"I don't know," he said.
"You been taking drugs?" I asked. This was because I've read about kids taking drugs.
"No," he said, "I guess I'm just mixed up."
"Hey, buddy," I said, "you think you're mixed up. How'd you like to hear my life story?"
"Huh?" he said.
"You know what I think?" I asked.
He looked at me vacuously and did not respond.
"I think," I continued, "you either been thumping your dill too much or not enough."
"Huh?" he said.
"Okay, boy," I said, "I've blown the only mental health shot I got. If you want to go home, okay. If you're really upset, I'll put you in the fool farm. You call it."
"I wanta go home," said the patient. | Later I talked to the parents who asked about a psychiatrist. "Look, folks," I said, "if I knew where to find one on Saturday night I'd pay him a C-note to say I'm incompetent to cover this Emergency Room, so you can see how much help you're going to get from me."
If it wasn't like this, it was pretty damn close.
Very truly yours, Benjamin F. Pierce, M.D.
Obviously, Dr. Pierce is given to exaggeration, peril aps even flights of fancy. I must hasten to explain that the distinguished head of our Mental Health Clinic is not really named Dr. Rex Eatapuss. His real name is Ferenc Ovari, M.S., Ph.D., plus this and that more after his name—degrees from Budapest, Vienna and London. Records confirming this were lost during World War II, but I have investigated his credentials thoroughly enough to repudiate Pierce's contention that he's a hunky out of Scranton, Pennsylvania.
Dr. Ovari came to Spruce Harbor when our Mental Health Clinic opened in 1961. To be honest, I'm not sure how he's survived. He has created problems. The occasional psychiatrists who've set up shop here have left after, at the most, two years, citing Dr. Ovari as the reason for their departure. Therefore we've never had effective psychiatric coverage, and it's been one of our glaring defects. Why Pierce, the other surgeons, Wooden Leg Wilcox and I haven't run him off instead of just abusing him I'm not sure. Lately I've been getting vibrations about the why of it, but I'm afraid of them. One reason, I suppose, is that bugging Goofus MacDuff, the Medical Director, ceased to be fun years ago. Up to a point they tolerate Dr. Ovari for the fun of harassing him.
Dr. Ovari, despite his lack of popularity with the medical profession, and despite what I must conclude is an inability to come to grips with the mental health problem in this area, is impressive. He is now in his middle fifties and of middle height, goateed and moustached, suave, assured, disdainful of the peasants who plague him. With his accent, which has a lilt of middle Europe, he is a devastatingly effective public speaker PR man and fund raiser. To quote our Chairman of the Board: "That jeezly Rex Eatapuss talks to my wife and the other talent at the PTA and they all come home and tell about he trained with Sigmund Freud which he didn't even say, and they don't know if Sig was a queer Austrian or the Patriots' number three draft choice, but they think Rex is some wonderful.'!
It was at a Rotary Club meeting, back in 1961, that Wooden Leg Wilcox changed Dr. Ferenc Ovari's name to Rex Eatapuss. The Rotary Club (Hawkeye Pierce says anybody who'd join the Rotaiy Club would eat a wet chicken) always invites newly arrived specialists to speak. The members seldom care what the speaker has to say; nor could they understand it if they cared. On this occasion Dr. Ovari entertained his unenthralled audience with a discussion of the libidinal feelings that a child of three to six years develops toward the parent of the opposite sex. This, he told them, is called the Oedipus Complex and refers to the hero of Greek legend who murdered his father and married his mother.
The usual apathy and torpor of a Rotarian audience was shattered this time by Jocko Allcock, a business associate of Wooden Leg's, who, very juiced, recoiled in horror and disgust at this incestuous tale.
"No good Greek mother------" he started to exclaim.
In midexclamation he was interrupted by Demosthenes Rock, owner of the Parthenon Motel, two miles east on Route One. Demosthenes had missed the Oedipus bit, but he'd heard Jocko's response. Since he and Jocko arc frequently at odds, Demosthenes assumed that Jocko was, once again, launching a campaign of personal vilification.
