Starve the Vulture

by Jason Carney

  Phil is middle-aged and we clash. Acceptance is important to me. Moving as much as we did, I am eager to fit in. Sometimes I am unaware of how socially awkward I am. Terri looks at me, knowing my motives. She smiles a wicked grin, gives reassurance to my actions.

  “You do drugs?” I inquire.

  “No drugs. I used to drink.” He smirks again. “What are the groups like, Phil?” He avoids me once more.

  “Well, since you don’t do drugs, if they give you sleeping pills, let me have them,” I say.

  “I don’t take sleeping pills. You wouldn’t like the medications I take.”

  “Antidepressants, huh,” I say. “That’s cool.”

  I do not care what they are, as long as I can get high. So far, I have not found any support in my medicinal inquiries. Most everyone here likes what he or she takes.

  “Something like that,” he says. “You wouldn’t like them.”

  “The therapies depend on your physician,” Phil explains. “They prescribe your course of treatment. Some of us do more than others.”

  Phil is a know-all, like my dad. He says things like, “You sure you want to smoke, Jason? You sure that’s the best use of your time? How is throwing balls of paper into the basket therapeutic? Is singing out loud with headphones on considerate?”

  I dislike Phil and his stupid questions. In his midforties, married with a few kids, whom he never talks about, his hairline fights its extinction with sporadic long strands combed over the gleam on the oily globe of his head. He sits in his chair at the smokers’ table and ponders with great affect the situation of others. Observing him reflect on your illness—large hairy hand rubbing his cheek and chin as he draws in a deep breath and waits for a long pause to develop before enlightening everyone around—is like listening to Gandhi discuss the nuances of human equality. I have no idea what is wrong with him and guess it has something to do with thinking he is more doctor than patient.

  Most of the patients have the same couple of doctors: a sand nigger (Phil’s), a fat woman, or Dr. Multiple Personality. They are on the unit most of the day. Gone at dinnertime, so I haven’t seen them on the unit past dark. I am Dr. Judy’s only patient on the unit. They all seem on track to fulfill their release dates. They work treatment plans laid out in careful measure by their doctors. Nine days and I have not spoken with Dr. Judy. She came on unit once. Signed my release from suicide watch, wrote my treatment plan at the nurses’ station, and smiled at me across the room. No time to talk to me, she has patients on the other unit waiting. Instead, I have lots of group therapy.

  “Group therapy sucks,” I enlighten everyone. “They told me that you would be fragile, some kind of snot-blower. You don’t seem fucked up at all.”

  “Now that isn’t very supportive, Jason,” Debbie snorts. “We need to build a safe space here.”

  “It’s a compliment,” I respond. “He doesn’t look fucked up. Are you fucked up?”

  Terri giggles. I interpret this wrong and flash my winning smile at her, as if the hook-up is on. Flat Top just puzzles at me. Phil stares down at the floor. Debbie smacks her moist jowls, her thick tongue resting on her lower lip. There is an uncomfortable silence. I do not understand what is wrong with what I said.

  How is the truth a bad thing?

  “When I came in, I didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t want to.” I clear my throat. “All I’m saying is that you seem well-adjusted and comfortable for someone in our situation, thus not fucked up. So, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Jesus, Jason,” Phil says.

  “Jason, really now,” Debbie snaps. “You need to think of how other people feel.”

  I stare at her. “How is your daughter doing today, Deb?” I question. “Hope y’all are finding some clarity?”

  Terri giggles under her breath, sweeping at my leg with her foot, under the table.

  Debbie’s daughter is on the youth unit connected to this one. We all know this because she talks endlessly about how they are going to rebuild their life together.

  Horseshit. She fucked up her daughter so bad you can tell the teenage girl has had enough of this bitch.

  I understand her daughter’s pain for two reasons: I have a fucked-up mother named Debbie and I hate sessions of group therapy with Debbie; she never stops talking.

