When I found Jonas, he was talking to a circle of girlfriends, frequently mentioning that he lived in New York, and oblivious to the table of men mad-dogging him directly to his left. Even if the local yokels weren’t with these women, they still might see fit to protect them. It’s impossible to exaggerate the prevalence of “He-bothering-you-ma’am?” heroism among this crowd.
Meanwhile, I’d been spotted.
“Crack McPerm. Look at you, motherfucker.”
Searfoorce.
“Take a shot with me.”
We tossed back something awful that no one should be drinking after their college years, probably a Fireball. Searfoorce was a high school buddy, the varsity soccer captain our senior year.
“How’s New York?”
“It’s good. It’s really cool.”
“How much is your rent?”
“Twelve hundred dollars for a shoebox with two roommates.”
“See, that’s retarded. I have a house, and I pay five hundred dollars: two-car garage, finished basement, three bedrooms, a yard.”
“That would be cool. I just don’t really want to live in Wichita right now.” I added the “right now” because halfway through my sentence I worried I might sound condescending.
“I see you’re already wearing skinny jeans. Can your nuts breathe in those things?”
I told him my nuts were okay.
“It’s just gay.”
I held my tongue, eyeing his baggy Abercrombie jeans with the bottoms dragging on the floor, his short-sleeved T-shirt over long-sleeved T-shirt, and his backward KU hat. Back in high school there wasn’t much separating us. We took the same AP classes, got similar grades, went to the same parties, recited the same SNL skits, dated the same girls. But in college, Searfoorce never eased off the throttle when it came to drinking and he slowly flamed out. Eventually, he told his parents he’d graduated—and even participated in the graduation ceremony—despite being six credits short.
“Anyway dude, it’s good to see you, Crack McPerm,” he said. “I heard you’re doing stand-up in New York. That’s fucking awesome. That’s like, my dream life.”
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” I lied. I had no desire to clue him in on what had so abruptly halted my little experiment, doubly so since his eyes were already bright red and watery. At every high school party, you could set your watch to Searfoorce puking in his hands. He’d shake ’em dry and keep going. Seemed like it was getting to be about that time.
“Dude, you should come back to my house after this and watch the Northwest soccer highlight reel. I watched it the other day. We should’ve beat Saint Thomas, dude. For real. We could’ve won State.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Jonas and I went out Irish, leaving Searfoorce to puke or find someone willing to break down tape on the 2001 Saint Thomas Aquinas game.
Jonas and I had been driving for nearly an hour when he realized something was wrong. I’d had more to drink than him, so he agreed to drive. “Did it take this long to get to the bar?” he asked. “Seems like no.”
“It didn’t.”
“Are you lost? In Wichita?”
“I know where we are, but I can’t really figure out the route home.”
“Doesn’t that mean we’re lost?”
“I know where we are; just let me think a minute. Take a left at the QuikTrip.”
Jonas let out a deep breath and flicked the turn signal aggressively. I could tell he was both annoyed and suspicious that I wasn’t being completely straight with him.
“I feel like we’ve passed that gas station five times now. Are you sure you’re all right? You were acting weird at the movie, but I thought you were just feeling it too hard.”
I was still feeling it too hard. True Grit was banging around in my head; it had been too funny, too perfect. I wanted to watch the entire movie again and type out every line of dialogue. I felt I was unique in my ability to catch and appreciate every nuance the Coen brothers had injected into the film. Replaying the dialogue felt like recalling an epic live performance of your favorite song by your favorite band. Even if the entire audience is rocking out, you’re convinced you appreciate the details—the bass line, the snare, the riffs, the lyrics, whatever—on a different level. Copying the movie seemed almost imperative. I needed to put Jonas to bed and pull my laptop out. Hypergraphia: condition characterized by an overwhelming compulsion to write. But can’t you feel manic without being manic?
