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Paper Airplane On the Moon Chapter Two
A Tribe of Souls
In my past "vacation" spots there were plastic flowers in plastic pots placed in strategic areas around the ward to convey a sense of pleasantness . . . but in some of them the leaves, the flowers, the silk and plastic leaves had teeth marks in them! Pillow cases chewed to shreds. Clawmarks on the walls in interesting designs and textures. This place was tame in comparison. A smiley-faced psyche ward with sit-com patients. It took another incident to wipe the smile off the ward's face. And to offer another chance for me to distance myself from two of my three young attractees. Last night, after reading Satan's, Akua's, and Jesus-Elvis' files in the therapist's office, the author walked wearily back toward his room. One of the patient's doors was open a crack. He heard muffled voices inside. Mangled but stupid cat that he is, the author stepped to the door and peeked in. The light from the open bathroom door illuminated Satan, who stood on the other side of the bed. He spoke to the bed's occupant; his voice oozed like it had at one time earlier this afternoon, in tones reminiscent of a car salesman's, or a card shark's. On the bed lay a woman, an attractive woman with a dazed expression on her face, staring back at him. Satan held her gown up with one hand; the other hand held an unlit cigarette. He spoke to her: "See, we're just going to slip your gown up a minute, then I'll give you your cigarette." Then I saw Jesus-Elvis, sitting in a chair next to the window. He was watching. Masturbating. I blinked. "You just spread those legs for Dr. Satan, there, honey. Give ol' Jesus-Elvis a peek." "Uncover her breast too," Jesus-Elvis said, in a strained squeak-toy tone. Satan wrestled with the woman's gown for a moment. "I can't." He stepped back. "That's good enough." Stood behind Jesus-Elvis, grinning, then glanced toward the door. The author backed away, slipped down the hall and hid in a small alcove. After a moment he heard something and peered around the corner. Satan had exited the room and was walking up the corridor away from him, toward the nurses' station. When the sound of his footsteps faded, the author walked back toward his room. He needed help, not more confusion; he didn't need to decipher what heMd had just seen. It was pathetic, even by his standards. Just slimy -- he couldn't figure out who was more pathetic, Satan, or Jesus-Elvis.
The Grin of the Tiger Digesting the Swami
The author walked with his head down, thinking. Heard something. Looked up. Akua stood in the doorway of her room. She motioned him toward her. In the doorway, dressed in a black robe she gave the word "silhouette" an ominous definition. He couldn't decipher the expression on her face, but somehow she gave him the willies, a reverent brand of the willies. She motioned again and then he found himself stepping tentatively toward her. He stopped in the middle of the corridor. She motioned again. He shook his head, hoping that this distance would entice her to speak. He wanted to know what she sounded like, what God, or rather, Akua sounded like. She stepped forward, squeezed a note into his hand, winked, backed up and closed the door. Dumb Shit A few minutes later as he lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, the author heard a commotion. Opening the door, he peered out into the corridor. Satan stood in front of the open doorway where he and Jesus-Elvis had been. Through the doorway Kimo, the tech, led Jesus-Elvis out into the hall past Satan. Even in the diminished light of the corridor the author caught the pallor in Jesus-Elvis's skin, and the expression on his face someone who'd been caught doing something shameful. Jesus-Elvis stared at the floor. Zipped his pants. Kimo led him down the hall and into his room. The author stood in the doorway watching Satan as he watched Kimo and Jesus-Elvis. When they disappeared, Satan turned around. He was smiling triumphantly. Satan walked toward him, and as he passed he muttered, "Dumb shit." The author didn't know if he was referring to Jesus-Elvis, or to him. "Fuck you, you lunatic." the author said. Satan kept walking.
