Read Online Disturbing the Peace (Vintage Classics) by Richard Yates - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Yates
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treatment here?”
“Private care.”
“What about your drinking? You gonna quit?”
“Frankly, I think that’s my own – Well, look: if you’re filling out a form there, just write ‘Yes.’ That’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, you
are
a little wise guy, aren’tcha? I don’t know; I don’t know. Some of you people.” He finished typing, ripped the forms from the machine and tore out the carbon paper; then he stapled them, banged them angrily in several places with a rubber stamp, and the business seemed concluded.
“Can I get my clothes now?”
“You’re kidding. You’ve gotta be kidding. You think the City of New York’s just gonna let you walk outa here, after the way you came in? You can be discharged,” he said, “only in the custody of Mr. Paul R. Borg; only after he has personally met and talked with me; and
only
if he agrees to sign these papers.” He reached for his phone. “Now you go back inside and wait. I’m tired of your face.”
It didn’t take very long. Paul Borg came walking into Rehabilitation with an anxious smile, carrying a mimeographed slip. He had signed the discharge papers, he said; this was the one for the clothes. “It says Room 3-F. You know where that is?”
They found it only after walking down wrong corridors, taking wrong elevators and asking directions of people whodidn’t speak English; and when Wilder was dressed (an incredible pleasure: his own clothes and shoes, his own wristwatch and walletful of money), he said “Listen, Paul. Something I’ve got to do. Got to find the canteen, or the gift shop or whatever they call it.”
“Why?”
“Never mind. Come on. Must be on the ground floor.” It was, and Wilder bought a carton of Pall Malls. With his own pen he wrote “For Charlie with many thanks,” and signed his name. “Now,” he said. “Where’s the Psycho elevator?”
“John, what
is
this?”
“Never mind. It’s important.”
“‘Men’s Violence Ward?’” said the puzzled elevator man. “Ain’t no ward by that name.”
“Well, that may not be the official name,” Wilder said, “but it’s the men’s ward on the seventh floor.”
“Can’t take you up there anyway. Ain’t no visiting hour today.”
“I’m not a visitor, I’m a – Well, look. Just take this up to the ward, give it to the cop at the door and tell him it’s for Charlie. Will you do that?”
“Oh. Sure, okay.” And the door slid shut.
“Son of a bitch’ll keep ’em for himself,” Wilder said, “or else he’ll give ’em to the cop and the
cop
’ll keep ’em. I should’ve insisted on going up. I should’ve
demanded
to go up.”
“John, it doesn’t matter. Can’t you see it doesn’t matter?”
“It does matter. Some things
matter
, that’s all.”
But at last they found their way through corridors and waiting rooms and doors into the abrupt, fresh air of First Avenue, and Wilder said “Wow.” Then he said “My God.”
It was midafternoon on a fine September day, and nothing had ever smelled so sweet. Tall buildings rose in a deep blue skyand pigeons wheeled and sailed among them; clean cars and taxicabs sped uptown bearing sane, unfettered people to the sane, unfettered business of the world.
“I’m parked right around the corner,” Borg said as they walked. “Have you home in no time at all. John? What’s the trouble now?”
He had stopped to read a torn scrap of paper from his pocket:
Henry J. Spivack
,
M.D
., with an address and phone number lettered underneath. “Nothing,” he said, and let it flutter from his hand to the dirty street. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
Chapter Three
What the Wilders called “the country” was a clapboard bungalow on half an acre of ground, fifty miles up the west bank of the Hudson. It would have been exposed to a great many other bungalows except for the dense shrubbery and trees shielding it on three sides and a high rustic fence along the fourth – that gave it the
“Private care.”
“What about your drinking? You gonna quit?”
“Frankly, I think that’s my own – Well, look: if you’re filling out a form there, just write ‘Yes.’ That’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, you
are
a little wise guy, aren’tcha? I don’t know; I don’t know. Some of you people.” He finished typing, ripped the forms from the machine and tore out the carbon paper; then he stapled them, banged them angrily in several places with a rubber stamp, and the business seemed concluded.
“Can I get my clothes now?”
“You’re kidding. You’ve gotta be kidding. You think the City of New York’s just gonna let you walk outa here, after the way you came in? You can be discharged,” he said, “only in the custody of Mr. Paul R. Borg; only after he has personally met and talked with me; and
only
if he agrees to sign these papers.” He reached for his phone. “Now you go back inside and wait. I’m tired of your face.”
It didn’t take very long. Paul Borg came walking into Rehabilitation with an anxious smile, carrying a mimeographed slip. He had signed the discharge papers, he said; this was the one for the clothes. “It says Room 3-F. You know where that is?”
They found it only after walking down wrong corridors, taking wrong elevators and asking directions of people whodidn’t speak English; and when Wilder was dressed (an incredible pleasure: his own clothes and shoes, his own wristwatch and walletful of money), he said “Listen, Paul. Something I’ve got to do. Got to find the canteen, or the gift shop or whatever they call it.”
“Why?”
“Never mind. Come on. Must be on the ground floor.” It was, and Wilder bought a carton of Pall Malls. With his own pen he wrote “For Charlie with many thanks,” and signed his name. “Now,” he said. “Where’s the Psycho elevator?”
“John, what
is
this?”
“Never mind. It’s important.”
“‘Men’s Violence Ward?’” said the puzzled elevator man. “Ain’t no ward by that name.”
“Well, that may not be the official name,” Wilder said, “but it’s the men’s ward on the seventh floor.”
“Can’t take you up there anyway. Ain’t no visiting hour today.”
“I’m not a visitor, I’m a – Well, look. Just take this up to the ward, give it to the cop at the door and tell him it’s for Charlie. Will you do that?”
“Oh. Sure, okay.” And the door slid shut.
“Son of a bitch’ll keep ’em for himself,” Wilder said, “or else he’ll give ’em to the cop and the
cop
’ll keep ’em. I should’ve insisted on going up. I should’ve
demanded
to go up.”
“John, it doesn’t matter. Can’t you see it doesn’t matter?”
“It does matter. Some things
matter
, that’s all.”
But at last they found their way through corridors and waiting rooms and doors into the abrupt, fresh air of First Avenue, and Wilder said “Wow.” Then he said “My God.”
It was midafternoon on a fine September day, and nothing had ever smelled so sweet. Tall buildings rose in a deep blue skyand pigeons wheeled and sailed among them; clean cars and taxicabs sped uptown bearing sane, unfettered people to the sane, unfettered business of the world.
“I’m parked right around the corner,” Borg said as they walked. “Have you home in no time at all. John? What’s the trouble now?”
He had stopped to read a torn scrap of paper from his pocket:
Henry J. Spivack
,
M.D
., with an address and phone number lettered underneath. “Nothing,” he said, and let it flutter from his hand to the dirty street. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
Chapter Three
What the Wilders called “the country” was a clapboard bungalow on half an acre of ground, fifty miles up the west bank of the Hudson. It would have been exposed to a great many other bungalows except for the dense shrubbery and trees shielding it on three sides and a high rustic fence along the fourth – that gave it the
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