But something changed tonight
I made it through with spontaneity
But this monotony is killing me
It's 2 am man the house is cold, I'm feeling old
Looking back at how time's rolled
I know somewhere stars fill up the night, that must be such a sight
It'd make me whole again inside
I'm getting closer, closer the farther I drive away
I'm getting colder, colder the longer I stay
Don't know how much time I got to spend right here
I've been avoiding but it's time to face my fear, right here
Looks like this episode should end
And I'll miss my friends
-Lucky Boys Confusion
Sandie pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry's Half Baked Frozen Yogurt out of the freezer and let her bones drop to a stool. Referrals, evals, and a whole a buncha what-not to fill out. She was sure that the US Government and their God-forsaken forms was the cause of the lack of forest in the rain forest.
She grabbed a pen (a *black* pen, why was the president so set on things being written in black but so dead-set against affirmative action?) and peered down at the heap of paper work below her. *Hannagan-- safe to go home, Smith-- Institution, Abbot-- stays at the home, Burns--* That man puzzled Sandie.
Before today, in her field of medicine, there was no thin line between illness. Banging your head up against the wall-- ill, talking cordially about your grandchildren-- fit as an ox. That is if you *have* grandchildren. Burns was that thin line. The line between sanity and insanity. He didn't bang his head up against the wall nor did he speak cordially of his grandchildren. That is suspecting he had children and grandchildren.
And that was the hardest Goddamn part of Burns! Sandie knew nothing of him. He wouldn't talk. Anybody who could get him to "open up", no matter what level of education deserves a degree in behavioral medicine! He could be like the Virginia Bar! You pass him you can shrink anywhere!
It seemed that Burns was her cheesy movie or book plot-- Be Careful What You Wish For by Satan, Vishnu, Hades, Stephen King, and Any Other Deity of Wrath You Can Think of. One moment Heroic Yet Conflicted Female was wishing for a non-hoarder and the next a non-hoarder was dropped onto Heroic Yet Conflicted Female's lap. Oh, no, it's not that simple (is it ever?), Heroic Yet Conflicted Female cannot figure out what is wrong or not wrong with Lovable Old Sad Patient. Speed up the story-- Heroic Yet Conflicted Female and Lovable Old Sad Patient learn an important lesson. If only Sandie could speed up *her* story.
Sandie's phone rang. It was 11:47 PM and the Americana within forced her to question aloud, "Who could be calling at this hour." She tip-toed over to pick it up, but her answering machine got to the call first.
A nervous, shaky voice crackled out. "Hi, um... it's Theodore Hampton from Auvdore Boulevard. Um... uh... I'm in... uh... Indianapolis on business ... for two months and your mother said--"
Theodore's message was cut off by a monotone "CURRENT MESSAGE DELETED."
Her mother was trying to set her up again. Almost a thousand miles away from it's target and Cupid could still shoot Horrible Blind Date Arrows at Sandie. Then again, a hunter could easily hit a dear in the headlights.
Sandie would roll her eyes, give a deep sigh, and many other things that should have stopped at age eighteen, whenever her mother "set her up". Oh, how she set her up. She set her up for disaster. She set her up for humiliation. She set her up for a chess game if she felt the need.
It had been this way for years. Ever since Sandie was of contillian age. Her mother was an excellent match-maker. Every match had something to gain from the boy's parents. A membership to the country club's Women's Society. A powerful vote for Father. Or the fieriest demon, publicity.
It was all publicity, really. One giant commercial for William Ripka, Massachusetts' Republican Choice. One giant flop in the outcome. He never won anything. He was president, vice president, or treaserer of anything his wife, Susan could get her mitts on. That's all. When pressed to speak of his unsucess, Susan would say that there were "simply, too many Republican candidates, many of them not deserving", too which Sandie would reply, "too many Republicans altogether".
:: :: :: :: ::
Frank found himself in bed again. He felt idle, being propped up in a tuft of cotton a seven-thirty. At least when his mother sent him to bed he sould read. But no, not here. Too dark. A cold, bleak, empty darkness. A sea of black ready to swallow you up. He couldn't even see the air.