  “She’s doing great. I got to visit with her over the weekend; we were both out on a pass,” she says, missing my sarcasm.

  I ignore her. “No, what I am trying to say is that if I am getting a new roommate, I am relieved that you’re not fucked up in the head or something.”

  He smiles. “Well, I am fucked in the head, but I’m rooming with Phil.”

  “Oh?” I say, surprised. “I just assumed you were my new roommate.”

  All the effort I’ve just put in, for nothing. The fear of the unknown drifts back across the sun-filled room. I stare at my door. Serene quiet flows over the frame; something occurs to me.

  Why is this fucker not on suicide watch? Why does he get to close the fucking door? I hate this prick.

  “I came in with your roommate. He is really having a hard time today.” There is a concern in his voice, compassion.

  Kind of feminine.

  “Just what I need, a whack job,” I say.

  I want to take a shower and brush my teeth.

  “Jason, please stop,” Debbie says to me. Then she addresses Flat Top: “I hate to pry but what is wrong with him? You know, so we can be more respectful of his situation.”

  She is judging her sickness against everyone else’s. As if to her, there is some kind of medal or trophy for being the craziest person in the mental hospital.

  “He looked physically sick,” Flat Top responds. “They said he has some real problems. I heard something about domestic violence issues.”

  “That’s horrible,” Debbie exclaims in that fake kind of way. “When my ex-husband beat me my world fell apart. I developed an eating disorder. I think that’s when my daughter became bipolar.”

  “Your husband beat you?” I say.

  I feel a little guilty about the way I treat her. No matter how much she gets on my nerves, I would light her husband on fire if I caught him beating her. I do not tolerate men hitting women.

  Tell the court my father made me do it.

  “I’m not sharing a room with a man who beats his wife. That is some bullshit, fucking cocksucker.”

  “Wow, don’t hold back,” Terri says. “Good for you, express yourself, take a stand for your principles.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Jason, you don’t know the specifics. Would it not be reasonable that someone could change?” Phil asks.

  “Thanks, Phil,” I say.

  Would it not be reasonable that you are a fucking bleeding-heart-liberal douche?

  “I put up with it for a couple of years, right up until the divorce, even once after. I’m going to talk about it today in group. I’m having some issues now,” Debbie says.

  “Great, Debbie. You have to work through that,” Terri says quietly. “We’re getting so much accomplished.”

  Terri, without notice of the others, makes a motion of slitting her wrists. I smile at her, nodding. Every morning at nine, every afternoon at one, and then at four o’clock is group therapy. Most people on the unit have two a day. I attend all three, speechless. We sit in a circle, and stare at one another.

  Very healing.

  The therapist asks if anyone has any issues. Then we probe the depths of that issue to a resolution of some sort and move on to the next person.

  A bunch of bullshit.

  Debbie always discusses issues. When the group finds resolution and moves on, she brings the conversation back to herself. If you do not ever want to talk, throw it to Debbie.

  “What kind of man beats his wife?” I know the answer to this question. I fear my father sleeping one bed away in the dark of my room.

  “Who said he beat up his wife?” Flat Top asks.

  “You did. You said there we
re some domestic violence issues.”

  “Well, he was the one being abused, so . . .”

  “What kind of man gets beat up by a woman?” I say.

  That is so much worse.

  “All kinds of men suffer abuse at the hands of dominant women. In our society’s estimate it is approximately—” Phil starts.

  “If you don’t like it, don’t let her tie you up, Phil,” I snap.

  You ass-fuck douche bag.

  “His boyfriend hits him,” Flat Top finishes.

  “Oh my,” says Debbie.

  “He’s a faggot?” I am stunned. My flesh glows white, like an affliction.

  “All right, young man, would the way you’re conducting yourself be offensive to those around you? Are your terse comments and mannerisms the most effective way of communicating with other people?” Phil glares at me.

