Loco: A Novel

By Arnold M. Ludwig

Larry Olson, a twenty-two years old conscientious objector, is sentenced by his draft board during the Viet Nam war to spend two years of alternative service on the back ward of a mental hospital. At odds with his family, country and himself, he dreads working there. Then, on his first day, he learns the chronic schizophrenics pose less danger to him than certain "sane" staff members. To complicate matters, Larry soon gets drawn into a nasty power struggle between the ward psychiatrist and psychologist, who espouse different forms of treatment. He also becomes entangled in a thorny, romantic relationship with Rhonda, an aide, which forces him to face his sexual hang-ups. Meanwhile, the ward becomes unmanageable for no apparent reason. Even high doses of tranquilizers fail to quell the violence and sexual activity among patients. Larry eventually figures out the cause for these mysterious happenings. In the process, he also succeeds in putting his own demons to rest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595859252

Arnold M. Ludwig

Arnold Ludwig is the author of ten nonfiction books, including The Price of Greatness, How Do We Know Who We Are? and King of the Mountain, and one prior novel, Mount Aesculapius. He currently lives in New England, where he is working on another novel.

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Chapter 1

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WELCOME

My sentence in Hell starts today.

With my reluctant thumb, I stop a taxi in front of the Y.

Winoma State Hospital, I shout, tossing my duffel bag on the back seat.

As I slide in I see the cabby’s eyes, half buried in puffy bags of skin, cagey eyes that fill the rearview mirror, checking me out. They take in my red polka dot bandana and long hair and four day beard and dark shades. He probably takes me for a doper, going in for detox. I shift over so he’ll have trouble seeing me.

Going for a stay? he asks.

At least two years, I tell the back of his head, not bothering to explain. If I say I’m a med student, he’s sure to think I’m delusional.

The traffic’s heavy as we head for the outskirts of the city. Instead of looking at the scenery, I’m fascinated by the show up front. The cabby’s left elbow rests on the open window while his cigarette, wedged in the crotch between two fingers, showers ashes on me in the back seat. With his right arm draped across the top of the passenger seat, he changes lanes, even turns, with only his belly against the wheel.

You bastard, he yells when a car cuts in front of ours, and gives it the finger.

Finally, we pass through a massive stone arch and pull up at the gate house. The ‘lude I took last night to sleep left me with a hangover, and the joint I smoked this morning to relax isn’t working. My head throbs, my heart feels like a trip hammer, and I need to take a wicked leak. Stay calm, I tell myself. This is all some big joke. But I’m scared shitless.

Admission Office, the cabbie tells the guard.

Wait a minute, I protest. Housekeeping. In the Service Building.

The guard looks skeptically at me, then at the cabbie, who shrugs.

I explain quickly, I’m supposed to report for work today.

The guard says, Let me see your driver’s license.

What’s that got to do with anything? I say, but reach for my wallet.

Are you sure that’s you? he asks after glancing up at me from the picture several times.

No, it’s my identical twin brother.

He ponders my remark, frowns, then raises the gate rail to let us through.

We follow signs along a winding road lined by drab brick buildings. The cabbie stops once to let some hunched figures shuffle across. All too soon we turn into a circular driveway and pull up in front of a medieval-looking building with ivy crawling up the walls.

Here it is. Then the cabbie announces the fare.

I count out the money, trying to keep my hands from shaking. Then I add a big tip. I’m not sure why. Certainly not because he earned it. Maybe because I need somebody’s good will before I disappear into this hell hole.—Anybody’s, even if he doesn’t know me.

They notified me to check in first with Housekeeping to get my room key, towels and other stuff before reporting for work. When I enter the small office at the side of the building, the gray-haired, mousey woman behind the desk gives a start.

Yes? her voice quavers. Her eyes look beyond me to the open doorway and then at her phone.

I’m tempted to curl my hands into claws, like I’m about to pounce on her. Instead, I pull out the letter and say, I was told to report here.

After reading the letter, she relaxes. You’ll probably want to clean up before starting.

No need, I bathed several months ago.

