Alter Boys (43 page)

It made him everybody’s best friend. 

His first smoke break upon arrival, he had given out sticks to four different moochers.  The next smoke break, five hours later, there were eight people lined up in front of him.

“I can’t he pleaded.” 

Sixteen eyes pleaded back.

He struck on a compromise.  “Okay, one cigarette.  Take a drag.  Pass it on.”

He watched as the line was satisfied.  The final puffer getting more filter than tobacco. 

After that he learned to bring only a single cigarette into the smoke room.  Still he got asked, to which he would pat down his pockets to demonstrate their emptiness.  However within moments of crushing out his single smoke, there would be a scramble to retrieve the buttsie from the tray, fire up the char, and nurse out one or two more precious puffs.

2

As a newcomer, Psycho had a room to himself, but as the need for beds was growing and state budgets were shrinking, this was about to change.

“You’ll be getting a roommate tomorrow.”  One of the psychiatric techs delivered the obligatory news in tired routine.  “Make sure your stuff is off the other bed and only in your closet.”

Psycho froze.  Not even the mind numbing therapeutic drugs could pacify his current paranoia.  He had never shared a room with anyone in his life, had not done so much as attended or hosted a sleep over.  A crazy person, in his room!  He feared for his cigarettes, he feared for the $22 (a princely sum!) that he had brought with him, he feared that the new arrival would be a monster, a thing that would choke, smother, do other
…(Don’t go there!)…
who would hurt him.  Please god, don’t let it be the bald headed guy, please don’t let him hurt me.

That afternoon he was scheduled for one of his bi-weekly appointments with the resident psychotherapist.  Until now, he had kept these sessions one sided.  The mind-jockey probing, him stonewalling.  Today was different.

He entered the session and let a single tear escape before sitting down.  “What would you like to talk about.”  The therapist, a young slender guy with vague effeminate features prompted.

Psycho took a hitching breath and squeaked:  “I’m scared.”

“Why don’t we talk about it.  Being scared is a natural emotion.  There are times when I’m scared.  Everybody gets scared.”  The therapist guided the discussion without asking the question suspended in the air.  A revelation from a patient was more therapeutic when volunteered, not forced.  

“I’m getting a roommate.”  The tears now rolled freely from both ducts.  “I’m afraid that he will…”
(Don’t go there!)

Psycho winced the lower half of his body and sat rigid.  He wiped at his face and then dropped hands protectively to his sides.  He was done.

Scott Thelen was fresh out of the graduate program at the
University
of
Minnesota
medical center.  He had fully intended to pursue his doctorate, but when his life partner succumbed to a mysterious new illness, for which there was no definitive diagnosis and no cure, he had a harsh wakeup call.  The doctors at the Mayo clinic admitted that while they weren’t positive, it could be related to homosexual activity.   There were no tests to determine if someone was a carrier of the disease, and certainly the world was years away from a cure.

He had considered his options:  Either get out and do some good with the time he might have left, or sit for four more years in stuffy classrooms and libraries waiting for his body to show similar signs of deterioration.

He looked at his patient in empathy, knowing that his statement, had it ended, would have been with the words ‘hurt me.’  He knew too, by the sudden wince and rapid change in demeanor, that there was a repressed memory at work.  Being scared of a
new roommate was just a symptom.  It was the repressed memory that he was now after.

“Yes, new things can be scary.  But you need to remember that you’re in a safe, controlled environment.  That’s why you came here.”

His patient looked at the floor, a slight indicator of a possible opening.

“Let’s talk about you and your room and how this is going to work.  Tomorrow you’ll meet your new roommate.  He will have his side and you will have yours.”

Psycho shuffled one foot, then followed it with the other to make things even. 

“Have you moved your things to one side?”  The therapist ventured.

Slowly, and still looking down.  “Yes.”

“That’s a good start.  It shows that you’re getting ready, it shows that you’ve accepted the fact that another person will be in your room.”

Psycho was not an emotionally strong person, but intellectually he could see the wisdom of the of the therapists assessment.

“But I’m still afraid.”

“Let’s talk about that.  Maybe there are some things I can suggest that will help.”

It barreled out of Psycho
’
s throat.  “I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me!  Just like the telescope!” 

Scott Thelen latched onto two things.  One, something he already knew; the final two words would be ‘hurt me.’  The other, was
intriguing.  Telescope?  He wasn’t even sure if the patient was aware he had said the word.  Clearly though it would be a topic that they would revisit.

“Let me put your mind at ease.  All of our roommates are carefully matched, we base it on age and interests.  Plus you need to remember that none of the patients in this unit have committed any crimes of physical harm.  There’s a special security unit, I’m sure you heard about it from some of the other patients, where those people are treated.”

Psycho had indeed heard about the security unit.  Some of the long-timers eagerly shared stories about their own roommates going ballistic, attacking them, staff and other patients, and only
then
being transferred to the security unit.

As they continued the session he balanced his inner fears of the stories he had heard and matched them up against the therapist’s reassurances.