When we got to the light, I changed my directions and told him to go left. He didn’t move when the light turned green. “You just said take a right. I’ve been driving with you for three days here and you’ve never once even had to look at your phone for directions. Now we’re driving in fucking circles. Are you okay?”
“No.” Straightforward and honest enough, but not much help to a New Yorker lost in Kansas. “I know where we are. I just can’t tell you properly. You have to do the exact opposite of what I’m telling you.”
“What?”
“My instincts are exactly wrong every time I tell you to go left or right. So if I tell you to go left, you should go right. Then we’ll be going the right way.”
“Dude, do you know where we’re going?”
“Well, no, but I know how to get us there.”
“Do you realize you’re making absolutely no sense?”
“I know it might seem like that, but think about what I’m telling you. I’ve been wrong one hundred percent of the time, so if you do the opposite of what I’m telling you, you’ll be doing the right thing. Two negatives equal a positive, you know?”
I did recognize all the landmarks we were passing, but each time we arrived at an intersection, it was like I’d been struck with directional dyslexia. My thoughts were cycling so quickly I couldn’t hold one in my head for more than a second. My double-negative plan had initially made so much sense to me, but then I realized that if I kept changing my mind, I’d mix correct and incorrect instructions. Fuck. A negative times a positive equals a negative, and for my plan to work, I needed to be able to hold the incorrect answer in my head long enough to relay it to Jonas so that he could do the opposite. I decide to fake the funk: Don’t think, just react on instinct. You are in your native habitat.
Three turns later I’d navigated us out of the Wichita city limits and into the sticks. We were barreling down a dusty country road with barren cornfields on either side of us. Jonas slammed on the brakes and put the car in park. “Are you okay?!”
“No.”
“Are you fucking around?”
“No.”
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“Yes.”
Jonas stared at me. “Are you sure you want me to call the po?” We were still public defenders, after all, and seeking help from law enforcement wasn’t exactly second nature to either of us.
“No…” My voice started to tremble, and then I exploded, “But you have to do the opposite of what I say, so you have to call them!” I jumped out of the car and started sprinting down the dirt road. I was desperate to be understood, and mid-sprint, a genius plan came to mind. What does Jonas know about my first episode? That I was found half naked on the subway. I have to reenact it to the best of my ability! I started stripping as I ran. I untied my boots and tossed them to the side of the road; my shirt followed, then my pants. I was flying. It was eighteen degrees outside and the field was frosted over. If this didn’t convince him that I needed to go to the hospital, I didn’t know what would. I was also trying to get us back on track: If he wouldn’t listen to my directions, maybe I could run him back to the highway. He’d have to follow me or I’d freeze to death.
Jonas floored it down the dirt road and slammed on the brakes a few yards ahead of me. I started banging on the window, begging him to let me back in, but he wouldn’t. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was just biding his time, assessing proper protocol for a situa
tion like this, whatever it might be.
Finally he unlocked the door, but he got out of the car as soon as I got in—ostensibly to retrieve my clothes, but he seemed more concerned with creating a buffer between us. Once he’d gathered up my boots, shirt, and pants, he drove us back onto the highway. He would have called 911 immediately, but what could he tell them, “I’m on the corner of cornfield and cornfield”?
Things escalated on our journey to find a government agency that could help. Along the way, I asked Jonas if he wanted me to stick my fingers up my ass. He declined. “You can put your fucking clothes on if you want, though.” Instead I reclined the seat of my grandma’s ’88 Corolla station wagon, turned over on my stomach, and proceeded to get a couple of fingers in there.
“This is going to be such a laugh tomorrow, though, isn’t it?” I asked him.
“No.” His answer was sharp, borderline rude. “Hey, though, do put your clothes on.”
I hit my head against the passenger side window and told him, “Just throw me out of the car!”
He said he’d never do that.
“Don’t let me jump out of the car!”
“Dude,” he said, “don’t jump out of the car. You’re not going to jump out of the car.”
“Just throw me out of the car!”
“I would never do that.”
