where it belongs. Nobody wants to look at that thing.”
They called six or eight men to stand by the front door after lunch, and Wilder was among them.
“Well, look at you,” Spivack said, advancing on him. “Wudga do in there anyway? Bribe ’em? Blackmail ’em? Crawl around and kiss their asses? Hey, wait a second. Got something for you.” And he probed in his pajama pocket, to which Charlie’s pen was clipped.
“What’s this? Another letter?”
“No, shitface. My address and phone number. If I ever do get outa here I might buy you a drink sometime.”
“Well, that’s very – Sure; thanks.”
“So here’s the pen: wanna give me yours?”
And Wilder did so. “I’ll look forward to it, Spivack,” he said.
“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath. I may forget your fucking existence in an hour and a half. Anyway, keep a tight asshole, Wilder.”
“I’ll try. You too.”
The door opened, not to let the men out but to admit an elderly female nurse trailed by a dozen very young girls in fresh blue-and-white striped smocks and white stockings.
“My God,” Spivack said. “Student nurses. Beautiful little student nurses on a training tour.” He stepped back into the corridor and stood with his arms flung wide, like a master of ceremonies. “Girls, I’m delighted to see you. It’s nonsense for them to send you up here because once you graduate you’ll never get near this place, but even so you might learn something – Oh, it’s all right, Nurse,” he said to their leader, who seemed to have been stricken dumb. “I’m a staff physician; I can handle this. Girls, what we have here is a relic of the nineteenth century. This isn’t a ‘psychiatric ward,’ you see; it’s a madhouse …”
Some of the girls looked bewildered and a few looked scared, but most had begun to giggle behind their hands to show they found Spivack “cute.”
“Officer,” the nurse was saying to the cop, “who’s the charge nurse on this ward?”
“His name’s Charlie, ma’am. I can’t leave the door, but I’ll send somebody to get him – just a second. Hey, uh—”
“… We have psychopathic criminals here, girls, and we have men in advanced stages of madness caused by venereal disease and alcohol and drugs, and we have at least one Second Coming of Christ; then we have men who don’t belong here at all. Take my own case: I’m what you might call a political prisoner. Hospital politics, that is; medical politics. I don’t suppose they teach you girls about medical politics, but I really think they should because believe me it’s a very real, very treacherous—”
“Doctor!” Charlie came loping up the corridor in a swarm of laughing men. “Doctor, I want you to leave those girls alone …”
The door opened again to let Wilder’s group out, and then it was locked behind them.
Rehabilitation was very nice and clean indeed: real beds, chrome-and-leatherette armchairs, good showers with soap and a kind of shampoo guaranteed to remove lice. The talk was quiet and most of it courteous: nobody wanted to make trouble.
“Counseling,” the next day, meant being taken into a roomful of cluttered typewriter desks – it might have been a state unemployment office – and sitting down beside a pale man who looked like an underpaid clerk but was said to be a psychiatric social worker.
“… and you’ll be seeking psychotherapy after your release, right?”
“Well, I don’t know; I haven’t really thought about it.”
The interviewer stopped typing, closed his eyes and ran pale fingers over his face. “You know something? I don’t understand some of you people. You’re a mature, well-employed man with family responsibilities. You spend a week as an involuntary patient in the tightest lockup in the city and you ‘haven’t really thought about it’ ”
“Okay. I will, then.”
“You damn sure better, mister. Now. Can you afford private care, or do you want to apply for outpatient
They called six or eight men to stand by the front door after lunch, and Wilder was among them.
“Well, look at you,” Spivack said, advancing on him. “Wudga do in there anyway? Bribe ’em? Blackmail ’em? Crawl around and kiss their asses? Hey, wait a second. Got something for you.” And he probed in his pajama pocket, to which Charlie’s pen was clipped.
“What’s this? Another letter?”
“No, shitface. My address and phone number. If I ever do get outa here I might buy you a drink sometime.”
“Well, that’s very – Sure; thanks.”
“So here’s the pen: wanna give me yours?”
And Wilder did so. “I’ll look forward to it, Spivack,” he said.
“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath. I may forget your fucking existence in an hour and a half. Anyway, keep a tight asshole, Wilder.”
“I’ll try. You too.”
The door opened, not to let the men out but to admit an elderly female nurse trailed by a dozen very young girls in fresh blue-and-white striped smocks and white stockings.
“My God,” Spivack said. “Student nurses. Beautiful little student nurses on a training tour.” He stepped back into the corridor and stood with his arms flung wide, like a master of ceremonies. “Girls, I’m delighted to see you. It’s nonsense for them to send you up here because once you graduate you’ll never get near this place, but even so you might learn something – Oh, it’s all right, Nurse,” he said to their leader, who seemed to have been stricken dumb. “I’m a staff physician; I can handle this. Girls, what we have here is a relic of the nineteenth century. This isn’t a ‘psychiatric ward,’ you see; it’s a madhouse …”
Some of the girls looked bewildered and a few looked scared, but most had begun to giggle behind their hands to show they found Spivack “cute.”
“Officer,” the nurse was saying to the cop, “who’s the charge nurse on this ward?”
“His name’s Charlie, ma’am. I can’t leave the door, but I’ll send somebody to get him – just a second. Hey, uh—”
“… We have psychopathic criminals here, girls, and we have men in advanced stages of madness caused by venereal disease and alcohol and drugs, and we have at least one Second Coming of Christ; then we have men who don’t belong here at all. Take my own case: I’m what you might call a political prisoner. Hospital politics, that is; medical politics. I don’t suppose they teach you girls about medical politics, but I really think they should because believe me it’s a very real, very treacherous—”
“Doctor!” Charlie came loping up the corridor in a swarm of laughing men. “Doctor, I want you to leave those girls alone …”
The door opened again to let Wilder’s group out, and then it was locked behind them.
Rehabilitation was very nice and clean indeed: real beds, chrome-and-leatherette armchairs, good showers with soap and a kind of shampoo guaranteed to remove lice. The talk was quiet and most of it courteous: nobody wanted to make trouble.
“Counseling,” the next day, meant being taken into a roomful of cluttered typewriter desks – it might have been a state unemployment office – and sitting down beside a pale man who looked like an underpaid clerk but was said to be a psychiatric social worker.
“… and you’ll be seeking psychotherapy after your release, right?”
“Well, I don’t know; I haven’t really thought about it.”
The interviewer stopped typing, closed his eyes and ran pale fingers over his face. “You know something? I don’t understand some of you people. You’re a mature, well-employed man with family responsibilities. You spend a week as an involuntary patient in the tightest lockup in the city and you ‘haven’t really thought about it’ ”
“Okay. I will, then.”
“You damn sure better, mister. Now. Can you afford private care, or do you want to apply for outpatient
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