“Death solves all problems--no man, no problem.”
-- Joseph Stalin
“I looked around. Everything was the way it should be. My books were under my feet, the rope was in my hands, the door and windows were shut. I raised my head toward the ceiling, pulled on the rope again for good measure, and swallowed. I hesitated for a moment, then jumped.” He stopped, his eyes staring off into nowhere.
“And then what do you remember, Mark?” the doctor asked.
His eyes snapped back. “Nothing.”
The psychiatrist leaned forward and took a deep breath. “But Mr. Williamson, the rope was cut by a knife that had your fingerprints on it, forensics confirmed this. It seems you cut the rope yourself after the jump failed to break your neck.” Dr. Solomon glanced at his papers. “Thankfully, your friend, Mr. Michael, came in shortly after you decided to do what you did. He found you sprawled unconscious on the floor with the knife in your hand.” The doctor looked at his patient the way a parent would at a lying child.
“I told you what happened. Nothing else happened.”
Solomon nodded. “Yes, of course. Mr. Williamson, were you under the influence of any substances. Medication, drugs?” He waited for an answer. “No? Do you have a medical history we should know about? Mental issues perhaps?”
Mark smashed his fists on the table. “I'm not crazy! Leave me alone!” He got up and turned to a wall with a mirror. He could see the red ring, still fresh and raw around his neck.
A guard opened the door and stepped in the room, his hands on his club and belt, behind him a stream of light from the hall. “Everything alright, doctor?”
“Everything’s fine, thank you, officer." Solomon turned to Mark. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Williamson."
He got up from his chair and headed out the door.
The sergeant on duty was in the hall by the room. He was dwarfed by two other policemen who were at his side. He took a cigar out of his mouth and put his arms to his waist. “Well, Doctor Solomon here to grace my police station again, what an honor.” He put out his hand.
Solomon took it. “An honor it must be indeed.”
The sergeant was a little man and put all of his strength into his grip. “So what brings you here, checking out my police station to see how a real place works?”
Solomon thought he would toy with him, the sergeant’s power plays reminding him of the basics. He lifted his chin. “You called me.”
The sergeant puffed his chest, inhaling a deep breath through his cigar. “Oh right, right, for that nut bar, Williamson, or something or other.” With the smoky end of the stogie he pointed to the room. “We got him here for observation while we clear out the mess with his apartment. The landlord’s got some major complaints, some we need to pursue, but it’s police business, nothing you need to worry about.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. What happened exactly? I need to know.”
“The damned nut bar won’t cooperate, he’ll barely talk. The only thing he did say was that he’s supposed to be dead, that he didn’t cut the rope. We even showed him his own fingerprints on his own knife, but all he says is he’s supposed to be dead. Are you going to take him or what?”
Some baggage, Solomon thought. “No, just send him back off to the psych ward for observation. Everybody gets suicidal once in a while, especially in New York. He wanted to try it, and he did, then he cut the rope, but just a little bit too late and now he’s understandably grouchy. It’s called depression and shock, the staff can handle it.”
“I’m afraid we can't do that, doc. The psych ward’s full and you have to take him. That’s what they said, that’s why I called you.”
“We’re understaffed as is, and if we took every guy off the street, we’d never finish. Send him home. At least he won’t try to kill himself again, you can take my word on that." Solomon looked the sergeant up and down.
“For a psychiatrist, you don’t hear well enough yourself. I said the landlord doesn’t want him there. He hasn’t been paying his rent, and he doesn’t even have the lease to the damn place.
It’s his brother's or something, and the big man hasn’t been coughing up the dough like he's supposed to. Basically the landlord wants him out. Besides, the place stinks, like a dead body stinks. We're getting a warrant to search the dump, again on landlord's grievances. I told you, police business.” The sergeant blew out smoke.
Solomon took a while. “I’m going back, I'll talk to him again.”
The guard opened the door and nodded as the doctor passed him. Mark was still by the mirror, his head straight ahead, looking into it. Solomon took his seat. “Mr. Williamson?”
Mark stood there, still staring into the mirror.
“Mr. Williamson, I've no more time to waste. I’m here to help you not get put in jail, and all you have to do is listen, so listen.” Solomon slid a paper and pencil onto the metal table. “I want you to give me the name and phone number of somebody I can call, since the good folks here don’t seem to have adequate information on you.”
Mark didn’t budge.
“I need the number, Mr. Williamson, because, unfortunately, you've been evicted from your apartment. I can't let you go out in the streets a homeless suicidal with no police or medical records."
Solomon waited.
Mark said nothing.
