questions. Had Wilder ever been in a mental hospital before? Had he ever been under psychiatric care? Hadhe ever sought treatment for alcoholism? Had his drinking ever gotten him into trouble? With an employer? With his family? With the police?
No, he kept saying, no; no; no – and through it all he held his face straight, sat still and didn’t gesticulate. But after the questions they stared in silence; they seemed to expect him to make a summing-up in his own defense, and that was when everything went to hell. One hand leaped to his wet brow and clung there. “Look,” he said. “Listen: I know if I say ‘I’m not crazy’ it’ll probably just convince you I am; but even so, that’s my – that’s my position.” The hand fell back to his thigh, but he knew he was squirming because he heard his chair creak. “I
don’t
think I’m crazy, or mentally ill or emotionally disturbed or whatever the hell, I mean whatever you people call it.” His mouth was so dry he could feel every movement of tongue and teeth and lips in their laborious effort to form speech. “I know I was behaving erratically or whaddyacallit, irrationally last Friday, but that was last Friday. After the first couple of nights’ sleep and the first few doses of formaldehyde, I mean
you
know, Peraldehyde, I think I was all right again, and I’m all right now; so the point is – Christ’s
sake
, is anybody
listening?
” The spastic hand flew to his head again, messing up his hair, and his eyes closed to shut out their faces.
“What makes you think nobody’s listening?”
“Because I’ve been locked up in a God damned – because this place is enough to drive anybody out of their – I don’t know.” He opened his eyes, but nothing could be done about his hand. “Look. Listen: I don’t think I belong here any more and I think I ought to be discharged. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
He was reminded again of a classroom – this time of one whose students are embarrassed because their teacher has made a fool of himself – so his face twitched into an apologetic littlegrimace and he said what teachers often say at such moments: “Are there any – questions?”
“Okay, Wilder,” said the orderly, and he was escorted back and locked into the ward, where he wanted to smash his fist against the wall or scream or kick a window again with his filthy foot. Instead he walked and smoked, promising to save people.
“How’d it go?” Spivack inquired.
“Shit, I don’t know.”
“Slimy bunch of bastards, aren’t they? Make your flesh crawl. And when you think of the
power
those fish-eyed fuckers have over a man’s life – I mean talk about your FBI; talk about your CIA; talk about your Nazi secret police …”
But an hour later Charlie beckoned him aside for a hushed, private talk near the
KEEP OUT
door. “You did very well in there, Mr. Wilder.”
“I what? I did? How do you know?”
“Well, now, never mind; I just happen to know you gave a good account of yourself. Matter of fact I understand they’ll be taking you down to Rehabilitation after lunch. It’s very nice there, very clean; they seldom keep a man more than twentyfour hours. Give you a little counselling, finish up your paperwork, get your clothes and you’re free to go. But look: it’s a busy day and I may not see you again, so I’ll just say goodbye and wish you well” – he held out a big hand to shake – “and another thing. I think it’s very nice the way you’ve been so friendly with Dr. Spivack; talking with him, taking your meals with him. Dr. Spivack didn’t really have any friends here till you came. He’s a fine man, as you know; only trouble is he’s a little – disturbed. Well. Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks. Thanks, Charlie.”
And he watched him move away to bear down on the beautiful boy in the turban. “Gail! Now, Gail, how many timeshave I told you to take that pajama top off your head? And put your penis back in your pants
No, he kept saying, no; no; no – and through it all he held his face straight, sat still and didn’t gesticulate. But after the questions they stared in silence; they seemed to expect him to make a summing-up in his own defense, and that was when everything went to hell. One hand leaped to his wet brow and clung there. “Look,” he said. “Listen: I know if I say ‘I’m not crazy’ it’ll probably just convince you I am; but even so, that’s my – that’s my position.” The hand fell back to his thigh, but he knew he was squirming because he heard his chair creak. “I
don’t
think I’m crazy, or mentally ill or emotionally disturbed or whatever the hell, I mean whatever you people call it.” His mouth was so dry he could feel every movement of tongue and teeth and lips in their laborious effort to form speech. “I know I was behaving erratically or whaddyacallit, irrationally last Friday, but that was last Friday. After the first couple of nights’ sleep and the first few doses of formaldehyde, I mean
you
know, Peraldehyde, I think I was all right again, and I’m all right now; so the point is – Christ’s
sake
, is anybody
listening?
” The spastic hand flew to his head again, messing up his hair, and his eyes closed to shut out their faces.
“What makes you think nobody’s listening?”
“Because I’ve been locked up in a God damned – because this place is enough to drive anybody out of their – I don’t know.” He opened his eyes, but nothing could be done about his hand. “Look. Listen: I don’t think I belong here any more and I think I ought to be discharged. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
He was reminded again of a classroom – this time of one whose students are embarrassed because their teacher has made a fool of himself – so his face twitched into an apologetic littlegrimace and he said what teachers often say at such moments: “Are there any – questions?”
“Okay, Wilder,” said the orderly, and he was escorted back and locked into the ward, where he wanted to smash his fist against the wall or scream or kick a window again with his filthy foot. Instead he walked and smoked, promising to save people.
“How’d it go?” Spivack inquired.
“Shit, I don’t know.”
“Slimy bunch of bastards, aren’t they? Make your flesh crawl. And when you think of the
power
those fish-eyed fuckers have over a man’s life – I mean talk about your FBI; talk about your CIA; talk about your Nazi secret police …”
But an hour later Charlie beckoned him aside for a hushed, private talk near the
KEEP OUT
door. “You did very well in there, Mr. Wilder.”
“I what? I did? How do you know?”
“Well, now, never mind; I just happen to know you gave a good account of yourself. Matter of fact I understand they’ll be taking you down to Rehabilitation after lunch. It’s very nice there, very clean; they seldom keep a man more than twentyfour hours. Give you a little counselling, finish up your paperwork, get your clothes and you’re free to go. But look: it’s a busy day and I may not see you again, so I’ll just say goodbye and wish you well” – he held out a big hand to shake – “and another thing. I think it’s very nice the way you’ve been so friendly with Dr. Spivack; talking with him, taking your meals with him. Dr. Spivack didn’t really have any friends here till you came. He’s a fine man, as you know; only trouble is he’s a little – disturbed. Well. Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks. Thanks, Charlie.”
And he watched him move away to bear down on the beautiful boy in the turban. “Gail! Now, Gail, how many timeshave I told you to take that pajama top off your head? And put your penis back in your pants
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