The next day, my best buddy Brad (so alliterative, I am) came to see me. He shoved the curtain aside and stood at the threshold, looking at me with his head slightly cocked and his mouth in a funny shape. He wore his usual three-days-worth of stubble, and his hair looked unwashed. He was holding a Vachon cake in his hand.
"Dude," he said.
"What's up, Brad?"
"Heard you tried to off yourself."
"Yeah. Word gets around, huh?"
He shook his head. "Fuck, man. That's some heavy shit. Did you see lights or anything?"
"I can't remember a damned thing."
He let out a disappointed breath and shuffled in. He plunked himself into the chair and put his feet up on the bed. He took a bite of his Jos & Louis and stared at the wall for a few seconds.
"That really blows," he said through his mouthful.
"What, that I tried to kill myself, or that I don't remember the experience?"
"No, shit, man. I was totally talking about the lights, but seriously, I would've been bummed if you'd checked out."
"Well, it's good to know that you care."
"Oh, here comes Mister Sarcasm again. Fuck, man. I hate it when you do that shit."
"I've always been sarcastic. You know that."
"Yeah, but dude. We're talking about you almost, like, leaving the building. For keeps. You know?"
"Yeah. I know. I was there."
"So, like, why can't you take it seriously, man?"
"Because you were more interested in whether or not I saw lights."
He took his feet off the bed and leaned towards me. "Don't you fucking put this back on me, man. You're the one sitting here in the loony bin."
"I don't think they like it when you call it that. And, oh, by the way, you're sitting in here, too."
"Stop with the technical grammar shit, man. You're always trying to throw me off. And what, they're gonna send the mental health police after me if call this shithole a loony bin?"
"Well, I don't think they like it much when you call the hospital a shithole, either."
"Yeah? Well, I don't really fucking care."
I shrugged. "At least you're honest."
"Damn straight, I'm honest. I tell it like it is, brother."
"That's what I've always liked about you."
He nodded and continued to munch on his chocolate-coated disk-shaped sandwich of chocolate cake with vanilla cream in the middle. After a couple of bites, he put his feet back up on the bed again.
"Sorry I didn't come down sooner, man," he said after a swallow. "I was down in the valley, visiting my ex-girlfriend's mother's hairdresser."
"Why didn't you just tell the dog ate your homework. Fewer syllables and about as credible."
He waved his cake-wielding hand back and forth as he swallowed again. "No, man. I'm not shitting you. I was down in the valley, visiting—"
"Your ex-girlfriend's mother's hairdresser." I shook my head. "The word that comes to mind is… Why?"
"Dude, this chick is, like, seriously, the best hairdresser in the world. I got a haircut from her when Megan and I were still together, and it, like, literally blew my mind."
"Literally, huh?"
"Yeah, man. Litera—" He shot me sharp glance. "No, don't do that, man. Don't you get all language police on me. Okay? I'm trying to tell a story here. So stay with."
"I'm all ears."
"Fuck, I hate that expression." He took the last bite of the Jos & Louis and dusted off his hands. "Anyway, man, it was the best haircut I ever had. No word of a lie. And I've been going back to her ever since."
"And I'll bet you're getting more than just a haircut."
He looked at me with a puzzled frown. "What are you talking—" He rolled his eyes. "Jesus, man. I'm not fucking her, if that's what you mean. I mean, she's good looking and all, but she's gotta be…" He paused to think for a minute. "…Geez, she's gotta be at least three years older than me."
"Oh, good lord," I said. "She'd be practically robbing the cradle."
"You know I don't date older chicks."
"No, actually, I never knew that."
"Well, that's the way I roll, man. Younger chicks all the way."
"Yeah, well, just don't take that to an extreme."
He gave me another funny look. "What are you talking about, man?"
I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.
He snorted. "Ah, fuck, man. You've got the dirtiest mind I've ever met."
"And you're the dirtiest slob I've ever met. Thanks for the segue opportunity, and please pick your cake wrapper up from the floor."
He gave me a vacant stare. "Man, I would've thought nearly dying would make you a nicer person."
"I'm crabbier than ever. Don't mess with me."
He leaned over and picked the wrapper up. "Now what do you want me to do with it?"
I rolled my eyes. "Trash can's over there," I said, motioning to the other side of the bed."
Brad got up, reluctantly it appeared, and stepped over to the can to deposit the cellophane wrapper.
"So how long you in here for?" he asked as he resumed his seat.
"A few days, they tell me. They're going to evaluate my condition."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means I'm going to talk to one of their shrinks, and he or she is going to try and figure out what in holy hell to do with me."
Brad nodded. "Sounds like a plan, man."
"Well, it beats being sent home with a pat on the ass. Maybe I'll actually get some help this time."
"What do you mean, this time? You try to off yourself before?"
"No. But I've brought myself down to Emergency a couple of times over the last few years, because I was feeling desperate enough that I thought I might do something."
"Man, that's messed up."
"Yeah, it's messed up. I'm messed up."
"Well, at least you know it. That's half the battle, from what I hear."
"Yeah, well. Fat lot of good it's done me so far."
