“Fucking A. I use to move pounds of weed for a biker gang from Albert Lea called the Grim Reapers. Man, were they a lame bunch of faggots. The biggest guy weighed about a buck fifty and none of ‘em rode Harleys. Shit! Suzukis, Kawasakis, Hondas, not even a fucking BMW or an Indian. They never wanted any quality. Just fucking ditch weed.”
Artimus seemed like he was over the initial shock of my story and was on a roll. His eyes wide open but the pupils looked like pinheads. I always suspected that he did a lot more speed than I saw him do, but never brought the subject up. He must have dropped something while I was waiting on a customer because he was chain-smoking his Camels.
“I think I even know where St. Peter is. Is it over by a place called Mankato? Where the Vikings have their training camp? Me and a buddy went over there one time cause he claimed he knew some guys, who knew some guys, who dealt weed to the Vikings while they were there and if we brought some primo shit we might get turned on to some season tickets but it turned out to be bullshit.” Once he got on a rant you couldn’t stop him. His brain just seemed to bounce around in his huge skull like a pinball.
“You know with that anchor tattoo on your forearm I should have guessed you had been in the navy. But since you never said anything I just thought you might have been in the merchant marines or something. Lots of dopers were.”
“So what happened after you popped that pervert at the looney bin?”
I had to sit in a cell for around three hours while a variety of guards, nurses, and I guess some shrink or something, either would peer at me through a little glass window or ask me questions through the food tray slot in the door. Shit like “Are you going to hurt yourself?” or “Are you going to try to hurt anyone else?” I didn’t answer them, just shook my head and that seemed to be good enough for them, because pretty soon this big dude opened the door and said I could come out.
He introduced himself as Scott and said he was the lead security counselor (that’s what they called guards there) for the unit. He laid out the ground rules: no smoking on the unit, smokes, if you had them, were given out on the hour and were to be smoked out in a secured courtyard adjacent to the day room. You never left the unit unless escorted (the doors were always locked anyway), and basically everything revolved around sort of a merit system. But, as Scott pointed out. There was to be no more of that kind of foolishness that went on in receiving. Anymore of that, and the consequences could be much more severe.
In other words, if you were a nice boy everything would be just swell. I would remain in an isolation cell which would be locked at night for three days and then would be assigned to my own room/cell. I would be free to roam the unit at my leisure and could partake in the groups activities.
The observation period began. They observed me and more importantly, I observed them.
There were twenty inmates on Unit 800 and unlike me, of course, everyone of them belonged there. But as I was soon to learn, there was really no hierarchy there, like I imagine there is in prison. These weirdos were the cream of the crop for anti-social behavior and couldn’t even come close to forming any sort of bond with each other.
There was a threat of physical violence in the air at all times.
The biggest client was Norm. A bear of a man who so dangerous that he wore what the counselors called walking restraints. It was like a weight lifting belt around his waist with one hand strapped securely to it. While the other hand, while also strapped to it, had about a ten inch strap which gave Norm a range of motion so that he could eat and somewhat protect himself in event of an attack. Norm had killed his father by beating him over the head with a cast iron skillet.
He had a follower in Jeff. Sort of a biker wanna be who closely resembled Charles Manson in facial appearance (probably in beliefs, too). They had the only (if you could call it that) semi-friendship on the unit. Jeff had killed his mother by slashing her throat.
Bob was probably one of the more interesting, certainly the most pungent, of the “clients.” Bob had grown up in the local area and was in the habit of having his morning coffee at the Greyhound bus depot in Mankato. One day the dumb shit had sauntered in and held up the place. He was immediately arrested and sent to Stillwater prison where he immediately called a large inmate a “nigger” and was promptly thrown off the third tier. Only the finest in prison medicine could save him. Bob now had no feeling below his waist but could actually walk. Who knows how? He had to be sent to a state hospital to serve out the remainder of his sentence as he was defenseless in the general prison population.
But while at the state hospital he unwisely attacked a nurse. His prison sentence had now long ago expired but he was now just another client caught up in the system. He was despised by clients and staff equally. He was required to have a permanent catheter attached to a bag with a nifty ankle holster and the nursing staff had to give him two huge soapy enemas every week. He didn’t like to shower which resulted in him smelling like a walking shitpile.
