I still have a chemical imbalance in my brain. Once you get that, you’ve got it for a lifetime. There is no known cure for a disrupted brain chemistry. It’s a chronic condition, treated and regulated by medications that take the edges of the illness, if you can get a hold of the meds and properly administer them, but there’s no known cure. Once in awhile people like me need to go to psych wards to get our medications adjusted. The medications the doctors now have are getting to be more effective stabilizing people’s mental status. Some of us are free to live relatively natural lives, even though we have to make trips to the psych ward in the general hospitals to get an oil change and a tune up every now and then.
A guy like me gets to the point where he is so confused he needs medical help, but most of the time I’m relatively successful at getting along in the world, for a change, unlike I was when I was as a young adult. Sometimes, they have to come after me with a butterfly net, but that’s the exception now, not the rule. I’ve learned to submit myself to hospitalization when someone thinks I should go. I take someone else’s word for it.
I’ve been in various types of asylums my whole lifetime. Most of the older ones where once farms, where the patients raised their own food and were given jobs to labor at to earn their own keep, back in some time of antiquity that I only happen to know about second hand. Thus, where the name funny farm got started. Laughing academy. The rubber room that is not rubber, it’s cinder block, with an indestructible mattress on the floor. The one thing that makes a hospital center a laughing academy was that it is such a boring place to be, that we hang around and tell each other all sorts of ridiculous jokes, and laugh until we cry.
I would run away from the asylum, irrationally, because that was just the way I did things. I’ve been a runaway my whole life. I would be daydreaming about something or other, and off I’d go. It was easy for me to get away. The fence in the courtyard out back of the ward was only waste high. A mild hop over the chain link, and I’d be on my way.
I was thinking about Biblical stories, people in the Old Testament, and how they obeyed God. I wanted to obey God in the same way, but I was too sick to understand any of it. It was all delusional on my part.
I’d go running on down the field, and across the highway wading thru the mud in the little run, in the gully, get out on the highway where the speed limit was 50mph. I’d get my shoes wet wading in the shallow run. I could easily have gotten killed, running like a wild animal in the road that cannot think straight. I think that must be something like why it is that I feel such a kinship with wild deer.
I’d go up across the cornfield on the far side of the highway, and down the deer trail thru the woods, to the park. I had to take off my shoes, though. God said it was Holy ground. I don’t have any argument with God. He sent me to go skinny dipping in the Piney Run Lake, at the old recreational park, where there were people trying to catch fish in their small boats. I ruined their day for some reason I don’t fully understand. Couldn’t find all my clothes when I wanted to get dressed and go back to the hospital center, either.
When I got back to the ward, I tried to talk to some old lady in the parking lot, but she said I wasn’t dressed right. That was an accurate statement, too. All the clothes I could find to put back on over at the recreational park, were my underwear and my shoes. When I’d left the hospital grounds I’d had more clothes on than that, but I couldn’t find them when I tried to get dressed again.
The second time I ran away, I went exactly the same way to get out of the asylum, but I was certain to keep my clothes on this time. I didn’t try to go into the water the second time around, at least not in the Piney Run Park. I went wading in the run a little ways passed Piney Run, just to keep off the roads. I was a little afraid someone was looking for me.
Later, while I was still trying to get away from the enemy, I was trying to signal home, on my bio-radio, that I needed a dust-off to get out of there, back to sanctuary. I’d been watching too many movies. There isn’t any radio in my head. No one was going to send me any helicopter. I thought they would, but it wasn’t true.
All I got was a couple of heavily armed men in an old Gremlin, in plain clothes, asking me what my name is. I couldn’t tell them. I was too scared. They finally told me they were police, but I didn’t believe them until they got me in their old car, called somebody on their radio. I admitted to being the escapee from the asylum, asked the one in the back seat with me, for a cigarette and a light. He turned out to be an OK guy. He gave me a cigarette and a light. I was relieved. Hadn’t had a smoke ever since I’d left the hospital center. By the time I got caught, I just wanted to go back.