She looks at me funny, shakes her head, then gives me directions to my room.

With my duffle bag on my back, I make my way to the old nurses’ dormitory building, now converted into living quarters for staff. My own place, according to Miss Housekeeping, is a single room on the third floor overlooking the parking lot.

When I walk to the building, I try to be upbeat. Heck, two years isn’t a lifetime. With my basic expenses covered, the tiny pittance I’ll be making can go toward a stereo, maybe even one of those hot new component systems. I can get my Stones, my Dylan, my Jefferson Airplane from home. And after that, I’ll start saving for a used car. Buoyed by that prospect, I climb the stairs and locate my room. By now, I’m sweaty and short of breath. I drop my load by the door and reach for my key. When I turn my key in the lock, instead of unlatching, the bolt fastens. Hmmn, weird. I turn the key again.

A godawful odor clobbers me the moment I enter the room. Then I see it. Plopped right on the middle of the floor is a gleaming pile of dog shit, heaped bigger than a chocolate smoothie, topped off by a curlicue. It must’ve come from an acromegalic Great Dane with a whipped cream can for an anus. A scrap of paper lies beside it. I approach the mess and gingerly pick up the note. Printed in large, bold letters, it reads, Here is your welcome presant, you fucking, Commie traiter. You better watch your step!

Sickened, I survey the sparsely furnished room. Nothing else seems disturbed. With trembling hands, I dial the hospital operator and ask for Hospital Security. Waiting for the guard to arrive, I find an empty cardboard box in the hallway, rip off two flaps on top, and use them to shovel up the mess. The cardboard begins to buckle under the weight as I rush to the bathroom down the hallway. Only after I flush the toilet do I indulge in the luxury of a full breath. Then I grab a bunch of paper towels with soap and water on some, take them back to my room and scrub the floor.

The security guard shows up fifteen minutes later. He’s a Mickey Spillane cop—a smash-nosed, tough-looking ex-jock gone to seed. He takes his time looking me over, then opens his notebook. At last, he greets me, "I heard about ‘chu. You’re the draft-dodger. Now tell me exactly what happened."

His face gets stony as I tell him.

When I’m done, he fixes me with a cold eye. You tampered with the evidence.

What?

You should’a left the shit alone. Now somebody could say you made up the whole story."

Story? Can’t you still smell it? Look, here’s the note. I hold it out.

He glances at it, but doesn’t take it. You know how to write, don’t’chu?

Why would I do that? I protest.

Who knows? He puts his notebook away. People do strange things.—Like not serving their country.

What’s that got to do with this?

It could be the reason for what happened.

Look, if you’re blaming me because I’m a C.O., maybe I ought to call the city police.

Now don’t go threatening me. This is State property, and they got no jurisdiction here less there’s a felony or somebody’s in danger. They got nothing to do with a harmless prank.

Harmless prank? You read the note. It’s a personal threat.

Hell, no, kid. Not as I read it. There’s no threat. It’s only telling you to be careful where you walk. You wouldn’t wanna step on dog shit. You gotta understand some folks are pretty pissed off about ‘chu being unpatriotic. I see nothing dangerous here. Nothing’s stolen. No damage to property.

The man is actually smirking. To him, this is all a big joke.

What about breaking and entering?

He shrugs. Look, let me give you some advice. Don’t stir up any more trouble. Considering what’chu done, you got to expect some nastiness. Just be grateful it weren’t worse. The last draft-dodger that was here was a trouble-maker, too. Making all kinds’a ridiculous claims.

Another C.O.? When was he here?

Oh, ’bout three months ago. Here less ‘an a week. Couldn’t take it.

What happened to him?

Nobody knows. Suddenly disappeared. Administration reported him to the draft board, but ain’t heard nothin from them. Probably hightailed it to Canada.

Or somebody killed him! The thought makes me shudder.

After the oinker leaves, I pace the room, debating what to do next. Should I tell the Superintendent? Should I see a lawyer? And how can I keep something worse from happening? I can’t expect any help from Hospital Security.