The night time orderlies wafted their way through their rounds, shining their flashlight into each room, just long enough to make the occupant even more senial. Frank wondered why "rounds" was adopted. Surely, if someone escaped the staff would have notice. They would've heard the *squeak, squeak* of the wheelchair. That was another thing. How could some escape when they can't even take a piss alone? They wouldn't be able to get out of bed.
Frank put down the less practical and probable ideas and went into a more "hospitable" state of mind. The orderlies were probably checking if any of the patients rolled of their bed and broke their hip. To Frank it still seemed pointless. Breaking a hip is inevitable, it happens to everybody, therefore there it not a legitimate reason for people to flash lights in people's eyes!
Frank lied there, brooding over nursing home policies and the like. At night, brooding was the main hobby of Frank. For their was nothing else to do but brood. In the day he could be bombarded with thoughts from the other, but they never came at night. (Hawkeye surely could make a joke on how someone could dream all day and think all night.) Frank supposed that the other place had to be triggered, inspired by something. A fishing pole, a beaker, a gaudy dress, a curly haired boy.... However, in the dark void, there was little to be inspired.
:: :: :: :: ::
It seemed that the hardest part of being a psychiatrist was the seriousness of it all. Never could Sandie laugh at Titus' childhood experiences; for laughing at the mentally ill is wrong. And so is this, and so that, and this, and that. The world is becoming too PC. People are walking on eggshells, trying not to seem prejudiced in the eyes of the contemporaries. Sometimes, it appeared to Sandie, that the left wing groups are worse than the right wing. See, when someone does something really shocking and edgy they are labelled a heretic. The "heteric" responds with a gentle brush of middle finger. However, when someone does something Archie Bunker-esque, they're labelled a hillbillies. The "hillbillies" then replies with a very insincere apology, just to keep up appearances. This is all what the world is now, a bunch of heretics and hillbillies. There is no fine line.
As you can see, Sandie was not one for Freudian theoreticy. Sandie figured that every genii she had met were insane, an every insane person she had met were genii. Anybody who could invent or create something bold and different had to a bit insanity to do it; sane folk would be too afraid. Anybody who could twist and contour their mind into such dysfunction was truly a genius.
If Sandie were to analyze Freud she'd howl "homosexual" to the moon. Freud was gay, right? Any man who talked that much about penises was either gay or severly lacking. Makes you wonder what would've happened if Hitler would've turned to psychiatry instead. One of her professors did have a very tiny moustache....
Sandie laughed at that thought as she half-heartedly dropped of her stool and headed toward her bedroom.
:: :: :: :: ::
*Der Captain sat in his chair at Starboard.
A l l w a s c a l m. The boys were no where in site, Mamma was baking in der kitchen, and Der Inspector was off chasing truant fish. Der calm waves of the Meditteranean rocked der ship b a c k a n d f o r t h. Der old seadog sat there, peacefully, with not a care in the world.
Tragedy. Big waves rose in the sky, hurtling toward him. Hans and Fritz were back.
"Addy der fisherman! Addy der fisherman!" der boys shouted, dancing around Der Captian, fast, fast circles. "Addy der fisherman! Addy der fisherman!"
Der words eeped into Der Captain's mind. The same words, same melody, over and over again. Before he knew it, he was at the edge. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stop being Addy der fisherman; he was a Captain not a fisherman. Der only way to leave a boat was to jump and to jump you die. You get swallowed up der ocean. Eader get swallowed up by der ocean or get swallowed up by Hans and Fritz. He jumped.
Der ocean enveloped him. Bya-bya, Addy der fisherman.*
Frank awoke in a cold sweat. He was on an unfamiliar surface. Cold, pale, gritty, the floor. A sharp pain was shooting from his hip. It was clear to him that this was big trouble. He tried to call for help but his blankets muffled the noise. He tried once more. No answer. The meaning of rounds became all too clear right then.