Chapter Eighteen
It took about a week before I did anything to draw the attention of the police. I didn’t really do anything to feel guilty over but I did frighten an old man, the type who invites a young man to his house and tries to figure out, with the young man acting as his assistant, how to get the lead back in his pencil.
I had been wandering for quite a few days when he approached me and offered me something to eat. Even though my better judgment had been absent since Vancouver, I was sensibly distrustful of the man. I leaned towards declining but was lonely for someone to talk to. I was also hungry and so decided I would be happy to join him for lunch. The soup and sandwiches he suggested sounded fine.
“I’m not far from here,” he explained and led the way.
As we walked, one old man and one young, the voices started.
“Look at the dirty queers,” said one.
“Yeah, I know, two queers,” said the other one, the stupid voice I thought.
“Save yourself,” said a voice that seemed to echo from far away, a voice belonging to my mother.
“She’ll pay for that,” said a different voice, one I didn’t recognize and then I realized that it belonged to the old man.
“Don’t do that,” I said under my breath, barely controlling my anger, “that’s my mother.”
I glared sideways at the old timer, trying to emphasize my point. He wore a smile and seemed unaware of my stare and the ferocity that lay behind it. I hated him for not recognizing that I meant business. Would he smile like that, I wondered, if he didn’t possess secret knowledge that set him above it all? Nevertheless, hunger was my real enemy and I held my tongue.
“Here we are,” he said and with unnecessary flourish unlocked the door of a small house.
“Great,” I said, and then thought, I’ll eat like a starved pig and then I’ll find out where they are keeping my mom. When I thought about her as I’d seen her, shortly after I arrived in Universe City, her nose broken, trying to smile but unable to do so, I started crying.
“Just a minute old man, there’s something in my eyes.”
I efficiently shut off the tears and wiped my cheeks dry. I certainly wasn’t going to let him see me cry. When eventually I looked around I beheld a marvel of order and cleanliness.
“I’m surprised you’ll have someone as dirty as me in here,” I said.
“Maybe later you’ll take a bath.”
Just like those old men, give them an inch and they’ll go for a mile, I thought, but my stomach had me reply that that wasn’t necessary, thanks just the same, maybe some other time.
“Sit, sit,” he said in response.
I sat, most of me glum, my stomach anticipating something hot and nourishing. I tuned the old man and his strange needs out. As I ate, I was only vaguely aware of his hints, suggestive behaviour and attempts at conversation. After awhile I realized he was asking me to critique the meal. It was all I could do to improvise as I had very little memory of the food I had greedily swallowed. I lived as a wild animal and I ate like one. As I started to speak, he leaned toward me as though he was going to touch me and then he drew back. I told him the food was fine and I had enjoyed the meal. No, the soup wasn’t too salty.
We had eaten and we had talked. It was all small talk though and the time for small talk was over. My lunch companion was going to tell me where my mother was. I believed that telepathy was possible and that there was a certain charm about the whole procedure.
I began by thinking: ‘How do you know my mother?’ Mom’s image popped into my head and his thoughts followed.
‘You mean her? Well, as far as I know Edward is slowly having her put to sleep. It’s all for the best.’
“Who’s Edward?” I wondered out loud, my manner aggressive, my voice tremulous.
The old coot looked at me and laughed.
“If you want to find Edward,” he informed me, “you’re asking the wrong person.”
“Alright” I said, bluffing, “okay, so be it. Your superiors might find what you’ve told me here, to be very interesting. Have you thought about that?”
“You’re crazy,” he said.
His eyes bugged out like a fly that has been on the receiving end of far too much Raid. “You really are far, gone, crazy.”
He scrambled for the phone and called the police.
“Think long and hard about Edward,” I said to the old man as I was being taken away, “he may not be who you think he is.”
“Lover’s spat?” one cop asked the other.
“I don’t think so. This one’s a little off center, that’s all. The other one swings a little, though. That’s what I’d say.”
