by James Murphy
Dr. Chode was fat, balding, middle-aged white man with thick glasses, and a constant shit-eating grin. His fat belly stuck out of his white lab coat like a pregnant woman’s, hanging down over his belt. Sweat was beading on his bald head, and when he opened his mouth, the disgusting stench of garlic, and cigar smoke filled the room, knocking everyone back on their heels. Every time he spoke James could feel him condescending. It was thick and humiliating. Every word slithered off his tongue and up James’s nose, settling in his sinus cavities with a pungent stench that made the hair on the back of James’s neck stand up until he was full bore pissed off. In the silence between Dr. Chode’s slithering words an animosity grew between professional and patient. His garbled words were thick, and he spoke with a meter that lacked rhythm allowing for many awkward silences. It built anticipation, and removed any degree of comfort that could be found in a well-spoken man’s voice. Dr. Chode liked to use the term “lacking control” and accused James as the person of fault for everything that troubled him. Dr. Chode could see the frenzy in James’ eyes and found it entertaining. He knew that no matter what James did or said, he was Chode’s puppet. Dr. Chode had the final say, and after the way James’ reception went, Dr. Chode was going to take James for one hell of a ride.
“So you ate peyote.” Dr. Chode began.
“That’s what I said.” James replied with indifference.
“You know, that makes you dangerous. You obviously aren’t in control. You obviously don’t know who you are.” Dr. Chode pestered.
Dr. Chode looked ready to laugh in James’s face, and James was ready to tear Dr. Chode a new asshole. James wasn’t the most rational of people. James’s entire concept of reality was drawn from experience rather than reason. As extreme as those experiences may have been, they were balanced. Those hours spent covered in blood with a knife in his hand developed a rather savage concept of reality. But, he always looked back on Sweet Grass Hill to bring peace to his soul. About the time James headed home to Appalachia, the tangible was gaining speed upon the intangible, and you could tell that with one look in James’ eyes. He was slowly moving in the right direction, edging away from the brink when Dr. Chode began his evaluation. The doctor was pressing, but James remained cool and collected, at least externally, when Dr. Chode said to James that he doesn’t know himself. For all James had been through in life, he was perhaps the most self-aware individual Dr. Chode ever evaluated. At the least he knew himself well enough to call it quits in Montana and head home before he drew the blood of another man with his knife.
Dr. Chode was notoriously greedy for power. He liked to stick his dirty finger deep into his patient’s mouth and wriggle it until they screamed and cried in such a manner that made all the professionals decide the patient must be committed to a mental hospital. Dr. Chode had countless people committed to mental institutions. After he saw the look in James’s eyes and heard his preliminary evaluation, Dr. Chode had a hard-on to stick his finger deep in James’s mouth and wriggle it, and show James who was boss. It was a game he liked to play. Long ago Dr. Chode forgot about trying to cure patients and began throwing his weight just to watch the people squirm. He was a good doctor at one point in time, but after a short while he got bored and found his position frustrating, trying to help people who couldn’t even understand that they needed help.
After James’s first experience with Dr. Chode, James made up his mind. He said to himself that he was going to be as casual and rational as possible. He didn’t want to make a long stay on the Seventh Floor, and furthermore he didn’t want to be committed to a mental institution. It was James’s deepest aspiration, like many people, to be free. He knew freedom rode the vehicle of knowledge and activity, but James’ limited realm of experience left him a little oppressed in the eyes of sane society. He knew a little bit about nature, and a little bit about peyote and Sweet Grass Hill, and a lot about blood and where meat can be cleaved from the bone with the greatest of ease. On the other hand, Dr. Chode had all the freedom that James ever dreamed of. James wasn’t about to get emotional over the whole situation and become a slave to people’s opinions. Medicine was supposed to be a science based upon facts and solid evidence, but Dr. Chode’s opinion of James left James’ livelihood hanging in the balance. James was a good dude. He didn’t need this shit. He just cut a little too much meat. The peyote didn’t help, and Coyote was probably howling with laughter as he watched his trick unfold on James from the heavens. Or was it a trick? Maybe there was a little truth in that mysticism.
James had enough. He knew where he stood, and knew every inch of ground was going to be an introspective struggle with wit and self-control. It was a mind game at this point and James knew he would have to be a bit wilier than Coyote. Spirit got him into this mess, and it was his only hope on getting him out. James needed to appear cool-usual, but what was cool and usual to him was a far stretch to call sane. Blood and peyote conditioned James’s mind in a way that any observer perceived James as anxious and wild-eyed. His soul was drowning in blood, and you could see it in his eyes. He was disconnected, and it was time for some assimilation, but he picked the damnedest place to do it. Conformity isn’t worth much in the confines of white walls and small tinted windows. A mind could fall deeper into the abyss of psychosis in that environment. The frame of reference to judge your own state of mind was heavily skewed on the Seventh Floor. The only personalities he had to assimilate with were the crazies, or the doctors and staff. Patients complained with each other over their disdain with bingo. The conspiracy theory that the patients were being fed rat poison at night was not uncommon, and many were certain they had worms in their brains. Some of the most sane minds and personalities were those of the plants that he viewed on the other side of the window of the Seventh Floor. It was a limbo but James’s situation wasn’t hopeless. The staff offered hot beverages every few hours, and there were a few nurses who were sincere and sympathetic. And there were a few patients who hadn’t completely lost touch with reality.