Message From Akua (God)
A distant scream from somewhere down the hallway slid through the crack under the door, unfolded like some kind of Chinese puzzle encompassing the entire room, and reminded me, in none too subtle terms, that I was on a psychiatric ward. I often forget where I am. The light of the quarter-moon through the window cast low wattage as I eased onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The sleeping pill I had obtained via my trip to the nurses' station was hidden, and the note from Akua lay beside me on the table, unread. I had been waiting for Cole; sometimes he's not there when I want him. He had gone, (wherever it is he goes) after we finished reading the files, or rather, after I read the files to him. "Should I read it, Cole?" I said, referring to the note. I waited. "Cole." Still no answer. That's when I decided, remembering act two with Jesus-Elvis, Satan, and the woman in that room, that what I'd witnessed might have been a dream. Even the note from Akua could have been a dream. Even if I turned my head and saw the note lying there, it could still be a dream. Sometimes reality is a pretty slippery notion. I wanted it to be a dream so badly. I found myself wanting the attraction portion of the attraction/repulsion to Satan, Akua, and Jesus-Elvis to outweigh the other handily. Pitifully, I realized I was hanging onto the Ace of Wands, and its promise. But, I deduced, if I awoke in the morning and Akua's note was there bathed in morning sunlight as it was now in the moonlight, then the scene in the woman's room would be undeniably real. Open it now? No. That's an easy request for someone, anyone, to make. Anyone having not just been handed a secret note from God, I mean, Akua, whose present address is not Nutsville, USA. Anyone whose sanity is fairly intact . . . or who can at least accurately guess where they will be when they arise in the morning. In my state, flippant curiosity's a luxury with possibilities that span the extremes. And this little developing drama, whose consequences I couldn't then predict, could be much more than I'm bargaining for. If I truly believed in the Tarot, what The Ace of Wands was predicting (something very alluring -- a new beginning) and if I weren't superstitious enough to imagine that the presence of those three lunatic blasphemers was not somehow relevant, then I would have probably unfolded the note as casually as one might open a gum wrapper, or, simply tossed it into the trash can, mere inches away. But there's this certain glow the note's giving off, certain goosebump-inducing vibrations of anticipation and dread. I can't explain it other than that, and that somehow, the stakes of this visit, this particular flight from . . . The Real World, might offer something different from my previous ones. At fifty-going-on-ninety, it had better. And I had better, at least, make an effort. No Big Deal? Morning light was playing show biz in my room. The note was gone! Maybe I should have read it last night. I wonder what Cole would have suggested? Anyway, it's gone. So Satan enticing some comatose fruitcake into exposing herself while Jesus-Elvis masturbated was just my imagination, right? And Satan snitching Jesus-Elvis to Kimo was too? Is there some latent religious symbolism here that's lost on me? I don't know. Or care. There's not even any proof now. It's so easy to forget that we're in nut house, bulging at the seams, so to speak, with schizophrenics, sociopaths, borderlines, multi-personalities, psychopaths perhaps, and surely a kleptomaniac or two. And Satan, who, if he aspires to his name, is certainly all of the above and more. Any of them could have sneaked in and stolen the note. There are no locks on the doors. The note was the only tangible part of last night, something I could hold in my hand and substantiate if necessary. But it was on the table. Now it's not. I was asleep. It's all very confusing. Why am I making such a deal out of the note? It was my proof. And, as I mentioned already, it was a message from Akua. Who takes such things lightly? Besides, Cole wasn't here to tell me that it was no big deal.
My Tribe
My feet felt as if they'd been filled with concrete. I drug them under me to the dining room. Removing my tray from a stainless steel cart, I picked a spot a safe distance from two of the three leading (and confusing) fake deities of western civilization and sat down. Akua wasn't here yet. Jesus-Elvis and Satan sat at the same table, across from each other. To add to my confusion, their proximity and demeanor shed no light on whether the incident last night actually occurred. Across the table sat an old man they called Sikes. He seemed safe, and reasonably non-confusing. His voice was similar to the cartoon character Popeye's, it sounded like an electric razor, but otherwise, he seemed all right. Sikes squinted across the table and buzzed, "You want both those biscuits, matey?" "You can have one," I said, scooting my plate toward him. "Arr." He winked at me and when he did, he even looked like Popeye. Later, he would show me a picture of his wife and I swear to God, (not Akua) that she looked just like Olive Oyl. "She looks just like Olive Oyl!" I would say in amazement, examining the worn, faded photograph. "I know," Sikes would say proudly. But that's jumping ahead in the story. Right now, Sikes took the biscuit and I pulled my plate back and began to eat. The dining room was typical of the psychiatric dining rooms in which I've had the fortune of dining previously -- institutional. Windows along one wall, view down into the hospital parking