“Okay.”  He resigned.  All the talk in the world would not change things.  He was going to get a roommate.  He just prayed that he would be a nice person.  He also prayed that staff would hear him and coming running when he started screaming for help.

The next day, Psycho worried himself for hours, and as the afternoon got late, the tech returned; this time not alone. 

“Here.”  He motioned to a figure just beyond the doorf
rame.  The tech then turned to P
sycho.  This is
your new roommate, his name is B
ill.

As
the figure filled the doorway, P
sycho looked up, and into, the black grizzled face of a behemoth; the dreaded archenemy of Popeye the Sailor man, the bearded strongman, the menacing Brutus.

3

If not for his
current cocktail of Thorazine, A
davan and
Anafranil, Psycho
wouldn’t have slept a wink that night.  He had watched as Brutus invaded his room.  The big man had no extra clothes for his closet, no personal items for the shelf.  Without speaking he lumbered onto the open bed where he lay grunting but otherwise motionless.   

The only time Brutus did move was just prior to dinnertime.  Some internal clock told him that it was time.  He rolled out of bed, the springs gasping in relief, exited the room and went knowingly to the dining hall door, waiting patiently, first in line, for the magic moment when the door would open and dinner would be served.

Obviously Brutus had been here before. 

During the 6 o’clock smoke break, Brutus paced the room strategically.  He looked from face to face, and shirt pocket to shirt pocket, trying to assess his best mark.  Then he made his move.

“May I have a ‘igarette please?   The question came from a mouth that had lost many a tooth to dental neglect, face smashing or a combination of both. 

Psycho readily gave up the lower half of his butt. 

“hank you.”  The words came out choppy, with a tone of gratitude.  Or was it an ‘I’ve got you by the balls now my diminutive friend!’

Psycho anguished over his gesture.  Had he just shown an act of kindness that would be respected by Brutus, or had he just become a sucker, displaying his weakness.   A weakness that would be exploited.  ‘I know you got ‘igorettes in ‘ta room.  Give ‘em to me or I’ll ‘urt you!  And even after I’ve got ‘em I’ll ‘urt you.  ‘urt you bad!

Psycho bailed out.  He hurried to the room (the room he now shared) and grabbed his carton of smokes.  He stuffed the elongated box into the arm of a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned the cuff at its tightest point, and re-hung the shirt deep in the closet. 

At least now his smokes were safe.  If Brutus demanded ‘igorettes, Psycho would claim that he too had been bumming them.

Brutus returned to the room after smoke break and immediately hit the rack.  Psycho hit the halls.  Walking, touching, matching black tiles to his steps; right, left, right, left.  If only he could walk all night, he would be safe.

Lights out came at 10 o’clock.  Psycho came back to the room and found the giant sleeping silently.  He dared a look in the closet.  Nothing appeared to be disturbed.  He quietly reached his hand to the back corner, finding comfort in the stiff edges of the carton masked by the shirt sleeve.

In bed, he vacillated.  If he slept with his back to his roommate, he would be at risk.  If he turned on his other side, he would be looking directly at the source of his paranoia. 

As he switched from side to side, ominous images tormented his brain.  He saw a defenseless little boy, Swee pea, being grabbed roughly from behind by an evil Brutus.   They were in the captain’s quarters of an old wooden ship.  Swee pea was sobbing as Brutus placed him on a stool.  “You have to see it!”  The evil strongman bellowed.  “When you see it, it will stop!”  Swee pea looked around desperately.  There was a large globe, the captains mahogany desk, and on the desk, a large book.  A book with colored tassels to mark important pages.  A book of… maps. 

None of these items appeased the sinister sailor.  “You need to see the stars!”  Brutus was now cramming a handheld nautical spyglass into Swee peas face while cramming his backside with…

Psycho rolled to the other side.  He couldn’t remember how the cartoon ended, couldn’t remember if Popeye eventually came to save the day. 

He turned his thoughts to his cigarettes, while a mysterious body memory tormented his anus.  The giant in the next bed slept on, and eventually, mercifully, so did Psycho.

4

At some point during the next week, Psycho dispensed with the image of Brutus, and came to know his roommate as Bill. 

Giant, gentle, borderline retarded, in and out of prisons and mental institutions, Bill.

One of the first objective things he had noticed about his roommate was his feet.  Bill stuffed his feet into his tennis shoes, not unlacing and lacing, just stuffing.  His heels remained exposed; squashed down on the fabric that was intended to surround and hold the back of his foot in place.

He can’t tie his shoes.  Psycho mused.

When Bill gave him 55 cents and asked Psycho to ‘et him a ‘ack of ‘arlborough’s’ from the vending machine, it wasn’t due to lack of privileges.  He innocently admitted that he didn’t know how. 

*Insert coin. 

*Select product by letter and number. 

*Press A-4 and get a toothbrush. 

*Press B-3 for a little cylinder of Rolaids. 

If Bill had tried to puzzle out the letters and numbers on his own he would have likely ended up with a package of dental floss or a single Playtex tampon; items of marginal use for a toothless tower of testosterone.