Another in a long line of dreary days and unending nights. Another in a long line of weeks stuck in the loony bin. What the hell was I thinking taking a job here?
Oh yeah. Money. I was thinking of the money.
I hate that stuff. Rules your life. Pointless slips of paper, all of them the same size and shape – well, used to be, now they got those ugly colorful bills now – but all worth different amounts, depending on what it says on the front. And what do those numbers on the front really mean? Why can't I take one that has a “1” on it, put a couple “00” on the end, cross out Washington, write Franklin, and pass it off as a hundred? Huh? Why not?
I'll tell you why not. Because the monkeys in the capitol say not too. Heh heh heh . . . it's been a long day. Back to work.
I walk down the long corridor, passing the solitary cells on either side. The fascination that once held me as I took my first jaunt down this corridor all those months ago has gone the way of the dodo, baby . . . dead as a doornail. Jacob Marley style.
Eight months here. Not looking to change any time soon.
It's late on a Friday afternoon. Most of the doctors have gone home, the day nursing staff is on the way home, leaving the dirty work to me. Oh well. At least it pays the bills. Money. Oh yeah. That's why.
I look up from my feet long enough to see an unfamiliar doctor standing in front of me. Blue eyes, medium build, decent looking guy. Wringing his hands. Seems kinda young to be a doc, but whatever. I mean, Doogie Howser was what, fifteen? But I guess he's gay now so it doens't much matter. Wouldn't trust a gay doctor.
“Ah, orderly,” he says to me with a measured voice. “I was hoping to find one of you traipsing about these hallways.”
“Well, doc, you found me. Whadda you want?” I don't know this guy. But he looks really freakin' familiar. What's the deal?
He hasn't stopped wringing his hands. What the hell? “Well, orderly . . . Johanson,” He reads my name tag. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Dr. Folcom. I'm new to the ward, just started this week. I was wondering if you could walk me through the ward and introduce me to some of the more . . . interesting . . . patients. Are you occupied?”
Still talks really measured, calm. Sounds intelligent. 'Spose you've gotta be to be a doc. Especially that young. There's a reason I dropped out of the university, went to one of those cheapy daytime-advertisment schools. Never mind.
“Sure, Dr. Folcom,” I reply. What's it gonna hurt to take this guy on my meal delivery rounds anyway? “I'm just going around to bring the patients their evening meals. Wanna see the freak show, I take it?”
His eyes, widen. “Certainly . . . the 'freak show', as you so eloquently call it, orderly.” He sounds sarcastic. Why does he seem so familiar to me? I know there's lots of blue-eye-blonde-hair people in this world, but come on. What's the deal?
We walk down the corridor to the first room. I say, “Well, 'psych ward' sounds so . . . I dunno . . . stupid. Freak show fits better.”
He's still wringing his bloody hands. “Ah. Well, carry on, Johanson.”
We walk up to the first door. He picks the chart up out of the door hanger and begins to flip through it. “Well . . . who's our first patient?”
“This is Sean Middleton, but we refer to him as the zookeeper. Kinda as a joke. He thinks he's some sort of Doctor Doolittle or some shit like that. Talks to the animals only he can see.”
I open the door, look in on the zookeeper. As usual, he's flipping through his books, speaking at the drawings. Big guy, always hunched over on his bed. “Hey zooboy, I've got your dinner.”
He looks up, starts to mumble. “He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thrusts -”
“That's fine, zooboy. Here's your food. See you tomorrow.”
The doc seems to be paying careful attention to not enter the room. Weird. I don't like this doc at all. I put the tray on the bedside table and walk out, hearing behind me the whole way, “insists he sees the ghosts.”
The doc looks at me, nervous. “He seems to be a tough case.”
I laugh. “Doc, you must be some sorta new. He's tame compared to some of the others. Just wait until we get to the lockboxes. There're some crazy shits in there.”
We continue down the hall. Next patient. “This is Donna Stevens, she's been in here for years. Believes she's the dali lama or something like that. We call her little miss Serenity.”
I pull the door open, and we look in on Serenity. She's a beautiful black lady, too bad she's in here. Might wanna make a move, if ya know what I mean. I take in her tray, and she looks up from her lotus position for two seconds, long enough to say, “May you have serenity with you forever.”
“Thanks, Donna, same to you,” is all I say as I walk back out. Doc still won't come in. I'm getting weirded out by this guy.
Another door, another patient. “This one's named Mark Mason. He used to be a guitarist in some band or something, but one day during a gig he went berserk, smashed the hell out of the stage. He doesn't speak anymore, except to scream out sometimes, “Dyna-mite!” That's all he ever says. Watch this.” I smirk.