I check my watch. I’m a half hour late already. Quickly, I open my window to air out the room, grab a copy of the hospital map, and then lock the door on my way out. Fat lot of good that will do! As I hurry along the concrete walkways to Building Z, all the stories I ever heard about the C.O.’s they used as guinea pigs during WWII come back to me.—The sadistic medics infecting them with the flu, starving them, forcing them to drink salt water, exposing them to blistering heat and decompression tests, and the worst experiment, which makes my skin crawl, getting 30 C.O.’s to wear clothes infested with lice for 10 days and then dousing them with different poisons to see how long each took to kill the nits.

I slow down as I catch sight of Building Z, a Swiss chalet A-frame with narrow, cross-barred windows. Maybe it’s not too late to escape. Instead of backing off, my feet carry me to the heavy wooden door, fortified by flattened iron bars. Don’t go inside, a voice in my head urges. I hesitate before pressing the buzzer, but my hand reaches out on its own. The jangling sounds like hundreds of alarm clocks going off at once, but nobody answers.

Okay, nobody’s home. They had their chance. Time to leave. Hasta la vista.

I ring again, and my stomach sinks as I hear a key turn on the other side. A burley, dark-haired man, dressed in whites and in his late thirties or early forties, unlocks the creaking door. Before I can open my mouth, he complains, What’s the big rush? Then he looks me over, and his face lights up. Hey, I know who you are. You’re Loco.

Huh?

‘L’ . . . ‘O’ . . . ‘C’ . . . ‘O.’ Larry Olson… Conscientious Objector. Get it?" Then he guffaws, turning his head partly over his shoulder to see if anybody else is nearby to hear his stupid witticism.

Oh, Jesus Christ! I expected to be hassled, but before I get in the door?

You can’t con me, he dares me to argue. When I don’t, he launches into a full-scale tirade. I know yer kind. And don’t give me that crap about being against the war. That’s a chicken-shit excuse for being a yellow-bellied, draft-dodger!

Hey, look,.

You make me want to puke. He clutches his throat with one hand. C’mon, I’ll take ya to see Mrs. Truman.

My unformed reply churns unsaid inside me. The fluorescent lights are so dim I need to take off my shades to see. As I trail behind this guy in the gloomy corridor, I’m expecting some madman to leap out at me from one of the rooms on either side, some would-be Napoleon or Tarzan or maybe even Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, who was recaptured recently after escaping from a mental hospital prison.

A chubby man in his mid-thirties with a brown goatee approaches from the opposite direction. He pauses and offers his hand. He’s wearing a coat and a tie, so I figure he’s one of the staff.

Probably because I look as I do, he takes me for a new patient. Welcome to Building Z, he says, a backward back ward for backward schizophrenics. I’m your local representative. Here, let me give you my card. As he fishes in his pocket I notice his coat is rumpled, the Mickey Mouse tie is hanging loosely around his neck instead of under his collar, and his shirt tail sticks out from his open fly, inviting me to yank it. The card he hands me has S. A. N. E. scrawled across it. If you’re wondering what it means, he explains before I can ask, "it stands for Schizophrenics Are Not Erational."

Bug off, Norm, my escort orders, shooing him away. Without turning to me, he comments out of the side of his mouth, Youse two make a great pair—L.O.C.O. and S.A.N.E., just as we arrive at the Nursing Station. Here’s the new guy, he adds to the Head Nurse, a sharp-featured, middle-aged woman with short hair and zipper lips who’s preparing medications. Then he vanishes.

You’re forty minutes late, the nurse announces, continuing on with what she was doing. What excuse do you have? No Hello, Pleased to meet you, Greetings from Hades.

Instantly on my guard, I try to explain. You see, when I opened the door to my room, there was this big pile of dogshit, and then I… .

Don’t you use language like that in here, she scolds. Where did you learn your manners?

"Sorry, I meant to say canine feces’’

She seems momentarily nonplused, then says, Apology accepted. But don’t let that happen again.

So as I was saying, I continue on in my explanation, I was… .

Please, I don’t want any excuses for neglecting your clinical duties.

Yes, Ma’am, I say, more frustrated then penitent.

