Dramatization of hospital scene, December 5-7, 1971
It was Monday afternoon, December 6th, 1971. I lay on my hospital bed, cranked up a bit so it was more like sitting. I explained the events of the past month to a fascinated Dr. Kirk, my shrink or as I often said, my pusher. He was a big man with a bald head, probably shaved, it was so shiny.
"The behavior you’re exhibiting," said Dr. Kirk, as he glanced at some notes he had scribbled down is called 'Obsessive-Compulsive'. Intellectually, you are aware it is wrong…"
"Not wrong," I interrupted, "just not healthy."
"Fine," said Kirk, "you are aware it is not healthy for you, yet you still persist."
"I feel I must," I said, as though it were a badge of honor. He looked back down at his pad and, I swear, I could see the reflection of my face in his head.
"Exactly, it's a classic case of the syndrome." Dr. Kirk smiled as though he had successfully put a textbook definition on me. "I think we should start you on some new medication, but more importantly, Illinois gives us the right to hold you forty-eight hours without a hearing. I'm not letting you leave until after that City Council meeting is over."
I sat up straight, started to object, but the peace of surrender was too powerful to resist and I fell back into the bed.
"Besides," continued Kirk. "Your pride won't take a beating. Just blame mean old Dr. Kirk for keeping you under lock and key." He stood, laughed a loud doctor's laugh from the gut and left the room. I was impressed with his insight, although the laugh grated on me.
Soon I fell into a deep sleep, the anxiety and depression just evaporated away, the hospital bed and covers acted as warm womb in which to nestle. Monday became Tuesday and morning became afternoon. "The day that will live in infamy," was the joke that ran through my mind as I lay safely snuggled between blanket and sheet.
Three knocks on the door awoke me from a restful sleep. I saw that it was dark outside.
"Hello, are you awake?" asked Paola softly.
"Oh, hi,” I said, “How did you even know I was here?"
"Everybody knows you’re here. You’re famous."
"I guess by now, that little hobbit Marc Faucet has issued pamphlets and held interviews with the press." I laughed, similar in timbre to Dr. Kirk’s and like Kirk’s motivated by nothing I found humorous. I turned to the window and peered into the darkness. A street lamp down the block illuminated a heavy rain.
"Isn't there someplace you're supposed to be?" she asked softly and peacefully.
"It's too late and I'm locked in here," I said as if the matter were closed.
"That's not the way the story goes," she said, just as matter-of-factly. I looked at her with a puzzled expression as Paola continued speaking: "It's only six fifteen, so the meeting doesn't start for forty-five minutes. As for being locked in here, all of the doctors and most of the nurses have left for the day. There is just one night nurse. You could easily slip down the stairs."
"Good try," I said, "but, they have a much more secure way of keeping me here. All of my clothes, my coat, and my wallet are locked up in there." I pointed at a cedar closet with a heavy lock. "If I leave, it will be in this stupid gown, in the pouring rain, with absolutely no money or even keys to the dorm."
"I think you look beautiful in that gown," said Paola. "But I brought you something even more beautiful." She took a large multicolored knit poncho out of the paper bag she carried. "It's Native American and will bring you good fortune."
"I'm not wearing that thing to the City Council meeting," I objected. "Besides, I don't have the chain to chain myself to the podium."
"You won't need it," said Paola, with an air of authority.
"That’s true," I said wryly. "One of Neddy Riesman’s hired guns will shoot me long before the police haul me away. But I'm not going to wear that poncho!" Like a tsunami reclaiming a barren oceanscape, I suddenly realized my date with destiny had arrived.