James took his time about connecting with the people on the Seventh Floor. The atmosphere of the Seventh Floor was a little intimidating. Even if James had the desire to converse with most of the patients, he didn’t have the slightest idea on how to approach them, but regardless he had to make a connection with someone there. He cooled in his room until lunch, then after eating he began scoping out potential allies. The first target was a short, quiet fellow named Ryan. He had on a pair of white slippers that caught James’ eye. Ryan looked like a man deep in thought, not perplexed or burdened by the Seventh Floor, but rather contemplative of his own purpose pondering what he had to offer the world and what exactly was he looking for in life. Just the sight of Ryan was calming to James. He was about twelve years older than James, and the most intriguing thing about Ryan was how he distanced himself from most of the people who were totally fruit-loops. Ryan wasn’t disfunctionally anti-social. He just suffered from depression, and that made him a bit of an introvert. James approached him.
“How’d you score the slippers?” James asked.
“You mean the shower-shoes? I just asked. They have a shitload in the stockroom,” Ryan replied.
“Man, I need something for my feet. Walking around this place in nothing but my socks is killing my knees and ankles!” James went on. “My name’s James. I just came in yesterday.”
Ryan cracked a bit of a smile and shot back, “That’ll happen.”
There wasn’t a whole lot that could be said between those two. Neither wanted to know why the other was there. It was of no use. Sure it would have been amusing, but when you get down to brass tacks the only substance that was worthwhile in that situation was conversation that held no substance at all.
“How old are you?” James asked
“Thirty-five.” Ryan replied, then there was silence. The two men just sat and enjoyed the peace as best as they could. Silence was something James was used to. There was a lot of silence in Montana. It was tranquil, but very
lonely, and after a while, the silence left him feeling hollow. Silence let his mind wander leaving him deep in thought, and after some time James found himself constantly pondering companionship almost to the point of obsession. The thought of Coyote that night on Sweet Grass Hill usually broke that obsessive preponderance. Then his thoughts shifted towards the great riddle.
“How am I the great warrior of my people? What will I fight?”
It took five years and an admittance to the Seventh Floor before James finally began filling in the puzzle. He was to fight the battles as they came. His vision was symbolic and intangible, and he needed to enhance the things in his life that were symbolic and intangible, such as personal relationships. The Seventh Floor was a good place to start but it had its limits. James doubted that he could get where he needed to go from the Seventh Floor, but he figured gentle therapeutic efforts were worth a try. Talking with Ryan seemed to break the ice, but James was a long way from appearing sane.
“One day at a time,” James thought. “Nothing I can do now.”
Being confined to the Seventh Floor left James feeling a little empty. He couldn’t feel the wind in his hair and the sun shine down on his face. He was a prisoner. There was none of that good radioactivity found in organic matter, just white halls and three converging wings of carpeted floors. All the positive energy within the living world was lacking on the Seventh Floor. Patients were removed from the essential relationships that create a healthy mind. James sat in the lounge with Ryan for the next few hours watching CNN. The Midwest was being ravaged by tornados. Watching weather reports was all that made James feel any connection with the outside world, but he was displaced, both physically and mentally. Ryan was watching too.
“Man, God must be pissed!” Ryan remarked. “No sympathy for the Midwest.”
The comment struck a nerve with James. Despite all his interest in mysticism and magic, and his experience with Paahssaakii, he never turned his back on his Christian roots and the Christian God, Jehovah. His roots were all that kept him from killing someone after working in that slaughter house for five years. God kept James close and made sure he didn’t get bloodthirsty. James was young and receptive, and his environment was well capable of instilling delusions of violence with all the sights and smells it had to offer. Body parts piled up on their way to the incinerator. Dead eyes stared you in the face stealing your breath. The feel of warm blood up to your elbows and the smell of intestines curdled any feelings of comfort you held within. Most of the men James worked with were totally normal, but James was a lonely young man, a transient. He had nothing to bring him happiness. All he had was his limited experience conditioning his whole conception of reality. Every now and then James would look over at Ryan and wonder,
“What would make him want to kill? What would make him want to destroy something beautiful?”