Well, that’s better. Then, she softens. For your information, I’m Helen Truman. You may call me Mrs. Truman. I’ll be your supervisor. It’s my job to welcome you to Building Z.

Thanks.

Her eyes sweep over me. Appraising eyes, impersonal. She finishes drawing up some drug from an ampoule with a syringe before laying it on the medication cart. I sense her disapproval, which is no surprise, dressing as I did.

I see you’ve met Frank, She says. We call him Sarge. He feels strongly about The War. Try not to let him bother you.

What kind of advice is that? She’s his supervisor, so why doesn’t she just order the son-of-a-bitch to stop being a bastard?

She counts out pills into small, crinkled paper cups, then locks the medicine cabinet. Let me take you to the linen closet. You should find a uniform there that fits. After you change I’ll give you a short tour. Later this afternoon, I’ll get you started on your duties.

Mrs. Truman is wearing a red and white splotched blouse and a plain blue skirt, not like I expect a hospital nurse to look. Maybe she dressed that way to get me to pledge allegiance to her.

As we’re about to leave the Nursing Station, I catch a whiff of a strong cologne. A spiffily dressed gentleman in a blue pin-striped suit appears in the doorway. With his slicked down, raven-black hair, dark complexion and remote look, he looks like a matador. Another crazy? I give him a bemused look, half expecting him to pull a red handkerchief from his coat pocket and wave it in front of me.

Let me introduce you to Dr. Velasquez, our Ward Chief, Mrs. Truman says. Dr. Velasquez, this is Larry Olson, the new orderly. He’s starting work today.

I nod.

He responds with a barely raised eyebrow. I begin to see how far off I was. Everything about the Ward Chief, from his piercing eyes to his dead-pan expression and perfect manicure, suggests self-control. And humorlessness.

Reacting to the doctor’s eyebrow, Mrs. Truman adds, He’s the special case the hospital got approval to take on. And then, still trying to read his questioning look, she goes on, No, I haven’t had a chance yet to explain about the dress code.

Without a word to her, Dr. Velasquez turns to me, peering into my brain with those ophthalmoscopic eyes. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell what I’m thinking. I step back. With the trace of a lisp and his thick Spanish accent, which make him hard to understand, he asks, So you are not one of those who want to live or die for someone else’s ideals?

I’m not sure if he’s complimenting me or insulting me. Before I can think of a comeback, he spots the clever saying I made up and had printed on my sweatshirt for this occasion, Madness Is Only A State Of Mind! This time his scorn is unmistakable.

I see also you have much to learn about mental illness.

I want to explain my saying, which has several layers of meaning, each of them heavy. At least I thought so while stoned. But he dismisses me with a wave of his hand and turns back to the nurse. Now I know how a charging bull feels after the matador whooshes the cape aside and it’s left dumbly standing in the stadium, wondering where its tormenter went while the crowd’s shouting, Olé!.

Where is the chart of the patient, Benjie Brower? he asks.

On the counter, I think. Mrs. Truman trots like a good little robot to get it for him.

When we leave the nursing station, she brags, Dr. Velasquez is a brilliant psychiatrist. An expert on drugs—even published some papers. We’re lucky to have him.

So the shrink has excellent credentials. Great. But when you get to know him better and realize his human side, that’s when you really get to hate him.

As we near the locker room, an intense woman with electrified red hair charges at us.

Hello, Bess, Mrs. Truman says, seemingly calm, but I notice her stepping slightly out of reach. I do the same. Meet Mr. Olson, our new orderly. Mr. Olson, this is Bess Murphy.

Go t’hell! she greets me. Yuse’s one of them. You fucked up my mind. Jez let me out!

Bess, no one is keeping you here but yourself, the nurse answers in a practiced, syrupy voice. You know how you need to act if you want to get out.

The patient clenches her fist and glowers at the nurse. "Go fuck yerself, bitch.

Goes for you, too, she snarls at me. You wait and see… . I’ll get even with the both of yuse one of these days."

We haven’t done anything to you, Bess, the nurse patiently corrects. You’re the one always attacking people.