“Hey, Dyna-boy, here's your dinny dinn. How's that make you feel?”
“Dyna-MITE!”
“Hey, Dyna-boy, what's your favorite color?”
“Dyna-MITE!”
“Hey, Mark, what's a horse say?”
“DYNA-MITE!”
I shut the door, sniggering. “Gotta love it, doc. It's the most fun part about working here.”
The doc gives me a look like hell warmed over. “I see you amuse yourself at work, Johanson.”
“Yeah, I do. And? Ain't nothing in my contract that says I can't have fun on the job, doc.”
Next door. “This one here's named Peter Jones. He's a bit of a weird one. I don't know what happened to him, but all he does is headbang all day. We've nicknamed him the Blue Devil, because he's always wearing Duke stuff.”
“Ah, and Duke's mascot is the Blue Devil. That's where the nickname comes from. Interesting nicknames you have for everyone, orderly.” Wow, this doc's a keeper. Smart as a tack. Judas priest. And STILL wringing his hands!
I walk in the room with the Blue Dev's tray. He looks up for a second from his headbanging, long enough to say, “Weenie-doctor-weenie-doctor-weenie-doctor!” I don't talk much with the Blue Dev.
I leave the tray and walk out. The doc and I pass a few more rooms, each loony weirder than the last. Sabrina McMullen, or the Bullwhip as we like to call her, is in restraints all day. She likes to lash out. Mason Rutherford talks Greek philosophy with his damn cat all day. Room after room, patient after patient. The doc keeps asking questions, keeps fidgeting. I don't like this guy at all.
We reach the end of the corridors and the lockdoors. I turn to the doc. “This is where we keep the dangerous ones . . . the criminals and all that. Right now we've just got two of 'em right now, but the guards usually take care of them. I figured, though, with you being new and all, Dr . . .” I can't remember his freaking name.
“Folcom. And I'd love to.” His smile gets a bit too wide. This guy is giving me the creeps.
I pull out my key to unlock the heavy doors, but one of them is open a crack. What the hell? One of the guards must have gone for a piss and forgotten to lock it behind him. Asshat.
The doc looks at me. “So, Johanson, tell me about the two criminals you've got here.”
“Well,” I reply, “One of them is Joe Frenhauer, but they call him Shovel. He used to decapitate people with his . . . um . . . shovel. And then eat their brains. Read one too many Hannibal books, I guess. He's a strange cookie. I've spoken to him a couple times. Has his lucid spells, but mostly it's just 'm*th*rf*ck*r this' and m*th*rf*ck*r that'. Weird guy.
“The other, however, is the really strange one. Goes by the name of Braeden Johnson. Went around the country for years pretending to be a young traveling minister or priest or some bullshit like that. He'd stick around for awhile, and then end up killing someone and taking off. Very clean, though. One of the great serial killers, man. Wouldn't have gotten caught, ever, but one day he just snapped. Walked into some department store, pulled some panties onto his head, and started running around screaming, 'Wondrous flickers of the pantylights!' at the top of his lungs. They grabbed him, took him into the police station, searched his place, and they found out who it was they caught.
“They say he was a great liar back in the day, before the panty incident. Supposedly he could convince anyone he was anything.” I stop talking and look at the doc. His eyes are wide, his smile scary. Something's not right here.
I look around for the guards. There are none. What the hell is going on around here? “Where are the guards, doc? Go check on the panty saint, I'll check on Shovel. Make sure he's still tied up and in his cell.” Alarms start going off in my head.
I run full tilt down the corridor. I reach Shovel's cell. It's open. Holy shit. What happened? Where is he? Where are the guards with the freaking guns?
I spin in fright. To my left, I see Shovel. He's out of his cell. Oh no. His mouth is covered in blood. There's a dead guard at his feet. He looks up, sees me. “Oh, sorry. I couldn't find my m*th*rf*ck*ng shovel.”
I spin again, ready to take off. The doc is walking this direction. “Doc, run!” I scream in terror.
“I don't think that's necessary, Johanson. Just calm down now.” I realize why he looks so familiar. It's Johnson. The panty saint. How did they get out of their cells?
I blurt the first thing on my mind. “What's going on? Get outta my way!” I run for the doors. The panty saint grabs me, drags me to the floor.
Shovel walks over. “Hey, Chonino, can I eat his brains?”
The doc starts to choke me, cut off my air. “Sure, Shovel. That don't confront me none.”
All I can see is the maniacal grin of the panty saint as my vision blackens. My last thought before going unconscious is, stupid money.
© 2006 Braeden Jones