  “Terse? What the fuck does that mean? Fuck you, Phil.” I stand. “Would the way you annoy the fuck out of me be something I should kick your ass for? What are you upset about, got a queer brother? Douche bag,” I steam. “You’re a faggot too, Phil. Bald-ass, know-it-all cocksucker. You talk to me like that again and I’ll kick your ass.” I pick up the pack of cards and hurl them into his chest.

  “This is so therapeutic and we’re not even in group yet,” Terri says, laughing nervously.

  The eyes of everyone at the table are on me. I don’t move, just stand there fuming. Disbelief hovers on their faces, as if none of them approves. Phil stands after a moment of deep thought, anger all over his face. The way he marches to the nurses’ stand resembles a five-year-old.

  You must be shitting me, that tattle-tale bitch. The shock of the situation freezes my face; I am terrified of queers. I am not rooming with a kid-fucking faggot.

  “I am not rooming with a fag.”

  “Homosexual,” Terri says.

  I imagine his lecherous fag lips caressing my body as I sleep, when I change clothes, in the shower. A wave of disgust runs up my spine. A dirty and familiar feeling courses through my veins—the same as when I was a little boy terrified of bathrooms. Bathrooms felt alone and dark; outside the door, I tingled, unable to move. The urine a warm sensation running down my leg. I never understood this fear, and I still do not.

  Ain’t putting up with no gays.

  “Jason, I’m sure he is a nice man,” Terri says, looking off into the corner.

  “Then you room with him. This ain’t fair, I should get a say. Put him in a room by himself.”

  “Why?” Flat Top asks.

  “Cause the gays are perverts.” I stand firm. “That is why all those fags die. Their sins are being judged.”

  “That is ignorant,” Flat Top says, tears now in his eyes. “You’re lost.”

  “Ever read the Bible? Ain’t no salvation for a sodomite. And I ain’t sharing a room with one.”

  The attendants start to walk over to the table escorted by Phil. I catch them out of the corner of my eye. “Fuck you, Phil. You fucking pussy.” I know what is coming.

  “Well, you got a faggot for a roommate,” Flat Top smiles through his anger. “One with AIDS too.”

  I hesitate. The way tears pour out of his eyes and venom out of his mouth reminds me of a frail teenage girl who just got her heart broken for the first time. Shocked by the totality of what he just said, and his full-blown emotional response to it, my fear consumes me. A feeling of dread hangs over me. There is no hiding my emotion. The fight gone out of me, I feel like a little boy alone in the dark. The bathroom comes back.

  He is going to try to rape me. I feel tears building behind my own eyes. These motherfuckers are out to get me. My thoughts make no sense. I am going catch AIDS. I first learned of the virus in 1984, when it hit Los Angeles, where we lived. I was sure the world was coming to an end. He is going to infect me.

  “They fucked me, I should have gotten the normal roommate. You should have been my roommate,” I say, turning my fear to anger.

  “Who me? The normal roommate?”

  “Compared to the queer with AIDS, yes,” I say. “I don’t care what your problems are, you’re not a faggot with butt-rammer’s disease.” Tears flow through my anger. Everything is crashing in around me.

  “Mr. Carney,” one of the attendants says, placing his hand on my shoulder, “let’s go.”

  “Jason, I am here because I want to kill myself,” Flat Top says, somber and under control.

  “I could live with that. That’s my mom’s deal,” I say, laughing to calm the friction, as the attendant pulls me from my chair. Another attendant grabs my arms.

  “And just so you know, I’m also gay.”

  I stare at Flat Top over my shoulder as they lead me away, his eyes pink and swollen with tears.

  Wow, you look so fucking normal.

  CORNERED

  1988

  THE ROOM IS A SMALL OFFICE with a table and three chairs. A narrow hall off the nurses’ station leads to three doors and the trio of rooms are exact replicas. On the white walls hang framed prints, none of which go together to form any sort of theme. The scene of the English foxhunt matted in hunter green and framed in cherrywood catches my eye. A large pack of dogs corners the fox in the hollow of an overturned tree. The gnarling hounds’ faces beckon to their masters. The hunters are mounted on fine steeds, their coats the color of blood and their faces shining with prosperity. One cradles a bugle to his mouth. I can almost feel the blast of the instrument; its call echoes through the tall dark verdure of the forest.