If yuse’d let me out, there wouldn’t be no trouble. This place is driving me crazy.

Well, that’s Bess, Mrs. Truman explains, as we move on. Believe it or not, she can be nice sometimes.

Yeah, right! But I’m not convinced.

As we get to the linen closet, Mrs. Truman delivers the bomb. Mr. Olson, I forgot to tell you the hospital has a strict dress code.

Fuck, here it comes. I’ve let my hair grow for a year despite constant nagging from my parents. Is she going to make an issue of it? What happens if this place rejects me? Where do you go if you’re unfit to work in a snake pit?

Nurses can dress in street clothes or uniforms, Mrs. Truman says, but attendants have to wear uniforms at work. Also, Dr. Shubert, the Superintendent, insists no male staff can have beards. Mustaches are okay, if they’re neatly trimmed.

Yeh, like Hitler’s. But what about the Bill of Rights? I want to protest. Instead, like a wimp, I wait for the rest of the sentence.

Since today is you’re first day, we’ll let the hair on your chin go, but tomorrow I’ll expect you to come in clean-shaven.

Before I can savor my relief, she hands me a set of whites and directs me to the dressing room. I twist my hair and tie it with my bandana, hang my clothes in an empty locker, and head for the head. After urinating, I go to the sink to wash my hands. When I raise my head, the drawn, unshaven face of a madman is staring right into mine. Who’s that? Oh, no. The sunken-eyed guy in the mirror is me! It’s a wonder the shrink didn’t toss me into a padded cell when he saw me.

I splash some cold water on my face, dab it dry with a paper towel and inspect it closely in the mirror. God, I look awful! My left eye is twitching the way a horse’s flank does trying to shake off a fly. But what spooks me is I can’t match the bitter, confused face in the mirror with the image of me I store in my head of a grinning, clean-cut, tanned, good-looking guy in a coat and tie standing next to my proud father. My arm’s slung around my father’s shoulders and I’m already a couple of inches taller than him despite being only a sophomore in high school. My mother took the picture at the school award ceremony when the principal gave me a certificate for winning the essay contest. The title of my essay, if you can believe it, was The Importance of the Family. What a joke!

The twitches are going haywire now. If Mrs. Truman sees me like this, she’s going to freak out, figuring I’m winking at her. I shudder and rub my eyelid until the tics turn into barely noticeable squirms. As I’m doing this, my mind starts catering to my fears by conjuring up new ordeals. What next—a patient attacking me, more humiliation by the psychiatrist, harassment by the other ward staff? The way my mind works is funny. It’s like there’s a narrator in my head, a snoop that knows everything going on with me, maybe like a psychoanalyst taking notes while the patient’s free associating, assessing everything but not even fazed by the wildest fantasies he hears. But my narrator’s not bound by confidentiality. The snitch has no qualms about revealing my private thoughts to me, because it’s like I’m also the audience listening to his notes about what’s going on with me. Confusing? You bet. But I’d much rather have my mind be this way than be kept in the dark about myself.

Hey, Loco!, a familiar nasty voice booms out. You in there? Get your stupid ass out now. Mrs. Truman’s waiting.

Be out in a second, I yell, reorienting myself.

Mrs. Truman gives me a tour of the building, introducing me to several patients and other ward staff. No way am I going to remember everybody’s name. The other aides seem nice enough, but, like the Sarge, probably think I’m a traitor, too. Sometimes my heart crowds my chest so much I feel like I’m smothering. It takes all my willpower not to bolt out of the door. Then I chide myself, Hey, cut the hysterics! So I grab my mind by the scruff of its imaginary neck, give it a hard shake until it goes limp, and order it to behave. Cowed by my irritation, it obeys only until my attention shifts, then acts up again.

