Had I ever thought of doing it before? How often do you have these thoughts? How would you do it? Do you have the means? With every query, I gave the wrong answer. I was unhappy at the moment and just like you, at some key emotional moments, you say things you might wish you hadn’t said.
To cut to the proverbial chase, the hospital decided that based on those flip remarks, I was a danger to myself and others and that I would be held in what they called “involuntary detention,” basically house arrest … and off to the puzzle factory I went.
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That was where I met, and for privacy’s sake I’ll call him, Norm. But before plunging into the underbrush, let me drop back a step.
I was strapped onto a mobile bed ala Hannibal Lechter, loaded into an ambulance, and carted off to Mission Community. The ride wasn’t all that bad. I talked to one of the attendants, a kid who bracket raced for a year at Dragway 42 in West Salem, Ohio and he radioed up to the driver to give the siren a whack. At that moment with wails wailing, I thought to myself, “Hey, this might not be bad. Mission Community, you’ve never met a motherf*cker like me.” Oh, how wrong I was!
Despite the clean sidewalks and endless shelves of white bread, America’s interior does have some black holes that rival the discoveries of Stephen Hawking. The worst place I’ve ever seen is an AIDS hospice; No human being, no matter how intrinsically evil, deserves such a fate. An AIDS hospice is what hell looks like. However, the laughing academy is a respectable, albeit distant second.
In my ward, there were 30 people and all of them, save for this one aforementioned guy, get off at the 13th floor. It was genuinely depressing. These walking wounded … I thought, “My God, these were all little children at one time. What the hell happened?”
An example of the observed weirdness. There was a small asian woman with a cute dutch boy-kinda haircut, who was watching me being unloaded from the gurney upon my arrival. I sez to myself, crazy or not or whatever, let’s not get off on the wrong foot with these people so I chirped to her, “Top of the morning to ‘ya.”
Bad move, Harry.
“It’s not morning you asshole. You wanna f*ck with me, huh? Want me to rip your eyeballs out and shove them up your ass?”
I sputter, “Uh, actually no… I..."
An attendant quickly moved in and escorted her to her room …a room she shared with another, I’m assuming, certifiable lunatic. I thought, "Geezus, I’ll bet there’s a bloodbath come time for shower privileges.”
Then it dawned on me, “It’s likely I’m going to have to share a room with someone, too.” Just my luck it’ll be some 6’8", 300-lb. mass murderer known to the inmates and staff as the “Booty Bandit."
Well, it wasn’t that bad. During the two hours of paperwork preceding my official entry, I made it clear I wanted to go solo.
“Put me in the broom closet. Load me up with a prolixin/thorazine cocktail and use me as the Xmas piñata … anything, but no floor space with Norman Bates. I’m not crazy, really I’m not. Just an occasional moment every now and then."
Instead of a butt rustler, I got a dead quiet Puerto Rican kid who was scared out of his wits. In the 72-hour holdover, he was asleep for probably 68 of them. The only time he ventured out was during the 15-minute cigarette breaks and chow time. After that, he rolled up under the bed covers, fearing an unnamed gang hit man.
It was during one of the moments we strapped on the feed bags that I ran into Norm. All I had to wear in the three days was what I had on my back for the previous four in the hospital and that extensive wardrobe included a T-shirt bearing the imprint of my all-time sports hero Chris Karamesines, although that status might change if he reads this spiel.
“You were in the nut house and you were wearing a T-shirt with me on it. You really are NUTS!! If I ever do another burnout, your head will be in the water box!!!”
Anyway, this balding heavyset guy saw it and came over to my little corner of the room and sat down. He seemed harmless enough. There was no menacing blank looks, no twitches, no public masturbation... what the hell?
He started the ball rolling as I was not in a particularly social mood given the backdrop and clientele.
“You know that Karamesines guy on your shirt, I used to see him race all the time. I was rooting for him when he ran Garlits at a race you probably never heard, the Mr. USA Invitational at a track I’ll bet you never heard of either, Cecil County in Maryland. I was really into drag racing back then, saw all the great ones, especially in the East Coast.”
“Goddam, that’s an excellent name drop,” I thought to myself.
Playing along I dropped a few East Coast clues to see just how into it he really was, “As you can tell I’m a fan with this shirt. One of my favorite East Coast cars was the little injected fuel Chevy that ran the east coast’s first seven…"
Without missing a beat he jumped in, “I saw it myself … the A & B Speed Shop dragster, ran as quick as a 7.93.”
I came back with, “And the ‘A’ and ‘B’ stood for?”
He stumbled and I jumped in, “A for Ade Knyff and B for Bernie Regels.”
Obviously we hit it off very well and for two days we bench-raced like m*therf*ckers. I regaled him with West Coast tales involving everyone from Prudhomme, Ivo, Safford, Warren , Sutherland, Tapia, Stellings and Hampshire top stock drivers and cars like those of Landy, Leal, and the Barnes Core Drilling “Snorkasaurus.”