  The air conditioner blares through the vent. The room is frigid. My shorts and T-shirt are not enough to keep warm and I tighten up like a snake in my seat. All the light in the room is artificial, there are no windows. The door contains a large square of glass, with chicken wire floating inside to discourage thoughts of breaking it. Two potted plants, both covered in dust, one a large tree, the other a medium-sized bush, stand facing each other in opposite corners. They resemble two over-the-hill fighters as they square off and await the bell.

  “What are we going to do with you?” Dr. Judy surges into the room. Hands full of files and a large briefcase slung over her shoulder. She throws her belongings on the table, peers around the room as if she forgot something. Her glasses dangle at the end of her nose; her designer suit is wrinkled. She looks like a mad scientist. Her presence fills the room.

  “What are we going to do with you?” she asks again, opening the door. She steps into the hallway and moves into the kitchen. She takes her time. A nurse stops in the doorway to the kitchen and asks her a question. I hear my name. Dr. Judy says something and they laugh.

  That bitch is laughing at me.

  There is a coffee cup in her hand. Her rose-colored lips cool the top of the cup as she saunters back into the office. As she opens the door, she says, “Well, don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Let me leave,” I respond, not making eye contact.

  “Do you really think that’s going to happen? How long have you known me?” she asks as she sits across from me.

  “Why am I on the adult unit?”

  “Jason, you’re eighteen, all of your actions from this point forward in your life will be judged as an adult,” she states sternly. “You keep playing around and they will put your ass in prison. Or you’ll end up dead.”

  Her blue eyes always look directly at me when she really wants to make a point. She spends a minute staring into my eyes. She holds a large file in her hands. I can see my name written on top.

  What the hell is in there?

  All of our previous interactions have concerned my mother, and her inability to focus on life. Today, we focus just on me. It is the first time, and I have nowhere to hide. This makes me uncomfortable.

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “What happened today?” she counters. “I am not very happy about getting called away from the patient I was with.”

  “I got a queer roommate. He has AIDS. They made a mistake. You have to do something about this.
”

  “I intend to. Now, what happened today?”

  “Great! When do they move him out of my room?” I say with a smile.

  “He will not be moving.”

  I think, This is unfair, but if it means no cocksuckers then I am comfortable with moving. “When do I get a new room?”

  “You will not be changing locations either.” She smiles. There is an arrogant twist to her lips, extended up in the motion of knowing something I do not.

  “Then what are you going to do about this?”

  “I intend to listen,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “How does that help me?”

  You listened to my mother for a decade, and Mom is still crazy.

  “You need to learn to talk about your emotions and feelings. To express yourself in constructive ways, which do not hurt those around you, Jason. What happened today?”

  “Talking about a fag ain’t going to remove the fag—”

  “A gay man is not your problem,” she interrupts. “Jason is your problem.”

  Fuck you, bitch.

  The nerve of this know-it-all woman and her degree from Southern Methodist University. Mom has dreams of me attending SMU and graduating law school. Never happen. I am smart enough to do this, but I lack discipline. Dr. Judy is a lot like my mother, which pisses me off. Her tendency to dominate the situation, always asking questions to which she already knows the answer, annoys the shit out of me.

  “So, where have you been? I have been waiting on you for over a week. When do I get out of here?”

  “I have other patients. I think being stuck on this unit is good for you. You need to learn to interact positively with other people, you lack respect for the feelings and desires of others,” she says, removing a yellow legal pad from her briefcase. “I’m not on your time frame, Jason.” She uncaps a black ballpoint pen. “However, your release is totally determined by the progress you make. You determine when you go home.” She slides the pen and legal pad over to me.