in the first 10 minutes than in all o
f their previous sessions combined. “And you discovered these things on your own. That’s a very good sign that you’re working on recovery.”

  The therapist crossed his legs and redirected boldly. “Remember one of our previous sessions. We were talking about what happened in the courtroom and why you decided to come here.” It didn’t come out as ‘why you were sent here’ or ‘they made you come here’ it was ‘you decided to come here.’

  The court transcript held the key to the repressed memory. (He fucked me in the ass. When you see heaven it will stop) But it couldn’t be forced out, it had to be discovered at will.

  “I guess I got mad.” The courtroom scene was vivid in Psycho’s memory, but the details, the important details were suppressed.

  “What was it that made you mad?”

  “A lot of things.” The response was vague and expected. This time Mr. Thelen just nodded, sending the non-verbal message ‘yes – it’s okay, continue.’

  “I was mad because…” The words refused. Psycho looked for a distraction. Anything to avoid going there. There was something deadly waiting for him if he finished the sentence. A glint of metal on the therapist’s collar caught his eye, so he deflected.

  “What’s that?”

  It was part question / part statement. He threw it out in desperation.

  “What is what?” Mr. Thelen indulged in the deflection patiently.

  “That thing that… you’re wearing…right there.” Psycho tapped at his own collar to indicate the placement of the object he had noticed on the therapist.

  “Oh, this.” Scott Thelen fingered the postage stamp sized pin on his shirt. He pondered the words he would use to briefly describe the pin and then redirect the discussion. “It’s an American Flag pin. My father served in world war two and he was among those who stormed the beach at Normandy. Today is June 6th and I’m wearing it in his honor. I think it’s important for all of us to remember.” He was eloquently making the segue back to topic. “He used to tell me about times when he was scared and mad, and how talking about the war helped to heal him.”

  Psycho wasn’t ready, he needed more distraction. “So why is June 6th important?”

  The therapist covered his annoyance and tried again. “During the war, Germany occupied the shores of France. The allies, the United States and other countries planned a secret attack that happened on June 6, 1944. They called it D-Day.”

  Scott Thelen considered his next, but it never arrived. His patient had gone lily white in the face and had slumped back in his chair.

  Psycho’s eyes rolled back in their sockets revealing a pair of glistening ping pong balls. His lips and teeth chattered manically. “De-de-de-de-de-de” He stuttered.

  “What…” Scott Thelen's professional demeanor reverted to layman’s alarm. “What’s wrong?” He rose from his chair, unsure for the moment of what to do.

  “De-de-de-de-de-Da-da-da-day!” Psycho involuntary screamed in a double lungful of air. His head thrashed from side to side, his arms flailing around his torso. “Du-du-du-du- De-de-de-de-Da-da-day. He fell, writhing on the floor in convulsions.

  Scott Thelen acted. He hammered on the intercom. “Two orderlies! Now!”

  The twisting, agonized body on the floor, physically a man, emotionally a small boy, wretched and howled. His knees came up to his midsection, his arms constricted around his neck, his hands compressing his head.

  Within seconds, the orderlies crashed through the door. And with them came crashing screams from the patient.

  “DOUBLE-DEE-DAY! DOUBLE-DEE-DAY! DOUBLE-DEE-DAY!”

  It took the three men, two orderlies and one therapist, all they had to secure the straightjacket. The patient thrashed, stuttered, screamed, wept.

  And from that long forgotten chamber of blackness within, the multi-tentacled monster that had tortured him, was now fully exposed. For years it had clawed at Psycho’s mind relentlessly, in a game of emotional hide and seek, finding ever-new areas to infest. Only this time Psycho had been the seeker, and had found, it.

  “HE FUCKED ME UP THE ASS! THE PRIEST! DADDY HAD THE SHOVEL! YOU’RE A GEORGIE PORGIE GIRL! DOUBLE-DEE-DAY ! YOU MUST SEE HEAVEN! THEN IT WILL STOP!”