They were silent until one asked the other, “The Ward?” “
The other cop nodded, “Affirmative.”
I was admitted to the Health Sciences Centre and diagnosed as suffering from an acute psychosis. I was asked if I had ever suffered from schizophrenia and I said that I hadn’t given it much thought.
“I might have been in hospital in Peterborough,” I informed them and they seemed satisfied with my answer. The doctor made me promise that I would swallow all of the pills that the nurse asked me to.
“Consider it to be a personal favour to me,” he said. I sat still, silently overwhelmed.The fresh smell of the doctor’s starched, white coat lingered after he was gone.
The medicine started, within a week or so, to make me tranquil in a way that troubled me. It was familiar and I didn’t know why. The drug induced peace I was experiencing stood out as having been present in a past experience or life. I came to believe that if I were calm and sensible I would be deemed acceptable. In my own way, I understood the connection between this and swallowing my pills. Suddenly I wanted to be well received and so, took it upon myself to comply with the prescribed treatment.
Sometimes the pills had an odd way of filling me full of an aching nostalgia. At other times a type of serenity flowed through my body. Eventually I would have a measure of peace and that would allow me to reconcile myself to the beggarly hand-to-mouth existence that had been mine. I would rationalize it all, all the bad memories - leftovers at Burger King, sleeping in places that were not intended for slumber and so on. In time, my body began to feel rigid and I couldn’t seem to sit still for long. When I told the doctor this, he prescribed another medicine.
In some ways I had a hard time giving up my delusions for with them riding shotgun, I had been able to make cockeyed sense of the world. Truth be told, I was on the brink of leaving the hospital after ten days or so and going back to my old ways.
Around that time, the doctor told me I would soon feel like a new man and I thought that might be interesting, though, in truth, I considered this transformation without much enthusiasm. When all was said and done, it would take some time for me to convince myself that I hadn’t enjoyed my life and its struggles based in delusion. In time I would realize that even when I was medicated and stable, I would have new battles. Conflict, it seemed, was something I needed.
I slept fitfully and caught but a few hours at a time during the first while in the institution. When I did sleep I often woke feeling as someone would who hadn’t rested at all. I ate my meals in my room and was afraid of most everyone on the ward. When I ventured out of my room I saw staff, patients and visitors sitting around sharing the time of day. They were so sophisticated and strange. Their clothes were colourful and vibrant and made me feel plain, drab. I had a bit of work ahead of me when it came to self perception and self esteem.
I was beginning to become aware of a crisis, no, not a crisis, the crisis. Everyone was talking about a lack of energy or the energy crisis; being half sick, I didn’t quite understand. Strange, I thought, I have a fair bit of get up and go, I guess it hasn’t hit me yet. I wondered if I could catch it in the hospital.
Time passed and I got better, more completely saturated with medicine. I started to enjoy having three meals a day, warmth, television and the company of a few others. The doctor, though always in a hurry, was kind and full of encouraging words.
“You’re really improving, hang in there,” he’d say, “stay on those meds, you’re getting better all the time.”
The days faded one into another until there were no longer any exceptionally good or bad ones. There were boring days and there were times I couldn’t concentrate very well. I managed to take in Hammy Hamster every weekday morning, which was as far as I went towards establishing a routine. As the time passed I became sedate and eventually I fancied I was in control. When I spoke I was understood and sometimes what I said seemed of interest to others. I was getting well.
The day I had quietly anticipated, finally arrived. It was the day I would walk out of the hospital doors without supervision. It was a day that brought with it confusion and scarcely controlled emotion. It was no longer a day I pondered, it was a day upon me, a day once in the future that had shown up on time, as expected.
I was waiting for the psychiatrist on one of the hard plastic chairs in the hall, outside of the nurse’s station.