They took me back to the hospital, and one of the aids tried to kick me in the cubes, called me a jackass. He missed. But he was right. I should not have gone running off like that, especially not twice. I was very delusional.
I’d met some girl back home at my church, who kept telling me that I’d once prayed the most real prayer she’d ever heard. She was a nice girl. I met her when I was living in the city. Sometimes she’d come to see me at the hospital. One time she came, I told her I wanted to touch her Knowles. She wouldn’t let me. That was her name, too. Knowles. I guess she wasn’t in the mood to play touchy feely games with some guy in the state laughing academy.
The next time she came to see me, she brought another guy with her. We didn’t sit in the dining room that time, either. We went outside and sat on the grass. The guy had a couple of guitars. He told me the girl wasn’t going to keep coming out to the hospital to see me. I couldn’t figure anything to play with either one of the guitars, either on my own or with him playing along. He was right. Miss Knowles stopped visiting me after that. I don’t know what the big deal was in the first place. She seemed to think I was someone other than who I am.
The End
George Geisinger studied music education in the early 1970’s at Appalachian State University in North Carolina, but after two years of study he had a disastrous turn of health, with which he has struggled for a lifetime. Mr. Geisinger, a naturally creative person, composes music for classical guitar, as well as for piano, writes poetry, fiction and autobiographical stories. In the late 1980’s, Mr. Geisinger achieved an Associate in Arts degree in the liberal arts from Catonsille Community College, in Maryland. He studied creative writing there, and subsequently published short stories and poetry in literary and “little” magazines over a period of several years through the ‘80’s and ‘90’s.
No Turning Back
~ McDroll
The Glasgow bus juddered up the hill and out of Campbeltown leaving behind the little town’s ever dwindling fishing boats and the many pubs that helped drown the memories of those who could no longer earn a living from their traditional trade.
Brian settled down in his seat near the back of the bus and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. He was still shaking a bit but he’d made it, he’d bloody well gone and done it! He exhaled and jabbed Martin in the ribs with his elbow.
“We fuckin’ did it mate!” Brian had never been this high just with excitement.
“Sh! Not so loud you eejit! You never know who’s on the bus, we’re not in the clear yet. Don’t act so hyper, just chill.” He stuck his head back into his Nuts magazine, concentrating on Cheryl Cole’s massive apparatus.
“I need the bog. I always need to go when I get nervous.” Brian wriggled about on the seat.
“You what? Just sit still for a wee while, we’ve just got on the bus.”
“I can’t, I’ve got to go the now.”
Martin watched his friend as he headed off to the toilet, wondering why on earth he’d been persuaded to take him along in the first place. The boy was a liability. Just a wee scrap really, you would swear at nineteen the hormones still hadn’t kicked in, not even a wee bit of bum fluff on his top lip. His body was just a canvas for tattoos and piercings, scratch the surface and there was not a lot there.
“‘Scuse me.” Brian was back.
“Right, sit down and shut up.”
“I’m bored. It’s a long way to Glasgow, I need something to do. Give us your mag.”
“No, fuck off.”
Brian stared out the window at the passing green fields and the shore beyond and watched the waves blasting off the rocks. His heart had slowed down a bit but he was still feeling pretty pumped, still amazed that Martin had let him come along. This was the biz!
“Have you got anything to eat? I’m hungry.”
Martin opened up his backpack and brought out a Tesco sandwich and a bottle of Pepsi Max. “This is mine, but you can have it if you shut up.”
“Thanks pal.” Brian grabbed the plastic package and tore it open.
“I’m not your pal.”
“Sorry, I just thought…”
“You’re not here to think. And stop squirming about.”
“I’m trying.”
Martin looked around the bus to see if there was anybody he recognised. You just never know who might be on your tail even when you’re being incredibly careful. Looked mostly like pensioners who probably weren’t going the whole way to Glasgow, a few students heading back to uni, nobody very interesting. Looked safe enough.
“How long ‘til we get there Martin?”