I was worried I would or wouldn’t be tossed out of the car. Every fifteen seconds, the desirable option seemed to switch. Then I’d start breathing again and try to convince Jonas that it was all going to be a big laugh tomorrow.
“No, it’s not,” he kept saying.
Prude.
Jonas eventually found a firehouse. He pulled up and ran inside. I knew my brain was going haywire, but I still had a loose grip on reality. I was relieved to be there; I knew I was where I needed to be. Manicked, panicked, and fucked but still marginally lucid. When Jonas came back outside, he said to me, “Don’t say anything about the weed.”
“No shit, I got this now.”
Upon the arrival of the EMTs, I explained my condition to them—told them I was bipolar, I’d been hospitalized before, and I was having a manic episode. They asked me if I would get into the ambulance. I said I would. They strapped me down.
Chapter 15
There was no medical equipment in the room, only two chairs and a TV. The attendant explained nothing, told me to take a seat, flicked on the TV, and walked out of the room.
A doctor with thick dark hair and a thick dark beard appeared on the screen; he could have been me in twenty years. “Hi, Zachary.” It scared the shit out of me.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, you’re Zachary, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you live in New York?”
“Yes.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“And why are you here?”
“I’m bipolar, I’m having a manic episode, but no psychosis, and I’m not a danger to myself or others.” I knew it was important to work those magic words into my file.
“Have you ever been hospitalized before?”
“Yes. Look, you know all of this shit already. I know what you’re doing and I don’t like it.”
The screen seemed to be flashing back and forth between images of the doctor and images of me—his face, my face, his face, my face. Then the images appeared to be morphing into each other—my eyes, my upper lip, his hair and cheeks, my mouth, then the inverse. Why are they doing this? Are they trying to see if I’ll notice that they’re manipulating the images? It seemed like a cruel way to test a possibly psychotic person’s perception of reality. “What the fuck is going on with the TV?”
“What’s going on with the TV, Zachary?”
“It’s changing. It’s changing from me to you. I can see it changing. It’s both of our faces. My face, then your face, then both of them mixed up.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you are. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
“Just stop it! I can see what you’re doing with the feed. You can stop now. It’s pissing me off.”
“Stop what?”
I cut him off by getting up and leaving the room. I had no idea whether I’d just passed the test or failed miserably—or if I was even being tested. Am I going psychotic again? I knew enough to know that I wasn’t in a typical waiting room; if I stayed, I’d be locked up, but if I could hold it together and make a move right now, it was possible I could still walk out of here.
The receptionist was reading an Us Weekly while a junkie yammered on about needing some cigarettes right fucking now.
“What the hell was that?” I asked the receptionist.
“What was what?”
“That video shit. What was that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why were the doctors messing with the feed?”
“Messing with the feed?”
“This is all a trick, huh? I know what’s going on. I need to sleep.”
“They are trying to find you a bed, I think.”
“What if I just write on a sheet of paper that I am an attorney and I am not a danger to myself or others and I do not consent to being here?”
“Are you sure you want to do that, sweetie?”
I wasn’t sure. But my instinct was telling me to get out of there. Bail, before it’s too late. “I don’t want to stay here. I want outpatient. I want my Granny. Call my Granny. I want to go to her house. She’ll pick me up.” I was still connected enough to reality to know that the Bird was visiting Alexa in Chicago and wouldn’t be coming to get me.
“We can call her, honey, but are you sure you don’t want to be here?”
“I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”
“That’s up to you. What do you think you need to do?”
It sounded like a riddle. Does saying I want to leave mean that I’m not fit to leave if any rational person could tell that I needed to be there?
“I want to leave.”
Granny was at the psych ER in twenty minutes. She smelled like my childhood. But she had her funeral face on—I hadn’t seen her like this since Uncle Eddie died. I swallowed the Risperdal the nurse gave me and we stepped outside. There was ice on the ground and I was so tired I needed my eighty-year-old grandma to prop me up. Granny is a stout old farm girl and she managed to lug me into the car. I was starving, ready for her to cook me some bacon and eggs at 4 a.m. I figured she’d be more than happy to.