“It’s either this or getting thrown in a cell in this hole until you get cleared by some suited government drone from immigration or whatever department handles people like you. It’s your choice, either way, you’ll have to give us a number.”
Mark got to the table, wrote down something, and went back. Solomon took the paper. It only had a number, nothing else, scratched out in horrible penmanship. He put it in his pocket and went outside, to a room behind the mirror. When he entered, Dr. Ronald Johnson, another staff psychiatrist, was leaning against a file cabinet, his eyes glued on Mark.
“So, tell me, what do you think?” Solomon asked, as he grabbed his thermos from a nearby table.
“Do you think it's wise to push a patient on the initial consult? It's not even the first night here yet.”
Solomon took a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?”
“Seriously? By not so subtly asking him about his medical history and calling him a lunatic, badgering him like that, then also telling him he's homeless? And all at once, one after the other? You've outdone yourself, again.” Johnson clapped his hands. "Congratulations, I really mean that.”
Solomon laughed, slurping his drink. “So says the naysayer. It worked out wonderfully well, all of it. It’s good that you came down here with me, you should just be thankful, you’re so lucky you have the pleasure, the privilege, to see such topnotch psychoanalysis firsthand.
“Let me elaborate, and don't worry, especially for you I'll pronounce each word slowly. You second-rate psychiatrists need all the help you can get.” Solomon took one last sip and put the thermos back on the table.
“First of all I didn’t call him crazy because it entertained me, and even though it did, it more importantly showed us if he had any hidden emotions, which clearly he does as emphasized by all the gorilla slamming and pushing away. But it’s okay that you missed that. I understand.
“And the so-called badgering, it was done very tastefully, and it got him to listen more intently, as it does for all people who are so lucky as to be in my company.
“The third accusation, if you are able to follow any pattern, an ability I doubt you have, is also unsound. Why? Because that perfect addition, added so adeptly, got me this number." Solomon pulled the paper out from his pocket. "And it will solve all our problems. We get one of his relatives, question the person, then we get his life back on track and have him out of our hair before any of it's old and gray.” He walked to the phone. “You see, it’s all really simple.”
Johnson laughed. “Don’t you ever get your head too big for even that meaty neck?”
“Perfection comes at high cost, and people like you will never understand.” He grabbed the handset and dialed the number.
The first tone sank his heart to his stomach. Something felt wrong. “Hello, good evening, thanks for choosing Luigi’s Pizza, home of the best pizza, pasta, and more.”
Solomon slammed down the phone. It flew off the carriage, startling the speaker. “Hello? Hello? May I take your order?”
He pulled the cord from the socket.
“You didn’t tell me you were ordering pizza tonight,” Johnson said, laughing.
Solomon clenched his fist. “Not another word.”
“How wonderfully, perfectly simple. You know I was going to have to get you back for all those insults you slurred my way, but I love it when the universe does my work for me.”
“Are you done?”
Johnson tried to keep a straight face. “No!” He laughed again.
“That’s it, we have to bring him to Santa Rosa,” Solomon said.
“What? Why? Couldn’t it just be like what you said to the sergeant?”
“I was just playing with the sergeant. Didn't you hear everything? I told Mr. Williamson about the eviction and he didn’t budge. He has some serious issues, more than what Prozac can handle, and we don’t have any records on him. There’s something odd about that. This one’s more than skin deep. We have to take him in and see where it goes. Besides, we have no other choice, the psych ward’s full. We can’t just let him go out of here like he is.”
Johnson looked at Mark through the mirror. “So we really have no records of him, at all?”
“No police records, no medical files, nothing, all the more reason we have to take him. He’s practically a ghost. Do you have any idea what they would do to him, what they would put him through? It’s enough to push anybody over the edge, and he’s already there, he doesn’t need another shove.”
Mark pulled himself up from the chair and walked over to the mirror. He stared at Johnson, then Solomon.
“A ghost with a burning death wish. Look at those eyes, you can see there isn’t much he cares about. It’s like he’s looking straight at us.” Johnson moved his hand and Mark tracked it with his eyes. The psychiatrist stepped back. “How the hell can he see us?”
Solomon shrugged. “Whatever. Keep yourself occupied with that, I’m going to talk to my friend the sergeant and arrange everything.”
“I’ll go talk to him," Johnson said, then smirked. "I can stand him, at least."
“No, it’s okay, his behavior entertains me. It’s so simple and predictable. Annoying, but amusing nonetheless.”
“Well, have fun.” Johnson turned back to the mirror. “I swear though, he’s looking right at me.”
_______________________________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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