  His screams continued unabated as they muscled him onto a gurney, juiced him with powerful syringe cocktail, and wheeled him off to the quiet room.

  Chapter 2

  1

  It really was the only drawback. You just couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without somebody either questioning why you weren’t at your post, or worse, requesting your services when you were legitimately away from your post.

  Otherwise, it was a pretty good gig.

  For twenty plus years, Gustavus Milliken had served the needs of his congregation either behind the pulpit, in the cemetery, or at the rectory. In the early days he had learned that it was NOT acceptable to take in a movie at the local cinema, nor was it okay to show up in the stands at the local high school football game. Hell, he couldn’t even go for a walk in the park without the scrutiny of some parishioner wondering why he wasn’t back at the church praying for those of us who can’t even pray for ourselves.

  And if perchance he was on a hospital visit and decided to pop into the gift shop because something caught his eye, well hells bells if his blasted stiff collar didn’t attract the attention of some needy person who wanted to talk for ‘just a minute’ and then went on yapping for the better part of an hour about their uncles distended bladder.

  Every waking, breathing moment had to be spent on stage. That, or pent up in the solitude of the rectory.

  But by the late 70’s there was an unspoken relaxation of the standards. A more contemporary, freer atmosphere allowed priests just a little more wiggle room. People found a new affinity for hobbies, outings. Socializing became less obligation and more opportunity. The trend even carried to the church council meetings where, yes, they still conducted business of the spirit, but they also engaged in unashamed chit chat about their worldly interests and activities.

  And it was through one of these casual chats, that the subject of Father Milliken’s telescope came into play. “Father we know how much you love your telescope.” Council Secretary Linda Wilcher was smiling modestly. “I got to thinking that it might be a good social activity for the church to have weekly stargazing sessions on the front lawn.” The other council members warmed to the idea speculatively. “We’re always trying to attract young people to the church and I think it would help some of our regular members to get to know each other too.” Many of the council members were nodding their assent. Father Milliken was smiling. Inside he was steaming.

  Right, and just who is going to haul that 60 pound thing in and out of the rectory each night. And have you noticed, the lights from the parking lot will drown out anything worth seeing. And then who’s going to be the celestial expert answering every clodhopper’s stupid questions? Me? I couldn’t tell you the difference between Venus and a levitating pumpkin! Besides, the only reason I have the telescope in my room is as an enticement for---

  “Yes, I think it’s a grand idea!” He smiled at the entire council, reserving his most gregarious gleam for the trouble-making Wilcher woman. They settled on Tuesdays.

  The first few weeks drew modest crowds that arrived in interest and left mostly in disappointment. About the only good thing in the viewfinder were the craters of the moon. A 30 second peek, and then you were done.

  Many asked to see the rings of Saturn or even Pluto for Christ’s sake. Father Milliken had to explain that you would need to be out in the country, away from any artificial light, and, have a very powerful telescope to even get a glimpse of such wonders.

  Weeks passed. Father Milliken lugged out his scope at 8:30 and lugged it back in at 11. And while attendance dwindled, he found that he had started to enjoy the routine. Twenty years ago, hell 5 years ago, if he had been seen out on the rectory lawn fooling around with his expensive toy, there would have been congregational revolt. At least this kept him
from going stir crazy.

  Plus, there was another thing. He had developed a small following. A group that came nearly every week for yet another look through the viewfinder at the moon, the pulsing airport beacon at the edge of town, or even a swarm of gnats circling some distant streetlight. They came early but by 10 o’clock they would be gone; mindful of their parent’s strict curfew. Father Milliken’s greedy eyes inhaled the small bodies; while any stray adult that happened along went virtually ignored.

  “Are you going to be one of my altar boys someday?” “Yes Father Milliken.”

  And to the girls: “Are you going to be nuns when you grow up?” “Yes Father Milliken.”

  You can be sure of one thing; the girls would more likely grow up to have dicks in their mouths rather than wearing cornettes and habits. And the other thing you could be sure of was that the altar boys would also end up with dicks in their mouths (and other places).