Later, at lunch, I sit alone in the hospital cafeteria, sorting through my impressions of the ward. Whoever designed the building must’ve been a madman. On either side of a long, narrow corridor stretching from the entrance at one end to the dining area at the other, are a string of tiny, cramped rooms for patients, which would make good pit-and-pendulum torture chambers for claustrophobics. Scattered without rhyme or reason among them are offices and treatment rooms. This haphazard arrangement makes it impossible to block off the male and female sleeping areas. So, as I hear, it’s common for patients to wander at night into rooms belonging to members of the opposite sex and doing whatever kooky people do. Then there’s the location of the Nursing Station, smack in the middle of the building. Instead of looking out onto the large dayroom where patients are, its big window faces a blank wall across the corridor. If a mirror was on that wall, then at least the nursing staff could keep an eye on itself.

Several employees passing by with trays of food eye me suspiciously. Maybe the word’s gotten out already about my arrival. Or maybe I’m being paranoid. There’s nothing strange about them being curious about a stranger. I shrug and get ready to leave. Two older male orderlies approach me.

You the C.O.? one asks.

Yes, I pause, looking up at them.

The bald one sticks his extended middle finger right against my nose, snarling, Fuck you, you pinko, Commie bastard!

The other, an oaf with the lumpy features of a prizefighter, looms over me, threatening, You’ll wish you were in ‘Nam by the time we’s through with you!

I hope you got the message, the first one hisses.

After they’re gone, I sit there, shaken by the reference to the message. Were those the ones responsible?

Outside, the blazing sun, suspended in the milky blueness, seems trained on me like a prison searchlight—making me more visible for some hostile gunman who may have me in his sights. I glance from side to side. A gaggle of employees approach on the walkway, and I cut fast across the cropped lawn to avoid them, barely aware of the mole tracks collapsing beneath my feet. You were expecting flak, I remind myself, trying to regain my cool. As I pass the Alcohol Treatment Center, I see several patients in loose-fitting work clothes up ahead. I make myself face them, meet their eyes. Not a one of them seems to notice me. My clenched fists relax and my heart slows. Their obliviousness to my existence is oddly reassuring. It never occurred to me the scary ones wouldn’t be the patients, but the staff. This time, I let myself on the ward with my own set of keys. My watch shows I’m five minutes early for my orientation meeting with the ward psychologist. About 20 feet away, a large man, bulky but gangly, shambles stiff-legged towards me like Boris Karloff doing Frankenstein. One of his hands is extended, aimed right at my throat, while the other holds up his pants. I pound urgently on the door.

Come in! a voice booms heartily.

In my hurry to get inside, I trip over my own feet and go pitching forward into a cluttered, smoke-filled office, grab at the floor lamp for support, and go crashing down with it to the floor. With crossed feet propped on an oak desk, a big, bullet-headed man with a loosened tie, and his sleeves rolled way up on hairy arms, watches this spectacle quizzically and without moving. I wait for him to clap, but he kindly doesn’t.

As I slowly rise to my feet, my face burning with embarrassment, he grins, revealing widely spaced teeth beneath a bristly, brown mustache, bracketed by faint creases in his cheeks.

Quite an entrance. Didn’t hurt yourself, I hope? He sips from the mug of coffee he’s got balancing on the arm of his desk chair. In his other hand he grips a cigar stump. An open copy of Mad Comics lies in his lap.

I’m fine. All except my pride. I can’t help smiling as I realize what James Thurber would do with this scene.

Sit down… in a chair, that is. But he’s laughing with me, not at me.

Setting the coffee aside, he ponderously swings his feet off the desk, takes a quick puff of his cigar, and lays it in an ashtray before extending his other hand. It’s surprisingly delicate for someone so hefty.

Will Hammacher, he says. His dancing eyes and ready smile are like a cheerful fireplace after hours in a chill, hollow wind.

Larry Olson, I announce, trying to match his genial tone.

I clear several magazines from a chair and hand them to him, then sit facing him. He tosses them casually on a collapsing mound of newsletters, reprints of articles, patient charts, mimeographed memos, and opened letters on the wide desktop. It’s amazing how he ever finds anything without keeping track of what geological layer to excavate.

