“Retork squiddle whup whup, skiddley whup whup-doo!”
Fingers poked through threadbare cotton gloves, wiggling and gyrating at me, his face now a confused amalgam of concerted bluff and imposition as he continued his doomed attempt to intimidate me. Before I could grab him, his eyes glazed over and he assumed a pose with one leg off the ground and both hands extended in mid-air, fingers still wiggling stupidly. Lips pursed and loudly sucking in air, I thought he might pass out.
“Stop it, Jack, it won’t work on me. You don’t scare me, unless you count my worry that you may hurt yourself and the cops might try to blame it on me… you don’t know kung fu and your gibberish doesn’t sound anything like Bruce Lee’s Chinese, so do us both a favor and quit trying to act like a badass before I forget my manners and slap the shit out of you.”
This seemed to break the spell, at least somewhat. He turned his head inquisitively, his expression still defiant, if no longer martial artist. Jack pushed his chest out and posed with his hands on his hips. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t keelhaul ye as you stand, and feed ye to the sharks, ye scurvy dog!”
Mercifully, he didn’t actually own a saber, so his Captain Jack persona failed as well. But, at least he was speaking English again, so I took that as a step in the right direction. Our little impromptu therapy sessions had actually started to bear a little fruit. Jack now abstained from liquor on Tuesdays and every other Wednesday in months that ended in ‘ber’ (his choice as a counter-offer to my suggestion of bathing on a semi-weekly basis).
“So now you’re a pirate? What’s next, Eli the Wonder Llama?”
No doubt about it, the suggestion gave him pause. His face, fixated on my own with his best Johnny Depp stare, suddenly morphed once again and confronted me with his best limp-wristed, tortured-artist Truman Capote pout. A grin escaped as he lisped, “There’th never been anyone quite like me.”
“Well…” I confessed, “this one shows some promise, but if you’re going to pull it off, you need to dress a little better and maybe get yourself one of those cigarette holders that all the fairies carried in the ‘60s. Tell me, what was it like living in western Kansas when you wrote In Cold Blood?”
Jack sat down and covered his head with his arms. I couldn’t tell whether he was weeping, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. His mercurial personality changes had to be difficult to deal with, even considering the length of his history with mental illness.
I jotted a few notes on a legal pad. “Can I speak to Jack?”
Nothing. He didn’t move.
“Okay, have it your way. You stay the enigma that you are, forced to exist in two or three worlds simultaneously because of your inability to accept your place in any one of them… while the rest of humanity continues to regard you as a pathetic wackjob, dedicated to your quest for egocentricity.”
Slowly, his face an overflowing palette of remorse, he stood up and placed a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the table. “Here… for your services.”
I looked at it for a few seconds before speaking. “I usually get a hundred.”
Turning to open the door, he stopped and stared at me. “Usually you supply the reefer.”
Damned if he didn’t have me there. Oh, well, easy come, easy go. It was drinking money, even if it’d never pay for medical school.
Fingers poked through threadbare cotton gloves, wiggling and gyrating at me, his face now a confused amalgam of concerted bluff and imposition as he continued his doomed attempt to intimidate me. Before I could grab him, his eyes glazed over and he assumed a pose with one leg off the ground and both hands extended in mid-air, fingers still wiggling stupidly. Lips pursed and loudly sucking in air, I thought he might pass out.
“Stop it, Jack, it won’t work on me. You don’t scare me, unless you count my worry that you may hurt yourself and the cops might try to blame it on me… you don’t know kung fu and your gibberish doesn’t sound anything like Bruce Lee’s Chinese, so do us both a favor and quit trying to act like a badass before I forget my manners and slap the shit out of you.”
This seemed to break the spell, at least somewhat. He turned his head inquisitively, his expression still defiant, if no longer martial artist. Jack pushed his chest out and posed with his hands on his hips. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t keelhaul ye as you stand, and feed ye to the sharks, ye scurvy dog!”
Mercifully, he didn’t actually own a saber, so his Captain Jack persona failed as well. But, at least he was speaking English again, so I took that as a step in the right direction. Our little impromptu therapy sessions had actually started to bear a little fruit. Jack now abstained from liquor on Tuesdays and every other Wednesday in months that ended in ‘ber’ (his choice as a counter-offer to my suggestion of bathing on a semi-weekly basis).
“So now you’re a pirate? What’s next, Eli the Wonder Llama?”
No doubt about it, the suggestion gave him pause. His face, fixated on my own with his best Johnny Depp stare, suddenly morphed once again and confronted me with his best limp-wristed, tortured-artist Truman Capote pout. A grin escaped as he lisped, “There’th never been anyone quite like me.”
“Well…” I confessed, “this one shows some promise, but if you’re going to pull it off, you need to dress a little better and maybe get yourself one of those cigarette holders that all the fairies carried in the ‘60s. Tell me, what was it like living in western Kansas when you wrote In Cold Blood?”
Jack sat down and covered his head with his arms. I couldn’t tell whether he was weeping, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. His mercurial personality changes had to be difficult to deal with, even considering the length of his history with mental illness.
I jotted a few notes on a legal pad. “Can I speak to Jack?”
Nothing. He didn’t move.
“Okay, have it your way. You stay the enigma that you are, forced to exist in two or three worlds simultaneously because of your inability to accept your place in any one of them… while the rest of humanity continues to regard you as a pathetic wackjob, dedicated to your quest for egocentricity.”
Slowly, his face an overflowing palette of remorse, he stood up and placed a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the table. “Here… for your services.”
I looked at it for a few seconds before speaking. “I usually get a hundred.”
Turning to open the door, he stopped and stared at me. “Usually you supply the reefer.”
Damned if he didn’t have me there. Oh, well, easy come, easy go. It was drinking money, even if it’d never pay for medical school.
2 comments:
I think I dated this
guy one time.
Good study on
a level way beyond
my understanding.
kay lee
I wouldn't worry about the understanding part... I wrote it and I don't even understand most of it. This one's out there a little, I have to admit. It was mainly my feeble attempt at a cheap laugh by leading the reader to think Jack was a real patient, then springing the horrible reality at the end. For some reason I've always thought that barroom psychiatrists were much more valuable than real ones.
Thanks for giving it a look, anyway... I'll try to better on the next one.
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