I can’t exactly say when I discovered my thinking had become off-kilter. I’d always been a deep thinker, a free thinker, all my life. As a child, I loved sports, the outdoors, and the arts. I had troubles in those formative years, but I never thought I’d feel the repercussions of those misfortunes later as an adult.
Now, I’m old and crazy, at least that’s what the people in the white uniforms have been telling me all these years. They often say, “You’re nothing but an old, senile coot, Carter Lynch.”
That’s why I’ve been in this hospital forever.
I haven’t always been crazy. I do have flashes of happier times in my life, of my family and friends. I remember a time my daughter and I took a bike ride to the park. I remember pushing her in the swing, and she laughed and yelled, “Higher, Daddy, higher!” I also remember proposing to my wife at the lake. She had no idea what I was up to, and I was scared as a puppy in a thunderstorm.
So, yes, there was a time when I didn’t have the disease —the term often used in this place. But most of those days I can’t remember, only snippets here and there. Lost forever, I suppose. Although, I wish I could remember. I know my memories are in there—somewhere. They stopped telling me long ago that I would get better. I guess it’s true, but I don’t feel crazy.
Tommy Jenkins is another resident who came to Ryker’s Ridge Institution a few years ago. I don’t know his age. I’m guessing he’s half as old as I am. He doesn’t say much either. I usually do most of the talking when we have our daily game of Rummy.
This morning he sat across from me eyeing his cards as if they were about to speak to him, clueing him in on what suit to play next. He looked across the table at me and then back to his cards.
“Will you just play,” I said irritably.
He shot back with an annoyed smirk and squinting eyes. I didn’t care if I was interrupting his strategy. He had always played in this manner, always taking his time, always dragging the game out at a sloth’s pace.
He drew a card from the stack and scrunched his lips to one side, appearing to bite the inside of his jaw. When he did this gesture, I knew he was in deep thought. Finally, he laid a queen on the table.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I said in my most sarcastic tone.
“Bite me,” he said.
I scoffed and said, “Screw you,” then drew from the deck.
“Why do you always act like this?”
“Act like what?” I said.
“Like a royal d–bag.”
“‘A ‘d–bag’?”
“Yes, a d-bag ,” he said.
I laughed.
“What’s so darn funny?”
“Nothing. Let’s play,” I said.
Tommy threw his cards on the table. “I’m not playing anymore until you tell me why you’re laughing.”
“Okay,” I said. “You want to know?”
“Yes,” he said. He clasped his hands together and laid them on the table in front of him, waiting for my response.
“I was laughing because you said d-bag .”
“So,” he said.
“So. It’s funny because every time you try to insult me you can’t use the full word. It’s always been a-hole or son-of-a-b or d-bag . It really detracts from the insult and makes you look ridiculous.”
I watched from across the card table as a mental storm brewed within Tommy. This was the first time I had called him out on his incompetency at verbal warfare. He slid his chair out from the table and bolted upright, scrunching his lips to one side, biting the inside of his jaw.
“Oh yeah,” he began. “Well, f-you , Carter! I don’t need this abuse!” He swatted the stacked deck and cards went flying. He stomped away angrily, across the room and out of my bedroom door.
His outburst made me snicker again. I knew he’d be okay, though. I knew he’d settle down and come to his senses after a bit. I was the only one he had in this place. I was his only friend. I knew he’d be back. He had always come back.
I can’t say exactly for sure how long
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