lot. Cabinet and sink on another wall. Fuchsia-colored wallpaper (now that was daring!) on another. Seven or eight round, Formica-covered tables sat in random order around the room. Florescent lights, whose illumination does little flattery to the sallow, gray skin of most of the room's occupants. The table next to mine and Sikes' was occupied by two older women. I had them categorized already: "Dead Batteries." Anyone who has spent as much time in mental institutions as I have will have seen scores of their type. Their faces reflect what one of my psychiatrists once said in describing mine: "a flat affect." With children gone from the nest, husband either dead, gone, or emotionally checked out, they plod on through lives of lonely uselessness. Those who don't become rabidly religious or find some purpose in their lives more often than not wind up here. Depression is the usual diagnosis. Ah, Depression! My one true friend -- friend being defined as one who sticks with you through think and thin. And I'm not talking no namby-pamby spell of melancholy companionship, I'm talking months, and years of choking, debilitating funk-filled union. Funk that holds you, weighs you to the bed each morning, clings to your every move like a large, sweaty wrestler -- your thoughts are so poisoned with negativism. Every event carries the same negative emotional weight, from the Holocaust to a hangnail. And the brain turns on itself, examining, criticizing, examining, criticizing. "The second most grandiose manifestation of self-centeredness," a shrink had once declared. "Suicide, being number one." He went on: "I mean, you, with your depression and narcissism, walk into a room and think everyone's attention falls on you." He smirked. "As if anyone really cares . . . " I'd heard the words, memorized them, but it didn't change Depression's grip one ounce, or the degree to which I often felt negatively observed. And see how much power I give Depression, like an old familiar adversary, who through numerous battles, I've gained much respect. I've been told to write about it, when in Depression's hold to write, write, write. So now I am, am, am. Finally. Thanks again, Cole. The two Dead Batteries are engaged in dialogue about crocheting, or quilting, or something to do with patterns and fabrics. They seem cheerful enough this morning. Energized.
Guilt, Pound for Pound, the Greatest . . .
At another table sits Samuel Kekuewa III, the sumo wrestler. He's chowing down on his rice. Eats like he's still in training. Samuel killed a guy in the ring, or what ever they call it in Sumo, five or six years ago. That's why he's here, so I've heard. A gentle giant whose guilt is shoving him around now, worse than any opponent ever did. I met Samuel yesterday afternoon after witnessing Jesus-Elvis, Satan and Akua and their little opening scene here in the dining room. Samuel showed me a photo of his wife and little daughter. Then he started crying. That happened in the recreation room. Satan mimicked him, bawling in a high-pitched voice but staying far enough away and close to the door. Samuel is the only one who Satan seems frightened of. I've noticed that already, the look in Satan's eyes when Samuel walks into the room; it's a very subtle look, just a flicker in the eyes. But it's there. Jesus-Elvis, on the other hand, sat beside Samuel when I moved, laid an arm across Samuel's huge shoulder, cried with him, and said things like, "It'll get better," and "The meek shall inherit the earth," and so on. Samuel eventually looked up miserably and gave him the finger. Then something weird happened -- more evidence that Akua might be . . . I don't know, something more than some mute with an ambitious alias. She sat on the sofa on the other side of Sikes and Jesus-Elvis. She stopped writing and stared at Samuel for a moment. The fact that she had stopped writing, I had learned already, (because she rarely stops) meant something meaningful or exciting was bound to happen. I noted that Sikes and Jesus-Elvis were watching her. Then, I realized that I too, along with the other patients, were watching her, transfixed. She closed her eyes as if going into a trance. The TV set grew louder in the silence, and Satan got up and turned it off. We all sat quietly watching Akua and listening to the sobbing man. Then, Jesus-Elvis spoke to the giant, a surprised look on his face, as if the words coming from him were not his own. His eyes were fixed on Akua, but he spoke to Samuel. "Go ahead and cry, Samuel. Get it out." Samuel's wails filled the room; they rose and then gradually began to subside. Soon they faded into quiet, moist sounds, then, into nothingness. He laid his head on the table and stared into space. Somehow I got the impression that Akua had intervened, given Samuel permission, through Jesus-Elvis, to feel his grief instead of hide it. Experience it. But, she hadn't spoken a word!
Head Injuries/A Must For Dull Parties
Next to Samuel sits the woman in whose room I saw Satan and Jesus-Elvis last night. Or thought I saw. Her name is Darlene and I can tell she's a Head Injury. She says things that don't make sense, like the words in her dictionary have become scrambled. For instance, just now she motioned for Samuel to pass the salt, and said: "Thank you for letting us consider your work." Samuel touched various items on the table until he came to the salt shaker. "Cut to the fucking chase!" she shouted, nodding enthusiastically. She has a very Mona Lisa air about her, her eyes, her smile -- the psychological equivalent of an instrumental arrangement -- supply your own lyrics.
