Commitment (fiction) Part II of V
I don’t have any say in what goes on here. I don’t know much about the residents. I don’t even know what’s supposed to be wrong with most of them. What I do know is that they’re kind of frightening—most of them, anyway. They flit through the corridors in their whites, or sometimes in their street clothes, looking almost normal as they wander around talking to themselves, gesturing, waving their arms, and making horrible faces at the white tiles. Some of the others are too quiet, moving slowly and cautiously from point to point, as if the floor might come loose beneath their feet. These quiet ones sometimes remind me of the doctors who work here, because both are so passive. I rarely see the doctors. Like policemen in the outside world, they only show up when there’s a problem. And like the criminal I am, I give all problems a wide berth. In that regard, I’m like the patients here—I got this job through my parole board, and many of the residents weren’t sent here by doctors either, but by judges. They were sentenced for observation to determine whether they’re fit to stand trial. As I said, I don’t know what’s wrong with most of the residents, but they don’t seem fit to stand for much of anything. Bryce had eaten a dog. But it’s not just that he ate the dog—it’s that he won’t shut up about it: how he killed, dressed, and ate his neighbor’s dog. I doubt the woman who owned the dog talks about it as much. “It was a little dog,” Bryce will say if you stand next to him for too long. “Cockapoo, I think it was.” The breed is a flexible detail and changes often. “Little, floppy-eared thing. So I cooked it and ate it.” Not much of a story, I would think, but Bryce never seems to get tired of it. Some of the others, by contrast, are better conversationalists—the ones who believe their bellies are filled with swimming fish, or that their dead mothers are calling them from electrical sockets. Tonight, I knew, would be interesting because there was a new guy checking in. As I think I mentioned, new residents are rare, and so they’re always a big deal. The New Guy was young—just a little older than me—with neat hair and neat fingers. His eyes were a little fucked up, probably because before he got sent here, he spent most of his time with his nose pressed against a pocket mirror. I knew his game because I’d played it myself. Back when I got arrested, I pleaded junkie, even though I wasn’t really hooked that hard. I was sent to rehab instead of prison because it was my first offense. The New Guy went for crazy instead of criminal and ended up here. He wanted to be liked—you could tell right away. Life was a popularity contest to him, and he was ready to charm the whole ward. I might have told him it was a waste of time, if I thought it would do any good. Of the guests on the floor tonight, Bryce is a hardcore nutcase, Dean is mute, and Dale can’t say anything other than a stream of curses and swears. And then there’s Casper, who insists he isn’t even a human being. “Tell me more about the dog,” the New Guy asks Bryce—a mistake. Bryce fidgets and hides a secret, confused smile while chewing the inside of his mouth. When pressed, he panics. His pupils dart from one side to the other, searching for answers, clues, a way out—anything. At moments like this, you can almost see Bryce retreat into his own head. You can almost hear his inner voice cry, “More? What does he mean, more? What else is there? I killed and ate the dog.” Two-thirds of the world wouldn’t bat an eye at what he did, but here in America, dog-eating Bryce is considered worthy of injections, prescriptions, beatings, and restraints. Casper is the only one who says anything to the New Guy at first, and it’s just his standard greeting. “Welcome aboard.” He says the same thing to me every night when I start my shift. The New Guy actually puts his hand out, like he’s making new friends on the first day of school instead of being sized up by a room full of certified lunatics. Casper never touches anyone and ignores the gesture. “I already know your name,” Casper tells him. “Is that right?” the New Guy replies, smiling like a game show host as he pulls his hand back. “Casper knows everything,” Bryce explains. “Casper’s an angel.” “Sweet guy, huh?” the New Guy says, smiling away. “No,” I interrupt from my place in the corner, where I lean on my floor mop in anticipation of Bryce expectorating blood. “Casper’s an angel out of Heaven, cast down by the Great Lord Almighty for his part in the revolt against Christ.” Casper—a brief, heavy man with a round head and long, thin fingers—smiles modestly.
There are only a few things I know for sure about Casper: he’s queer, he’s crazy, and he’s dangerous. Soft-spoken and a little pudgy, he was sent away years ago for murder. Someone, somewhere, thinks he’s done enough time and wants to let him out—but this is as far as he’s gotten.
“So you’re an angel?” the New Guy asks, breaking the silence.
“Well, I wouldn’t want that getting around,” Casper replies. “I’m sort of hiding out.”
“From who?”
“Everyone,” Casper tells him.
The New Guy smiles some more and waits. Casper looks up toward me.
“How goes the phone war?” he asks.
“No change,” I reply. Sometimes, Casper really does seem to know everything.
“Women can be difficult,” Casper tells me in a sympathetic tone.
“I’ve always wondered,” the New Guy asks, “are there women in Heaven?”
“No,” Casper replies, shaking his great head slowly.
“I guess that’s why you all left,” the New Guy jokes, flashing a wide grin.
“Oh no,” Casper replies. “We were most certainly chased out. No one leaves Heaven of their own accord.”
Part Three will post on Sunday July 12
Thank you for Reading