Earl was the only black client. Minneapolis Vice Lords would give him a McDonalds happy meal and would send him out with a aluminum baseball bat on payback missions against opposing gang members. He had been picked up and had assaulted several St. Paul police officers. He also had a reputation on the unit of trying to fuck anything that walked, so he had a special cell that set a light off in the guards control bubble anytime he left his cell.
Alvin was a Indian off the Red Lake reservation who had stabbed his brother in the stomach over a bowl of his moms chili. I would once witness him during medication time turn around and jam his narrow little ass through the medication window and fart. That earned him a one day stay in seclusion.
Pete had married a woman in a wheel chair and had pushed her chair, with her in it, down a long flight of stairs. Pete had been around a long time. Long enough that he had been in the hospital when they actually took clients out on field trips. At Como Zoo in St. Paul, Pete had picked up a young boy and held him over the alligator moat. He didn’t drop him but the staff almost had a nervous breakdown. The boy had loved it.
Tony, a wild religious fanatic, had tried to kill the president of Planned Parenthood. He also had the ability to get drunk by drinking huge amounts of water and could get very aggressive.
Fred was in for a variety of assault charges. He had been a suspect in the Green River killings in Washington state at one time. The police had arrested him and in his possession he had the scarf and bible of one of the dead whores. For some reason nothing ever came of it. The guy had pure predator eyes. I was very careful around him.
And that left me and a number of other clients who had acted up at the state hospital below the hill or in one of the lower security units. A number of them are what the politically correct public calls the developmentally disabled. They are referred to as “retards” by the other clients and staff
The old days of straightjackets, billy clubs, and ice bath therapy were over. Medication, handcuffs, and a high starch diet kept the inmates from wanting to take over the asylum. If they really wanted to fuck you up they still old sparky going though.
The staff of the unit would only on occasion venture on to the unit. Mostly to pass out the food trays that were brought on to the unit or to direct clients to the med line to receive their daily medications. I had been put on a multi vitamin and something to keep me “calm.” I would cheek this and then try to spit it out as soon as I could.
Under the watchful eyes of the staff, sometimes this could take fifteen minutes or so and some of the medication would seep into my system much like chewing tobacco or snuff, and I would have some very wild and vivid dreams. For some reason they usually involved me laying the wood to Marcia of The Brady Bunch. I mentioned that to the unit shrink the first time we met and he seemed genuinely puzzled as he scribbled it down in my chart.
Three days later after arrival I was moved into my own cell. All brick with a metal toilet and sink combination attached to the wall. A cement bed with a thick mattress and a large window equipped with shatterproof glass that looked out on to the grounds of the hospital. I had to act fast. I had no idea how long it would be before my colorful background would catch up to me and how long it was going to take these geniuses to figure out I wasn’t crazy.
Principal Diagnosis:
Acute Paranoia
Bipolar Disorder
Narcotic Intoxication
This patient has been admitted to SPSH for a two week evaluation on the recommendation of Judge Darwin C. Hardwood, Circuit Court Seven, Duluth, Minnesota. Patient was arrested at a Duluth shelter after he allegedly attacked another shelter resident with a knife, severing the resident’s penis. Although patient was not aggressive to the arresting officers, he was involved in another physical altercation at the jail with the same shelter resident, which resulted in further injury to the resident’s penis. Patient was observed by jail staff to have extremely poor hygiene and appeared at times to be suffering from hallucinations. Upon arrival at SPSH the patient assaulted another patient who had been on the same transport. Due to patient’s size (6”2 and estimated 225 pounds) it was considered in the best interests of the facility to admit patient to a more secure environment while here for evaluation. Patient did well on initial consultation. Has good memory and appears to have a knowledge of current events. Performs well on counting back from 100 by the #7. Refuses to give any information about any relatives or his past. Anchor tattoo on right forearm may indicate military or merchant marine service. Staff are to be reminded to practice extreme caution while on the unit with this patient.