Hospital

Tuesday, August 2, 1994

The screeches started around midnight. High-pitched. Like the sounds of some horrible experiment being performed on a live animal. The orderly sitting across from Gary cocked an eyebrow and lowered his newspaper. “There goes Stanley,” he said, dropping his feet off the table and rocking the chair forward onto all four legs. Gary couldn’t remember this other orderly’s name; he just thought of him as the one with the bad bleach job. The guy’s coarse, spiked hair was a pale orange that, along with his thin, black goatee and array of small loop earrings, made him appear intent on looking either boy-band cool, or flamingly homosexual. Gary thought the guy achieved both goals. Gary also realized, even in the limited time of being in this guy’s presence, that Bleach-head here was a concoction of annoying habits—drumming on the table, snapping wads of gum, a relentless use of nicknames. Know what I mean, Champ? Sport? Chief? Catch what I’m saying, Rookie?That was Gary’s most common moniker: Rookie. “We’ll just let ole Stan hang in there for awhile,” the guy said, finishing a word on his crossword puzzle. “Know what I mean, Slick?”

It was Gary’s first night in Ward 6 at Mystic Mercy Hospital, and at times, he felt like it might be his last. Something felt wrong about the place. A monstrous structure that, while housing both a mental health facility and actual medical hospital, still remained half-empty. The whole island was like that, crowded with immaculate nineteenth century buildings that weren’t fully used for their original intent. Like a Lego village only partially populated by a child’s imagination. Even if he kept the job, he’d already decided he would never move on island. Too many stories. Too many strange vibes. But he needed the job, so he guessed he could drive across the bridge each day.

The screams came again. “He’s coming. He’s coming here.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Gary said.

The orderly flashed his gaze from the paper to Gary. He hung his head to one side, as if saying, Don’t you think Iknow how to do my job, Rookie?“It’s just Stanley,” he said. “The guy’s fucking cracked.”

“You have to Stop him. He’s coming here.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know,” the guy shrugged. He focused on his crossword and ran the pencil’s eraser along his lower lip. “They just moved him here from the mainland. Guy thinks someone’s getting into his dreams or something.” He looked up at Gary, saying,“Like I said, fucking cracked.”

Another orderly, Jack, rushed into the office. Jack seemed to be in charge, like some kind of squad leader. He’d also been the most helpful so far at showing Gary the ropes. “Hey, Fred,” Jack said to Bleach-head, “you ever gonna get around to helping Stan?”

“I’m gettin to it,” Fred said, tossing aside the newspaper. “I was just filling in the Rookie here on the technical aspects of Stan-the-man’s case. So you see, Rook,” Fred said, turning to Gary, “technically speaking, Stan-the-man’s fucking cracked.”

“Just get the syringe,” Jack told Fred. Jack turned to Gary, motioning for him to follow. They strode down the halls, further and further into the frantic web of Stanley’s cries. “Actually,” Jack told Gary, “Stan’s a paranoid schizophrenic. The guy’s convincedsome kid gets into his brain and messes with his dreams. You should hear what happens in some of these nightmares.” They stopped outside the room’s door. “You finished all your restraint training, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gary said.

“All right,” Jack said, unlocking the door, “you hold him down, and when Fred gets in here, he’ll pump Stan so full of Haldol it would calm a rhino.”

Gary felt he should ask a question, get a better explanation of the plan. Just hold him down?That was a little vague. But before he could say a word, or even take a breath of preparation, Jack threw open the door and plunged into the room. Gary followed.

Inside the room, Stanley was on the floor in the throes of a screeching fit. “Hold his feet,” Jack called, smothering Stanley’s back as if it were a live grenade, trying to gain control of the man’s flailing arms. Gary kneeled, straddling Stanley’s ankles, struggling for dominance over the man’s erratic legs. “Careful, he’s a kicker,” Jack called over his shoulder.

Fred and another orderly—Gary thought his name might be Steve—ran into the room. Steve grabbed one of Stanley’s arms, he and Jack stretching Stanley into a prone position. Stanley’s feet bucked, sending numbing pain through Gary’s scrotum. Gary winced, stifling a groan, shifting to a better position to immobilize Stanley’s legs. Fred sprawled over Stanley and unsheathed a needle with his teeth. He winked at Gary, digging his elbow into the small of Stanley’s back, and jabbed the needle through Stanley’s pajama bottoms. “There ya go, Stan-the-man,” Fred called.

“It’s all right, Stan,” Jack said, “You’re okay, man. You’re safe.”

“I’m not,” Stanley cried.

Fred stood from his deed, with another dig of his elbow, and Gary saw Stanley’s profile pressed onto the floor. The man’s wide eyes looking back at him with the helpless, horrific alarm of a cow about to be slaughtered.

“He’s coming here,” Stanley screamed. “William is coming.”

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