Man, Can God Smile
So Akua walks into the dining room and everything changes. Items in the room seem to come to attention. Not visibly, of course, but one can sense molecules becoming instantly more ordered. One can imagine small frolicking animals inexplicably "straightening up" in her presence, birds reconsidering formerly frivolous compositions. She's striking, in that aloof way, that almost-but-not-quite-arrogant way that truly beautiful young women are. Awe and discomfort is what she makes me feel. But all too soon, because I'm partially successful in my attempt not to focus on her, the familiar feelings of being in an unfamiliar room with a new batch of unstable human beings returns. Ah, the comforts of familiarity! She scans the room slowly, and I watch her from the corner of my eye; see that Satan and Jesus-Elvis are watching her too. Her eyes widen when her gaze meets mine. Her eyes third-degree me. The note? they demand. What about the note? I can only look back, embarrassed. Was there really a note? "Cole," I say, unaware that I've said anything until Sikes, across the table, says: "What?" I pull my gaze from Akua and look at him. He's staring at me the same way I imagine I was staring at Akua. There's a daub of oatmeal caught in the stubble on his chin. I look away, then back at Akua. She's walking past Jolei and Malina now, the Siamese twins. Samuel jumps up and rushes to the table that Akua is walking toward. HeMs surprising quick for such a big man. Pulls the chair out and grins sheepishly at her. She sits down and looks up at him, then smiles. Man, can God, sorry, Akua smile. It's a smile that elicits conflicting images: fairy Godmother and carnival barker, a smile that would make you undress, but hold onto your wallet. It surprises me, the contradictions of her smile. Even though it's the briefest of smiles, it seems to make time slow, fidget, then stop. Before it's gone I realize that I've spooned another scoop of oatmeal and it's poised in midair between the bowl and my mouth. I feel it dripping into my lap. I don't care, the warmth and flash, the magic flash in her eyes is more important. Then it's gone. I lean forward and squint, trying to make Akua's smile come back. Feel like a small child, pleading for nourishment. Smile, Akua. Please.
A New Muse
That moment was the moment I realized that I did have to write . . . something. Not for Cole. Not even for me, or to chase away my old battle-worn adversary, Depression. I had to write it for Akua. I knew writing would be important to her, that it would impress her. Had to see that smile again, whatever it took. Samuel could seat her, but I could write for her. I knew also, from my days in the music biz, and as a . . . composer, that any of my artistic endeavors that hoped to succeed beyond mediocrity had to be written with an audience of one in mind. Akua would be my muse. What did she write? Now I cursed myself for not reading the note last night -- if there was a note. "Help me, Cole," I whispered under my breath. Seeking distraction, I seized the opportunity to study Jolei and Malina, the Siamese twins, in case they worked themselves into the story at a later date. They were joined together at the hip, and because of that, and their obesity, they always sat in three chairs, pulled together. Happy faces as round as a soccer balls; they had dark straight hair, wispy and fine, painted cheeks, button noses and they smiled a lot. "They could have been in the freak circuit," Sikes said to me from across the table, detecting my interest. "Like me." "As what?" I had asked incredulously, he didn't seem like freak show material. "As Popeye!" he said in his raspy Popeye voice, with more than a hint of exasperation. "The real Popeye. The original." "But you have both your eyes," I said, trying to remember if that was why "Popeye" was called "Popeye." "Arr," he commented. Sikes went on to explain some stuff about the freak show circuit. There was a loose-knit brother and sisterhood of freak show artists, he said. Everyone knew each other, just like show biz folks. They had a freak show get-togethers every winter in Ft. Meyers, Florida. Or maybe it was Sarasota, I can't remember. I suddenly didn't care. The whole atmosphere became cumbersome with . . . strangeness. Freak show artists. Bogus religious figures. Me, a fugitive from another freak show -- Rock and Roll. Usually, your average mental patient was . . . normal. Boring, at least when they weren't in an "episode." I always felt like the odd man out. Or at least the one with the past possessing the least potential for a mini-series. Sikes had obviously noted my confusion, my lapse in attention, and resumed eating. He reached for the salt shaker to salt his eggs and before I could stop him (recalling Satan's malicious exit yesterday afternoon), he shook and the cap came off. His eggs were covered in a mound of salt. Calmly, and with meticulous exaggeration, Sikes replaced the cap. Then he stood. I knew he was angry. Something in him radiated the vibrations. I almost suspected that he might reach inside his shirt and produce a can of spinach. And I had a strong suspicion what he would do with the muscles and the power the spinach would