“How am I supposed to know, I’m no’ the driver.”
“You must have a rough idea, I’ve never been on the bus before. I don’t go to Glasgow very much, no’ enough dosh. Know what I mean?”
“We’ll get there about two, OK?”
“Two? That’s three hours! Oh man, I don’t think I can do it…”
“What?
“I don’t think I can do it, I’m really uncomfortable…you know.”
“What? Are you mad? Maybe if you stopped wriggling about and just sat still it would help. Anyway, you haven’t got any choice now so put up and shut up.” Martin closed his eyes and rested his head back on the seat. He would never have agreed to take Brian but beggars couldn’t be choosers and the lad was the best that was on offer. Hopefully they’d get to Glasgow in one piece and that would be that, mission accomplished, but the next three hours were going to be very long.
“I feel sick.”
No reply.
“Martin, I said I feel sick.”
“You can’t be sick.”
“I am. I always get sick when I sit at the back of a bus.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I think I’m going to spew. I’ve done it before when we went on a school trip to the zoo. I chucked up all over Jimmy McEachern, you know who I mean, he’s in the Bar-L now. He was eating a cheese and pickle sandwich and I just threw up all over him and it ran down the passage of the bus and my whole class started to scream and then the teacher, Mrs. Gillespie, remember her, started to shout at me but it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know I was going to be sick. They all hated me after that because the bus stank all the way to Edinburgh and three other kids were sick because of the smell and I got the blame.”
“Enough.”
“Sorry, I was just saying…”
Martin had known Brian since he was a wee lad and knew that there was a lot of truth in what he said. None of the kids had ever liked him at the school and he was forever getting beat up, you know the type of wee boy that never had the sense to understand that the big boys don’t want him around. They end up roughing him up for fun just to see how much punishment he’d take.
The bus stopped at Lochgilphead and Martin watched closely as people got off and came on. The bus stop was just across the road from the police station and although this was neither here nor there it made him nervous. He’d had the pleasure of several nights in that cold wee cell waiting for his solicitor to arrive. Place was always chankin’, one of those ancient old cells with no home comforts, not like one of those private prisons with Sky Sports 24/7 in each cell and your own cludgie.
“Don’t look, keep your head down,” Martin mumbled to Brian.
“Why, what is it?” Brian craned his neck to try and catch a look at what Martin had noticed.
“Are you as fuckin’ stupid as you look? I said don’t look!”
“Eh? What is it though?”
“Just keep your head down and let me do the talking.” Martin rolled his magazine up and smacked Brian across the knees.
“What was that for? That hurt!”
“Just a reminder that this is serious, we’re no’ off on our holidays.”
The man in the black leather jacket that Martin had been watching sat down a few seats in front of them.
“Right, it’s OK, he didn’t see us but just hold your wheesh.”
“Who is it?” Brian whispered.
“I told you to shut up.”
“Aye, but who is it?”
“If I tell you, will you shut up?”
“Aye, I promise.”
“It’s Malkie Clark. He’s just out of the big hotel and I haven’t seen him since I was in there myself. I don’t want him to see me because he’ll want to know what we are up to.”
“But we’re just on the bus going to Glasgow. What’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t be stupid, do you really think he’d believe that? He was up to his neck in it before you were out of your nappies.”
“I suppose.”
Brian glanced at Martin and wondered how you could get to be that tough. Must be great when there’s nobody ever going to laugh at you or make a fool of you. Although he was only about six years older, he was a man to Brian’s boy; had seen the world, picked up countless women, swallowed most substances, inhaled everything else and lived to tell the tale.
The bus revved up and started off, heading for the picturesque town of Inveraray along the shore of Loch Fyne.
“What are we going to do when we get to Glasgow Martin?”
“You know what.”
“Aye, I know that, but what are we going to do after? Could we go and see a film?”
Oh Christ! He thinks it’s a school trip!”
“No I don’t, I’m not thick. I just thought seeing as we’re going to be in Glasgow we may as well make a day of it, see a film, grab a pizza, you know.”