“The doctor will be with you in no time,” promised a short, squat woman who somehow made me feel as though I’d already left. I was old what’s-his-name whose bed needed changing. Yeah, I thought, I’ll never forget old what’s-his-name. One of the nurse’s strong points must be her knowledge of the doctor’s comings and goings, I thought, because, as promised, he materialized in a matter of minutes, looming over me, extending his hand whether to shake or help me up I didn’t know. I ended up doing both and felt uncomfortable, half standing and pumping his arm vigorously.
I had to do a double take when the doctor confusedly consulted his chart. “So, ah, ahhh, Mr. Playford…” He’d been treating me for over a month. I looked at him again. Everything around me started to get very loud. Someone laughed and my ear felt like it was being ripped in two, starting from the lobe up. I heard somebody drop something; my eyes hurt, someone cursed and another yelled. My forehead was burning and caving in at the same time. My heart started to beat wildly while the rest of me was once again seated.
“Mr. Playford, are you with us?”
I nodded.
“You’re alright then?”
Again, I nodded.
“Good. It’s very important that we know our patients are healthy before we release them.”
“I completely understand that, sir. You’re not my regular doctor are you, because, if you are, I may never get out of here? I don’t recognize you.”
“Well, that’s actually a good sign,” he said, “your regular doctor is on holidays. Somebody should have told you, but rest assured you and I have never met before today. I think I see what was bothering you, though.”
“Well,” I answered, “if it turned out that you were my doctor and I didn’t know you… I was just a bit spooked that’s all, thinking about spending the rest of my life on a back ward somewhere, you know, unable to recognize anyone.”
“I really don’t think that you will get stuck in a hospital for life. From what I see written here,” and he wagged my chart, “you have a lot going for you. You simply have to stay on your medication - you do understand that, don’t you?”
All of a sudden he looked a little too intense for my liking and I nodded meekly. He continued to look at me.
“Yes,” I said, “I understand.”
“Good, then,” he said, and it was a declaration that all was still right with the world.
“Here’s a prescription. Take it to the hospital pharmacy. Here’s your appointment slip, you’re due back in two weeks.”
“Well, thank you. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Yes, two weeks then.”
I never laid eyes on him again.
When I arrived at the Salvation Army the door was locked. I pushed the buzzer and gained admittance. It was dingy but it was warm, that much I was grateful for. I stood by the office door and listened to the chatter.
“I still say he should have hung ‘em up for good.”
“Are you kidding? He’s good for the game and believe me he can still wheel – he puts those young lads to shame.”
“He’s a has-been.”
“You, my friend, are full of crap.”
Are they talking about me I wondered, suddenly and briefly visited by stale delusion?
“Hey guys, who’re you talking about?”
All jaundiced eyes were on me and someone said, “Bobby Hull.”
The whole place seemed a bit jail-like, a prison without bars. I wondered if they gave out tobacco. I saw one of the men in the office smoking and decided to ask him about it. Surely, I figured, he could sympathize.
“You know where you are, right,” he asked while giving me a cigarette.
“Sure,” I answered him, “the Salvation Army Hostel. Why?”
“Well, you don’t get anything here but three squares and a bed at night. No frills, no money, no tobacco, we’re not going to buy you a drink or take you to see a movie. Are you getting my drift?”
“Yeah, but what do I do then, for smokes and stuff I need?”
“Get a job,” he replied. That’s heartless, I thought. It turned out that I was being a bit on the hasty side.
“There are quite a few places in the neighbourhood that will hire you out by the day, you know, daily labour pools. They pay okay and let me tell you if you show up without a hangover you’ll be one of the first ones out. There’s one just around the corner, yeah, go out the front, turn right, turn right again and watch the storefronts. You’ll find it.”
“Thanks,” I said, grateful for his guidance.
“Hey, come over here,” he said and we walked a ways from the other men. “I’m not supposed to do this but here’s ten bucks until you get on your feet. Who knows, you might get out tomorrow, work-wise, I mean, then you can pay me back.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, visions of cigarettes dancing in my head.
“Ah, maybe you can help me out some day.”
He then arranged his face in a scowl, turned and walked back to join the other men.