Mr. Rock was temporarily restrained, but after Dr. Ovari's talk he spoke quite heatedly to Mr. Allcock. Jocko explained that his four-syllable reference had not been to Mr. Rock but "to that there Greek guy, King Eatapuss. He married his mother."
This exchange of ideas between Mr. Rock and Mr. Allcock was discussed for days in the inner sanctums of Spruce Harbor where Rotarians work and play. The outcome was inevitable. Someone, probably Wooden Leg Wilcox, decided to perpetuate the memory Of that fine meeting by changing Dr. Ovari's name to Dr. Rex Eatapuss. And so he is known, far and wide. Anyway from Damariscotta to Belfast.
"Really too bad," I said to Hawkeye Pierce soon af- ler this episode. "Dr. Ovari is a distinguished man in his field. With his training in Vienna and ..."
"Vienna, my ass," exclaimed the dirty-mouthed surgeon. "That hunky probably flunked out of Slippery Rock State Teachers and anointed himself with a Ph.D."
So it is that if anything interesting happens at Spruce Harbor Medical Center, you can bet that my four crazy surgeons or my controversial head psychologist are involved—usually both.
THE MIRACLE OF HARBOR POINT
FOR THREE days the street in front of Dr. Spearchucker Jones's big white colonial home on Harbor Point had been lined with cars. Tweedy middle-aged females and males with baggy pants, all carrying binoculars and cameras, milled around on Dr. Jones's front lawn.
The reason for this was quite simple, but Dr. Jones's surgical colleagues, Hawkeye Pierce, Duke Forrest and Trapper John Mclntyre, had not heard the word. This threesome lives somewhat apart from the mainstream of life in Spruce Harbor, Maine. It is not true, as rumored, that they think Eisenhower is still president, but they seem quite immune to news that doesn't directly concern them. They seldom get any because they never talk to anyone except each other if they can possibly avoid it.
So it was that on the third day of the Miracle of HarPoint Hawkeye asked, "Hey, Spearchucker, what hell's going on down your way?" "Well, I'm pretty well known—prominent neurosurgeon, famous ex-football player and so forth. Probably all these people are just trying to catch a glimpse of me."
Doctors Pierce, Forrest and Mclntyre considered is explanation briefly before their spokesman, Dr. Pierce, replied, "Quite likely. Ain't many like you in the neighborhood."
"Hey, old buddy," said Duke Forrest, "y'all need any help, just let us know."
"All you guys ever get me into is trouble. You've never gotten me out of any."
"Ingrate," stated Dr. Pierce.
This conversation was taking place in the coffee shop of the Spruce Harbor General Hospital on a Saturday morning. Trapper John sensed that the time was ripe, once again, to give the citizens of Spruce Harbor something to gossip about. Therefore he said, "Racist."
Dr. Jones picked up Trapper John, held him three feet off the floor and said, "Dr. Mclntyre, I'm sure you won't object to my having lunch with your wife."
Dr. Jones waited patiently while his victim pondered the request and consulted with Hawkeye and Duke: "What does one say," Trapper asked, "when a six foot three inch, two hundred and thirty pound buck nigger asks to lunch with one's wife, and holds one up in the air while one formulates one's reply?"
"Yes, sir," Duke told him.
"Oh, yes," agreed Hawkeye. "You say, 'Yes, sir.'"
"Lemme down," begged Trapper. "I'll call her."
Dr. Jones, releasing him, announced haughtily, "It's already arranged. I'm meeting her at the Bay View in half an hour."
There was nothing unusual about this. Mrs. Mclntyre, the former Lucinda Lively, and Spearchucker Jones had been close friends for years. On this particular day they were meeting to discuss Spearchucker's debut as a thespian. Lucinda is a bright light in the Spruce Harbor Players and had convinced the neurosurgeon t
hat he should play the lead in her forthcoming production of Othello.
After their rounds, Hawkeye, Duke and Trapper decided that the November day was too cold for golf. They didn't know what to do with themselves, but as they stood in the doctors' parking lot and looked toward Harbor Point, they discovered that the crowd at Spearchucker's house was larger than ever. Needing to satisfy their curiosity, they boarded Hawkeye's station wagon and drove to where the action was. There wasn't much. The tweedies and the baggy pantsers were quietly standing in Spearchucker's yard, and at ten-minute intervals about a dozen of them went into the house. They came out with expressions of fulfillment which suggested that, at the very least, they had witnessed a miracle.