give him. Should I try to intervene? He aimed himself at Satan's table, and walked between the two Dead Batteries and the table where Akua sat. Akua stopped him as he passed, shook her head, as if to discourage him from what he had intended, then offered him her bowl of oatmeal. Unceremoniously, Sikes took two more steps and dumped the bowl on top of Satan's head. Jesus-Elvis had seen him coming, obviously knew what would happen. He didn't give Sikes' approach away. Satan scooted his chair back and stood slowly. He remained still for a moment, his back toward me, the ooze dripping from his head to the ridiculous leisure suit the counselor made him wear. His tremors grew, and as he stood shaking, little globs of oatmeal fell to the floor. Jesus-Elvis's expression changed as he looked up at Satan. His face drew my attention. A twisting geometry of trepidation. "Uh oh," he said. Satan fell backward. Sikes stepped out of the way. Satan landed with a thud and began shaking. It took me a minute to realize that he was having a seizure. "Get something to put in his mouth!" Jesus-Elvis shouted. "He'll swallow his tongue!" Across the way Jolei tried to stand, but found herself unable to because Malina refused to stop eating. Jesus-Elvis grabbed a plastic spoon and dropped to his knees beside Satan. He began to force the spoon into Satan's mouth. "Punctuation!" Darlene shouted, holding a limp piece of bacon. Sikes stood above Jesus-Elvis and Satan, shifting from one foot to the other, looking anguished. Cole sat down beside me, startling me. He does that all the time. Sometimes I suspect he waits until I'm in an agitated state and suddenly materializes. I'll pay him back yet. "Tell that fool to back up and give him room," Cole said. "What?" I said, glancing sideways at him. "That jerkoff's going to choke him with that spoon. Tell 'em to back away and give him room, get everything out of the way." "Give him some room!" I shouted. I stood. "Get away from him and give him some room." Jesus-Elvis and Sikes turned toward me. I repeated myself (forgetting my creed), and stepped forward, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Akua staring at me. When I made eye contact, she winked. Or, I thought she winked; it happened so quickly (that sounds very redundant, since a wink always happens quickly) and, the fact that looking into her eyes, at least at that point, was like looking into the barrel of a loaded gun. I wasn't sure if she'd winked. I'm still not sure. I asked Cole about it and he just gave me stink eye. There's something up his sleeve, I'll tell you that.
Inconsequences
I won't go on with any details of what happened after that because it was inconsequential. A couple of the orderlies came in and herded Sikes and Jesus-Elvis away from Satan. Apparently what Cole told me to say was correct. They removed the spoon from Satan's mouth, stood over him until the seizure was over then helped him up. He had urinated in his pants.
So Much For Silver Linings
Before I go on with "the story" I would like to relay what Cole told me. Relay it simply to illustrate how much fun he sometimes has at my expense. His disclosure dealt with the occupants of that dining room that morning, some of them anyway. And it went like this: Upon their release, some time in the future, Jolei and Malina will start a cosmetic and clothing line for overweight women along the lines of "Ruben's Classics" with money they will win in a Native-American bingo hall on the mainland. Coincidentally, at the same time, the diet fad in America will wane. Women will decide that the starved look is no longer sexy. Jolei and Malina will become fabulously wealthy, with an army of plump employees, purchase a fleet of lavender Cadillacs and eventually a forty-story office building in Las Vegas. Later they will expand their business globally. Yes, they will have an operation that will separate them, but after a brief period of incapacitating loneliness and depression, they will have another to rejoin each other. The first conjoined twin rejoining operation in history! Jolei Twigg will marry a small engine repairman named Lester, and Malina Twigg will land a fairly well-known TV evangelist turned conservative radio talk-show host. They will both be as happy as little lambs, as the saying goes. "'Cept they'll never be little," Cole added. Sikes will become famous too -- for a time. During a press conference following another major oil spill and petroleum price hike, he will attempt to assassinate the CEO of Exxon with a harpoon. Another stay in a mental institution will follow and then later still, after his release, "Popeye" will host a local children's cartoon show in Spokane, Washington. He too will be happy as a little lamb. His wife, "Olive Oyl" will make guest appearances from time to time. Since my tight-lipped conscience (or whatever he is), Cole, has disclosed nothing more concerning the rest of the occupants in the room, most notably, no prophecies concerning yours truly, I will have to sum up my reaction to the information offered at this point. Five words. So much for silver linings . . . Does that convey my sense of dread adequately?
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