Manic episode . . . angel/demon delusions . . . schizoid tendencies . . . these are among the words I overheard from those who are supposed to know who is and who is not a proper fit for the highly organized, well-ordered, and functional society we live in.
I think my big mistake was revealing to them my fears that I was the victim of some kind of witchcraft or spell and under the influence of various nefarious curses and hexes. I both believed this 100 percent and did not believe it at all. I gave them no specific names or details as to who put this upon me or precisely how I was afflicted by it. I regret saying any of this at all and I know it really did me in as far as my case for going home went.
“Just do your time, don’t think too much, keep your body clean, eat whatever they give you, take your medicine, and you’ll sail outta here fit and happy before you know it.” This was told to me by an orderly named Roscoe.
I like Roscoe better than anyone else on the staff. He is the kindest and in my opinion the smartest and the most honest. Every once in a while he’ll give me an Almond Joy or an Archie comic book from his personal collection.
I’ve followed his advice as much as possible.
Roscoe was born in Oxford, Mississippi, which I told him was the home of William Faulkner. Roscoe had never heard of him. Later on, as we became closer, he confided in me that his father had been lynched by the Ku Klux Klan when he was five years old. His dad was accused of cheating a white man out of ten bales of hay so the Klan burned their trademark cross in front of their house. Roscoe’s dad refused to be intimidated because he had done nothing wrong. A week later he was founded swinging from a sweet gum tree in a grove near Ole Miss. After the funeral, Roscoe’s mom moved him and his sisters up to Memphis where he spent most of his childhood.
Roscoe was of great help to me in explaining how the medicine was going to affect me. In the beginning I was afraid it would dull my mind, soften and blur all my edges, and leave me wandering (waddling?) in a permanent fuzzy haze like some of the other kids in here. Roscoe assured me that I might feel a little sluggish for a while but that would pass as my body and mind got used to the dosage.
It was pretty miserable in the beginning. My body felt like shit and I didn’t feel like talking very much. But somewhere in the middle of July I started to feel better.
After the first long weeks during which I was allowed no visitors, my mother finally came to see me. I’m not sure what I looked like then, but it must have been awful because she kept rubbing my cheeks and straightening my posture. She fixed my hair too, wetting her fingers with saliva, rubbing her hands together, and then smoothing out the cowlicks atop my head.
Actually, Mom came to sign me out but she quickly learned that it wasn’t an option and wouldn’t be for some time. I think she felt very guilty, as if it were somehow her fault. I tried to smile to let her know I would be okay, though I’m not sure if what I was thinking and intending in my head translated properly to the muscles in my face.
The next day Mom brought me some books and the latest issue of MAD magazine. Its cover had a drawing of King Kong scratching his head as he looked at his lady who sat knitting in the palm of his hand. I had been reading MAD since I was nine so forgive her the irony, please, bless her heart. She was doing whatever she could to hold herself together under the circumstances. I think she was taking the whole thing worse than I was.
She explained to me that the books had been given to her by my principal at Hobart and that he’d arranged with her an accelerated course of study for me while I was away from school. She asked if I was okay with the idea.
I squeezed her hand and tried to smile. “Sure,” I said.
“Mr. Barrett said you might even be able to graduate early if you can keep up with what he gives you. What do you think of that?”
Under the circumstances I didn’t see how that was possible. I felt we were putting the cart way in front of the horse but I didn’t let her see my doubts. I squeezed her hand again, she kissed and hugged me goodbye.
She left a bag of underwear, socks, and T-shirts on my bed and the books stacked tall on my desk: Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, 1984, Animal Farm, The Stranger, The Diary of Anne Frank, Invisible Man, and Candide.
It was an impressive list and I would eventually get to reading all of them. They had a lot in common: prejudice, intolerance, cruelty, persecution of the other, subjugation of the weak, the powerful dominating the meek, evil triumphing over good, genocide, murder, and slavery. All the lovely themes