The surgeons learned little by wandering through the crowd. Trapper finally asked a little old lady what was going on and reported that, if he'd understood correctly, they'd come to see a "black-headed gross- berg."
"What the hell is a black-headed grossberg?" asked Duke.
"Maybe it's a new name for a nigger," said Trapper.
"Maybe they think Spearchucker is Jewish," suggested Hawkeye.
Duke, apparently convinced that this was the case, stood up on a stone wall that separates Spearchucker's yard from the street and proclaimed, "Hey, y'all. Y'all hear this. Y'all mistaken. Dr. Jones is a Baptist."
This proclamation was received with total noncomprehension by the crowd, which obviously wanted no one to intrude upon their bliss, whether already realized or anticipated. Mrs. Evelyn Jones observed the performance and sent her sixteen-year-old son, Oliver Wendell Jones, Jr., with a message for Duke. "Uncle Duke," he said, "my mama says if you guys don't clear out, I gotta take you apart."
"Come on, Duke," yelled Hawkeye. "Even Spear- chucker's scared of that cat. Let's have lunch."
Meanwhile Trapper approached another pilgrim, a white-haired gentleman clad in knickers and a Sherlock Holmes hat, saying, "Hey, Pop, the coon is at the Bay View. Spread the word."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The jungle bunny. He's having lunch with my wife at the Bay View. You wanta help me get him?"
As the station wagon sped toward the Bay View, leaving the pilgrims in confusion, Mrs. Jones mingled with them and calmed their fears by explaining that the three interlopers were crazy. At the Bay View the surgeons found Spearchucker and Lucinda Mclntyre laughing over a drink while Spearchucker described the coffee shop episode.
"What you up to, Chucker?" demanded Duke. "You growin' watermelons in your cellar?"
"If you guys can't think up some new ones," answered the large neurosurgeon, "why don't you pick on Angelo for a while?"
Angelo, the bartender, overheard and protested, "Forget it. These guys ain't had a new guinea joke in five years."
"You can't sit with us," Lucinda declared. "We have important things to discuss."
"You think that big stove lid's another Paul Robeson?" Hawkeye asked Lucinda. "He don't even know the tune to 'We Shall Overcome'!"
Forced to eat alone, the surgeons ordered drinks and interrogated Angelo. "You seen any black-heade grossbergs around?" asked Hawkeye.
"What I don't know is how come I let everyone in my family get operated on by you guys," Angelo answered evasively.
"Maybe it's because you're stupid," suggested Trap per John.
"That occurred to me," agreed Angelo. "You want another mart?"
At this point Duke insisted, "I wanta know what is a black-headed grossberg."
The answer came from a large dark-skinned hawk- nosed gentleman who, uninvited but welcome, settled into the fourth seat at the surgeons' table.
"Pheucticus melanocephalus," said State Senator Solomon (Crazy Horse) Weinstein in answer to Duke's question. In 1920 Crazy Horse's father, an itinerant peddler, had married Marcia Running Tide, a full-blooded Passamaquoddy Indian girl. In 1971 Crazy Horse wanted to be governor and owned the five best gents furnishing stores in the State of Maine.
"All one needs do," said Hawkeye, "is sit in the Bay View and the world comes a-callin'. Welcome, Crazy Horse."
"What was that you said?" demanded Duke.
"Pheucticus melanocephalus."
"They had them Israeli-Injun studies after I left school. What the hell's that mean?" asked Hawkeye.
"A black-headed grosbeak. A bird. A bird that belongs out in Saskatchewan and British Columbia has come to roost in Spruce Harbor, Maine, in Spearchucker's back yard. Mrs. Jones identified him and notified the Audubon Society. Bird-watchers from all over New England have come to see the black- headed grosbeak."
Hawkeye was obviously struggling to grasp the meaning, the significance, of this revelation. He just didn't seem able to make it.
"How big is this bird?" asked Duke.
"He might run five to seven inches, stem to stern," Crazy Horse told him.