“We need to call my mom,” I said as I sat down at the breakfast bar back at her house.
“It’s really early, son.”
“I need to talk to her.”
Full of unbridled manic joy from having managed to talk myself out of an involuntary stay at the psych ward, I called the Bird.
“Hey, boy,” she groggily answered.
“Bird! I’ve figured it out. I know what I’m going to do!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get Uncle Eddie’s old chain wallet. I’m going to take it back to New York with me and I’m going to wear it! But first Granny is going to fill it with cash! I’m going to leave Wichita with a pocket full of cash! Granny is going to give me a few grand! I know she is.”
“You don’t sound too good, Gorilla.”
“Mom! You’re not listening to me! I have a plan. I want that wallet and I want it full of cash!”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Granny’s. She’s cooking me bacon and eggs.”
“It’s four in the morning. What are you doing at Granny’s?”
“I just told you.”
My grandpa was now up and reflexively placed his own order of bacon and eggs. Granny served us both, then sat on a stool at the bar and stared at me. She started to cry, hard.
“Granny, why are you crying?” I asked as I put my hand over the phone.
“Son, what are you talking about?” Granny asked.
“I want that wallet, Granny. And I need cash. I need cash. Granny, look at me. Do you have any idea how quick I can flip ten grand into a hundred? Six months.”
“Let me talk to Mom,” she said. I handed her the phone.
“Cin-Cin, he’s not good,” Granny sobbed. “I just picked him up at the hospital. They said he was running through a field. He’s not good…Cin-Cin, I can’t handle him. He’s out of control. He’s so muscular, just like Uncle Eddie. But he was so weak I practically had to carry him to the car…”
She hung up the phone and told me that the Bird was going to call Dr. Singh.
“That’s a great idea, Granny. He’ll make you feel better. He’ll tell you I’m okay.”
I finished my breakfast and stretched out on the couch in the TV room. Instinctively, I punched in 32—ESPN. SportsCenter was on, but I suddenly became unbearably agitated and it was impossible to sit still. I decided I needed a blanket pallet, like Granny used to make for me when I stayed home sick from school. “Granny, come make me a pallet.” She did. “Granny, rub my back.” She struggled to lower herself to the floor and began rubbing my back, no mention of how odd my request was.
Manic as all hell but clinging to lucidity, I knew I needed sleep and I thought the back rub might do the trick. But she just couldn’t get the pressure right—first too hard, seconds later too soft. My temperature felt like it was rapidly fluctuating. One moment I was freezing, the next I was uncomfortably hot. “Just stop!” I snapped after a few minutes. “You’re doing it wrong.” My grandpa stood in the doorway of the TV room, breathing heavily.
An hour passed before my mom was able to get ahold of Dr. Singh and call back. When the phone rang, I was army-crawling into Pa’s bedroom closet, so restless that I had to move but unable to stand up. The scent of the carpet, Pa’s old pool cue from Ki’rea, the coffee can full of commemorative quarters that he used to save for me—everything was exactly where it needed to be and it overwhelmed me. I was time-traveling back to my rug-rat days and simultaneously warping into the future—to a time when these coins would be dumped into a sorting machine at a local branch of Intrust Bank and when the coffee cans would be recycled and the ties and shirts bagged and dumped into a Salvation Army bin. And I could feel the birthday parties of my childhood and the heaviness of the rolls of quarters he’d hand me and the Sunday dinners, when he’d still be in his short-sleeve button-down and old brown tie before changing into his blue Dickies jumpsuit for dinner. I could even feel the games of pool at the USO hall in some South Korean city. I could feel his whole life stretching out on a continuum and I could feel, sure as shooting, his death. I started to cry.
Gorilla and the Bird Page 17