It was more a question of personal experience than a question of Ryan’s rationale and psychology. James had been to dark places, but truly believed that no matter what, good would prevail. No matter what Hells a man may have gone through in his life, he could always lean on truth and righteousness to bring him back from the darkest of places. It was the innate power of the Great Creator that burned bright deep down inside of him and every man. James wasn’t as much of a devout believer in Christianity, or any religion for that matter, as he was a philosopher of virtues, and a believer in the human spirit. He believed that humans, as self-aware stewards of this great Earth, we are both entitled to, and responsible for achieving the higher pleasures in life; righteousness, utility, and virtue. By the time James said goodbye to Montana he was beginning to get dangerously close of proving himself wrong and shoving his steel deep into the heart of a human being. Being so close to death for so long was beginning to work away the righteousness, utility, and virtue within James. He felt empty. His day to day did not greet him with evidence of good in the world. Experience was showing him nothing but mortality and mutilation. His beliefs were almost shaded with a crimson hue, but he knew when enough was enough and it was time to come home. James wanted to ask Ryan the filthy questions, particularly what would strike the correct nerve to make Ryan want to destroy something beautiful, but it was of no use bathing in negativity. James thought about the tornadoes on the news and wondered,
“Was it a rain dance gone wrong? Was it the wrath of the Almighty?”
To James’s surprise,
“What’s your opinion on spirituality and religion?” Ryan asked at that instant.
“I hold faith in the Christian God,” James replied “But I have experienced things that make me see the spirit of him in nature, almost to the point of Animism. The sun, wind, water, plants, animals, and soil all have the Holy Spirit. I can see that when I’m in nature.” Then James’s voice lowered. “But between you and I, that’s what this place is dangerously lacking.”
James’ remark got the wheels turning in Ryan’s head. Ryan had never met anyone like James before, but that is not to say that he couldn’t comprehend or connect with the comment.
“I can see what you mean” Ryan said. “I used to go out to the lake by myself some nights, and I would sit there and be calmed by the water. And when I would hear the loons off in the darkness I would get this feeling inside of me. I guess it was the feeling of the Holy Spirit like you said.”
The two sat deep in thought for a little while, milling over what the other had said. James started to feel a connection with another person. It was simple, and it was exactly what he needed. James soaked in the feeling for a little while. There was a sense of compassion between the two, and more than anything, James just needed to know someone else cared about him. That may have been the toughest thing about those five years spent in Montana: No one cared about his ideas or how he felt. He was just a worker, only looked at for his labors. All of the substance between his soul and that of the people he was around revolved around butchering meat. Eventually the compassion wore off, and both men were too tired to care about talking. James bade Ryan goodnight, and headed off to bed.
James rose at the breakfast call the next day. He ate his French toast and drank his milk then walked slowly to the lounge. He realized something that morning. The days pass slowly. No pleasant excitement, just the dull lapse of time. He realized if he hurried this thing along, he would find nothing but walls. The nurses and doctors were always in a damn big hurry. It got the blood pumping towards no tangible end. James started that day to condition himself towards blocking out all the periphery. Most hours of the day, screams and cries from the patients constantly broke a man’s focus. Comfort came in cycles with no sort of rhythm. Just as James settled into his chair or bed, and his mind relaxed, psychotic cries broke the airways creating tension in the mind once again. The doctors would march the halls in packs, and the nurses were constantly buzzing around administering medication and trying to hold conversations with the doctors, patients, and each other. The confines of the Seventh Floor held an energy that grinded away the spirit of those held captive. There was no escape, only scrutiny and antagonism. Nurses forced pills down the throats of the patients. Doctors held evaluations with pointed questions that no patient could give answer with an appearance of temperance and control. At the very least, any person on the Seventh Floor could wear the diagnosis of depression. James was not that lucky, although that was primarily what he was suffering from, depression. The personality of most of the professionals created an interface between them and James that made James appear to be a monster. He was not feeling love so he could not reciprocate the expression. He was cold, and that made him a scary man. He knew that. He knew he could kiss ass and maybe weasel his way out of the Seventh Floor, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he would bide his time, and figure what “average” felt like.
After a long, slow walk filled with thoughts, James finally arrived at the empty lounge and took the remote control to the television in his hand. He took the privilege of turning on The Weather Channel. He
had the room all to himself. The television was his. At one time he believed watching TV was mind numbing and rotted the soul, but as he sat alone in the lounge that morning, he found an innocent indifference about the practice. He sat and watched the forecast for an hour or so then Ryan walked in. The meteorologists talked about the drought that was beginning to affect the country. James turned his head, and looked out the window. The trees he saw appeared to cry out to him for help. Their leaves weren’t wilting yet, but each tree, bush, and plant, knew what was about to come. James wondered would his great battle be one to console the spirit of nature and restore vitality to their lives? James couldn’t do anything about it from the Seventh Floor and it panged him so. James was dwelling on the spirit of nature, then images of lakes in the night appeared on the screen and loons hooted through the stereo. It broke James’s thought, and struck a nerve in Ryan.