"There was a great dogfight on the hospital lawn three days ago," said Hawkeye, "but it bombed. Didn't draw more than half a dozen. But a six-inch bird packs them in."
Probably the surgeons would have forgotten all about the black-headed grosbeak had there not been a cocktail party and dinner that night at the home of Dr. Ezekiel Bradbury (Me Lay) Marston, the Spruce Harbor anesthesiologist. Me Lay's wife, Charlotte, is somewhat socially inclined. She's so socially inclined that her parties are command performances that even Doctors Pierce, Forrest and Mclntyre attend with their wives. The surgeons, forced to try to behave like pillars of the community, nearly always fortify themselves in advance, and this night was no exception. Dr. and Mrs. Spearchucker Jones, of course, were there. Mrs. Jones was giddy with delight over the bird situation, but, early on, Dr. Jones indicated to his colleagues that he was beginning to tire of bird-watchers.
As usual, the four surgeons wound up in one corner of their host's bar and playroom along with Crazy Horse Weinstein and Wooden Leg Wilcox, the business manager of the Finestkind Clinic and Fish Market. The conversation turned to birds. Spearchucker, as time passed, became increasingly sure that, despite his devotion to wildlife and the ecology in general, he wanted peace and quiet at home.
Dinner was served—a walkabout dinner—but, despite occasional forays into the eye of the social whirl, the corner group stayed quite tight. At 9:30 Crazy Horse Weinstein announced, "I got a bird suit down at the store. Some clown I met at a buyer's thing in New York sent it to me. Bird's head, beak, wings, everything. Need a big guy to fill it out."
"You lay upon me the kernel of an idea, Crazy Horse," mused Spearchucker Jones. "A black-headed grosbeak has orange underparts, a black head and white wing patches. Could your bird suit be altered to these specifications?"
"Easy," said Crazy Horse, who is not called Crazy Horse just because of his aboriginal background. "Just what do you have in mind, Spearchucker?"
"Well, it seems to me that maybe we oughta have two black-headed grosbeaks. If one of them went about four ounces and the other over two hundred pounds, either these nuts would go away and leave me alone or I'd draw thousands and be able to sell season tickets at fifty bucks apiece."
"Excellent thinking," agreed Hawkeye, "although two-hundred-pound black-headed grosbeaks are tough to find."
"The bird suit would just about fit you, Hawk," said Crazy Horse.
"No way," protested Hawkeye. "I ain't wearin' no bird suit. You think I'm strange?"
"Strange you should ask," commented Trapper John. "Maybe we could get Halfaman Timberlake. He's sort of birdlike."
The group felt this suggestion had obvious merit. Halfaman, although a trifle slow mentally, is an invaluable employee of Wooden Leg Wilcox and his partner in many business ventures, Mr. Jocko Allcock. Haifa- man weighs around two hundred pounds, and everyone decided that he'd make a great black-headed grosbeak.
State Senator Crazy Horse Weinstein, whose career in business and politics has been characterized by his ability to act decisively and effectively, said, "Okay, I'll go down to the store and fix up that bird suit. I'll meet you guys at Bette Bang Bang's joint in an hour.
Be t
here. Halfaman's bound to be, but I don't want to show up alone at a whorehouse with a bird suit."
"Why not?" asked Hawk. "If we got some pictures, it might do wonders for your gubernatorial aspirations."
"We'll be there, Horse," Spearchucker assured him, "and without photographers. You are a true friend."
Bette Bang Bang, Mattress Mary and Made Marion have been in business for some fifteen years down on Elm Street. Prostitution is not legal in Maine, but neither is it defined in such a way that whatever authorities exist have seriously tried to curtail the Elm Street effort. This is partly because Dr. Doggy Moore, Spruce Harbor's leading all-around messiah, physician and Maine Senior Golf Champion, has taken care of the girls and proclaimed that their whorehouse solves more problems than it creates. Dr. Moore has kept the VD rate in Spruce Harbor lower than any other town in Maine. Twice weekly at 4:30 p.m., Doggy examines the girls and takes smears and cultures. On the wall of his inner office is a plaque bestowed upon him by his surgical friends. The plaque reads:
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