Brian looked up at Martin’s face, hoping that his mood might lighten. He used to be terrified of Martin, would cross the street if he saw him coming but then after Jim Sweeney got nicked and put away on remand, Martin was on the lookout for somebody else and one night in the pub he’d just agreed to give Brian a try. Easy as that. If he was lucky, this could become a regular thing and would be an excellent wee earner. Happy times!
The bus started to slow down and Brian looked out the window to see what was happening. They’d just got through Furnace and were heading up the hill towards the Auchindrain outdoor museum.
“Oh shit, Martin! It’s the fuzz.”
“What?”
“It’s the polis Martin. They’ve got a van and they’re wavin’ down the bus.”
“Right, don’t panic. Just act as normal as you can. Just sit still.”
The driver pulled over to the lay-by and opened the door to let the officer on. Everybody on the bus watched intently to see what was happening and a few people started to mutter loudly that they’d better not be late in Glasgow.
A big sergeant stood at the front of the bus, “Sorry for the disruption folks, this won’t take long, it’s just a routine check and nothing to worry about. We’re going to bring the sniffer dog on for the sole purpose of detecting those with drugs. Please don’t worry, the dog is well trained and won’t touch you.”
“Oh fuck.”
The dog made its way down the bus, stopping now and then to sniff at a bag and a jacket. Suddenly its ears pricked up and it started to pull at its handler, sniffing frantically under a seat.
“OK boy, what is it? Sir, could I ask you to come with me?”
The man got up, none too pleased.
“Malkie Clark...if I live and breathe!” the older of the two police officer’s greeting was ans
wered with a long sigh from the well-known face.
All three left the bus and a discussion took place at the side of the road with much shaking of the head from Malkie before handcuffs were brought out and he was led to the back of the van.
The younger police officer came back onto the bus, “Right folks, thanks very much for your time, you can get on with your journey.”
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, sweet fuck! You are one lucky wee fucker Brian.”
“Oh man, I thought I was done for there. I tell you, this bloody package can’t come doon my arse quick enough.”
And with that parting shot Brian waved a farewell to the police as the bus went on its way.
The End
McDroll is the author of the serialized crime novel THE WRONG DELIVERY and the short story collection KICK IT TOGETHER, a crazy mix of crime, drama, noir and comedy. The charity anthology THE LOST CHILDREN was the culmination of a 50th birthday project that benefits Protect in the U.S. and Children 1st in Scotland through sales on both sides of the Atlantic. Other short stories by McDroll are littered around the online world, most notably in Shotgun Honey, Flash Fiction Offensive and Near 2 the Knuckle as well as in the anthology OFF THE RECORD. She interviews authors, reviews, and blogs at www.imeanttoreadthat.blogspot.co.uk
The Importance of Blood
~ Edith M. Maxwell
Jody and me. Twins. Identical. Same blood, same DNA. But we’re different, too.
Funny how me and Jody both ended up volunteering at the Doris Greenwell hospice. Jody’s just doing it to get ahead. Says she wants to do something with her life. Like the rest of us don’t.
“It’ll look good on my med school application, Katie,” she tells me over moo-shu pork at Christmas. Which is pretty pitiful for a holiday, seeing as how it’s just the two of us at Panda North. We’re all that’s left since Dad’s heart attack and Grandpa Jim’s passing. Mom split a long time ago.
Me, I’m volunteering for Grandpa Jim. Well, that and the probation office. I couldn’t be there for Grandpa when he died because of being temporarily incarcerated. I asked them to let me out, but no deal. And Jody was too busy to wait with him for death. I can wait with other old men, though. I hold their hands, read to them, feed them their ice cream even when that’s all they agree to eat. Grandpa loved pistachio. I remember his smile when he tasted that sweet, green bite. The Greenwell is cozy, too. It’s just a house with bedrooms. Good for people about to die.
Burning Bridges: A Renegade Fiction Anthology Page 5