"Man, you are so fucking negative. No wonder you tried to check out. I wouldn't be able to stand being around myself either if I was like that."
"Cheap shot, Brad. You can do better than that."
"No, I can't man. You're the Language-Meister. Not me."
"Yes, I keep forgetting what a dim little bulb you are and how your pathetic existence brings no meaning to you or anyone else."
He sighed and shook his head. "Man, you are one piece of work. Why don't take all that anger and bitterness and… and fucking vocabulary, and finish one of your goddamned novels?"
"Maybe I will, once I'm not crazy in the head anymore."
"Yeah, keep talking like that, and you will be crazy in the head. Whatever you think is gonna happen is pretty much gonna happen."
"Thank you, Rhonda Byrne…"
"Oh, fuck off, man. I'm not talking about that Secret shit. That's just a lot of packaging stuck onto something everybody already knows."
"Well, aren't you the wise sage all of a sudden?"
"It's common sense, man. You think about something all the time, it's gonna show up in your life. You don't need to be a rocket scientist or a fucking Australian filmmaker to know that."
"All right. Whatever you say." I made a grunting sound. "I never figured you for a New-Ager."
Brad stood up. "Yeah, well fuck you. I didn't come down here to get shit dumped on me. I wanted to see how you were doing. And from what I can see, you're just fine. Just like always. Same old Jack. No room in there for anyone else's viewpoint. Just your own."
"Aw, c'mon, Brad. I'm just trying to keep the conversation feisty, that's all."
He shook his head and moved towards the curtain. "Yeah. Whatever. See you later, Jack."
——————–
I was in the Short Stay unit for a total of four days. I had two meetings with the psychiatrist, a Doctor Deane, who also brought her team in with her: A resident, a social worker, and one of the nurses. It was me and four women, two of whom, the resident and Doctor Deane herself, were so incredibly gorgeous that it was hard for me to concentrate on what we were talking about. I behaved myself, for the most part, but once they managed to get my defenses up (which really wasn't that difficult), they stayed up for the remainder of the conversation.
Gorgeousness aside, I liked Doctor Deane. She was a smart, articulate, perceptive woman, and she had me pegged pretty fast. She asked me a lot of questions and took a lot of notes. The whole pack of them took a lot of notes, and the other three members of the committee also popped in a question here and there. I wouldn't say that I was uncooperative, but I don't think they were entirely satisfied with my level of disclosure. The sarcasm flew fast and furious, as always, and I did occasionally catch a disapproving look on one of their faces.
Evidently, I'm hard to get along with.
The end result of all this was that Doctor Deane decided to refer me to something called the Mental Health Day Program, which was a six-week, intensive, group therapy experience designed to get at core issues and explore feelings. I greeted this news with skepticism and a request that I simply be allowed to go my merry way and try and put some of the pieces of my life back together.
Doctor Deane did not much like my thinking on the matter. She was, in fact, rather insistent that I take the tremendous opportunity she was giving me to improve the quality of my life.
I said I'd think about it.
——————–
Lydia came to pick me up when I was released from the hospital. After my second meeting with Doctor Deane and her compatriots, I was told I would be allowed to go home, provided I agreed to participate in the six-week day program.
It was nearly lunchtime when the meeting ended, and Norma told me I could partake of the hospital meal if I wanted before heading out. I availed myself of the opportunity, knowing that anything I had at home would either be frozen solid or mouldy.
Lydia arrived just as I was finishing my Jell-o. I don't know if it was actually Jell-o, the brand name product, but it was a red gelatin dessert that wobbled when I poked it with my spoon. I decided that, if I wrote about this experience, I would fly in the face of legal convention and mention the brand name in lowercase letters with no trademark symbol after it. I would do my part to dilute the hold of large corporations on terms which had become common parts of our vocabulary.
At any rate, the stupid red blob tasted like it was made with too much water.
I said my goodbyes to the staff and headed out with Lydia, duffel bag slung over my shoulder and a song in my heart.
Or something like that.
"Glad to be going home?" Lydia asked as I threw my bag into the backseat of her Mini Cooper.
"Well, I have mixed feelings about that," I said. "One the one hand, I'm happy that I can now choose the crap I eat rather than having it chosen for me. On the other, there's now five-day-old vomit waiting for on my bed. The prospect of going home to that is… unappealing."
She chuckled. "Don't be an arse. Did you honestly think I was going to leave that there for you? I cleaned it up after I left you the first night. And I washed your sheets."
I settled myself into the passenger seat and looked at her. She was shaking her head in disbelief and, I thought, a bit of sadness. For someone to believe, as I had, that a friend would just leave the vomit there, was a foreign concept to her. It didn't compute.
Whereas for me, it was just a day at the office. I was pretty uncaring about most people beyond myself, and so I couldn't imagine why someone would do something for me. It was as simple as that.
Lydia smacked me on the shoulder and started the car.
"Let's get you home, you tosser."
The drive home was pleasant. It was early afternoon, so the traffic was light, and the autumn sunlight was rendering everything in bold colors and sharp edges. It was the kind of weather I loved better than just about anything, and I put my head back and allowed the patches of sun to caress my face as we wended our way towards my apartment building.