Yeah, I heard about you, you’re the new C.O. And a med student to boot. I want you to know I admire what you did. It takes guts to stick up for what you believe in—and refusing to apply for an educational deferment. He grabs the incredibly short cigar stub and somehow manages to extract one more puff, holding it like a joint between his thumb and first two fingers. That’s why I was looking forward to meeting you. We need more people like you on our staff. Intelligent people with courage.

Thanks, I say, but scoff to myself at the word courage. When I applied for the exemption as a C. O. on religious grounds, it never hit me alternative service to going to Viet Nam included mental hospitals. If it had, I never would’ve risked it. Ever since visiting my shell-shocked, great uncle at the Valley Forge hospital as a kid, I was afraid I’d go bonkers, too, especially after those spooky eyes began showing up in my dreams. Unseeing, all-seeing eyes, staring inside me, monitoring everything I do. Expecting me to flip out. I’m not crazy. Or I don’t think I am. Yet the irony of it all is I’m now in a loony bin, too, like my great-uncle.

It’s shitty that the Draft Board didn’t let you finish school, Hammacher says.

Yeh, right. If he only knew. It wasn’t the Draft Board that screwed me. It was me.

Can’t figure you out, Larry Olson, the Associate Dean said at our meeting. Top grades on all the objective tests. But not handing in your assignments. Missing labs. Dozing in class. Making wisecracks. Your attitude sucks. It’s unbefitting for a future physician. The Promotions Committee put you on probation, but you’ll have to repeat the year. You also need counseling. What do you have to say for yourself?

What could I say, except, I’m sorry? It was stupid coming stoned to class. But fuck the bit about seeing a shrink.

Done much reading about schizophrenia? Hammacher asks.

Eh, what? I say, reorienting myself.

He repeats the question.

A tickle in my throat triggers a cough. Not much.

Hope the smoke isn’t bothering you. He stubs out the smoldering remains of his cigar.

Just an allergy. I say. I don’t want to offend the only friendly person I’ve met in this place by complaining.

So how do you feel about being assigned here? But before I can answer, he continues. Building Z. Good name. End of the line. A lot of losers here, and I’m not just talking about the patients. Why else would people work in a back ward Siberia like this unless they’re forced to, like in your case, or they’re incompetent, or they’re screwed up and can’t find a job elsewhere, or they don’t know any better?

He grins, so I can’t figure out which of those options fits him.

"By the way, have you met our illustrious leader yet… Hector Domingo Velasquez?

Yes, this morning. He.

You see, he interrupts, swinging his feet back on the desk, I’m supposed to be running the psychotherapy program for the ward—group therapy, individual therapy, milieu therapy, behavior modification. But it’s a joke. Nobody really cares, except, of course, me, and a few other dedicated people. So we warehouse them in Building Z. And to make sure they don’t cause any trouble, we drug them to their institutional gills. That’s where psychiatry comes in. As he snorts, the wiry hair on his arms and on his head—what there was of that—seems to vibrate on end in the electricity of his indignation. By the way, how do you feel about drugging patients, giving them chemical lobotomies?

I’m against it! I announce, lifted on his rising passion, although right now I’d give anything for a doobie.

I figured you’d feel that way. He smiles grimly, unaware of my ignorance about psychiatric drugs. Fact is I’m not even sure about the difference between psychologists and psychiatrists, except maybe they don’t like each other. The point is, he continues, how can I be expected to socialize and rehabilitate people who’re zonked out on tranquilizers? Grasping the Mad Comics, he tosses it aside with exasperation. Then, catching himself, he smiles. Sorry about the sermon. I’ve got strong feelings about this.

Makes sense, I agree.

I’m glad to hear that. You’re new, and you haven’t seen for yourself yet what’s going on here. When you do, you’ll understand what I’m saying.

A mosquito alights on the back of his hand. Who knows what diseases these kooky insects on a mental ward carry? Probably something exotic, like Tsutsugamushi fever. I wait for Hammacher to slap the creature. Instead, he casually ignores it even as it burrows its snout into his skin. That impresses me. It’s something Albert Schweitzer might do.

Anything I can do to help? I hear myself saying.

My God, where did that come from? Before starting this job, I made up my mind not make any waves. And here, on my very first day, I’m volunteering to take on the ward chief and, maybe, the entire pharmaceutical industry.

As if he senses my reservation, he says, I appreciate your offer. But before you commit yourself, you need to know my philosophy about treatment. My firm belief is every patient on our ward, no matter how deteriorated or chronic, has the potential for rehabilitation. There’s no such thing as a hopeless patient. Hopelessness is a state of mind. Now is that something you can buy into?

Absolutely! No question! I say, almost chomping at the bit. Hell, how can anybody disagree? It’d be like being against Motherhood, God, and Country. Well, come to think of it, I have serious reservations about each.

Larry, I knew from the moment you came in the door I could count on you. Then, grinning, he adds, Even if you’re clumsy.

As I reciprocate his smile, his phone rings. When he answers, I stand up, point to the door, point to my wristwatch, and silently mouth my need to go. He nods and, as I reach for the door knob, calls after me, Great talking with you, Olson. I’ll be in touch.

When I step out into the corridor, I almost bump into Roland Nance, who I met earlier in the day. Roland defies my stereotype of the bleeding heart social worker. In his vested suit, bow tie, cuff-linked shirt and black tasseled shoes, he’s even better dressed than the ward psychiatrist, and he has the sophisticated self-assurance you’d expect in somebody born rich. He also has an elfin quality about him—a playfulness and a readiness to laugh—as if he doesn’t take things so seriously.

See you’ve been with Preacher Will, he says with a mischievous smile. What a character. Bending your ear about the evils of psychiatry and drugs? Wait until you go to some of our staff meetings. Hammacher and Velasquez put on a great show. If I were you, I wouldn’t rush to judgment. The shrink plays it closer to the vest than Will, but he also holds a lot of good cards. Remember, still water runs deep.

Yep, it also breeds mosquitoes. And gets scummy and stinky, too. Thanks for the advice, I say.

How’s it going so far with Mrs. Uptight-and-Do-Right? Then, seeing my puzzlement, he hooks the corners of his mouth with his bent little fingers, stretching them further apart so his lips get thinner, and in a higher pitched voice begins imitating Mrs. Truman. He even has her prissiness down pat. Now, Mr. Olson, the Hospital Regulations say you’re not supposed to come into work stoned or drunk. If you do, I’ll have to report you to Dr. Shubert. And your hair can’t touch your backside. Then he starts giggling.

I’m laughing along with him. Anybody willing to poke fun at the Head Nurse is okay by me.

Listen, he continues casually, if you aren’t doing anything this Saturday evening, why don’t you stop by. I’m having a few friends over. You might enjoy meeting them.

Thanks, but I think I’m on duty.

We’ll have to do it some other time then.

Once I arrive at the Nursing Station, Mrs. Truman orients me about my first official duty, supervising a crew of three patients assigned to clean the dining area. I’m surprised chronic mental patients too sick to care for themselves in society are expected to take care of their personal hygiene, clean their own rooms and work on the ward, but the head nurse explains it’s for therapeutic reasons.

Building Z is unique, thanks to Dr. Hammacher. Shortly after he came, he got the Superintendent to let him start a behavioral modification program based on personal responsibility. Patients earn tokens for taking responsibility, which they later can cash in for all sorts of goodies. Dr. Hammacher says the more responsibility patients learn to assume, the better prepared they’ll be for living in society. Then she tells me how to reinforce appropriate behavior.

I can understand praising patients when they do something well, but making them earn tokens bothers me. It smacks of capitalism, competition, greed and robber barons. I’ll ask Hammacher about that next time.

Time now for the work crew, so I round up my assigned patients and explain what I want them to do.

Marlene Sandman, a frumpy women in her fifties, grabs my forearm, pleading, Don’t make me do that. My head is killing me. It’s all plugged up. The arteries are blocked. If I work it gets worse!

I pry her hand free, hand her some rags and reassure her she’ll be fine, although I’m not at all sure, myself.

Dennis Tobin, a clean-shaven, tow-headed man who’s always grimacing or grinning, depending on how you read his face, takes the broom without protest but warns me, "You shouldn’t