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Table for
One in the Lunatics Section
The
town I live in is a regular Mayberry, only slightly larger and with a
General Motors factory where the fishing hole should be. It boasts a fine
private college, a quaint little mall complete with multiplex cinemas, a
KMart, a Meijers and two McDonald's. I consider it a Mayberry of sorts for
it's relatively quiet with nothing to do, low crime except for some drunken
incidences, and everybody knows everybody's business. The main difference
between my town and Mayberry is that it's just riddled with crazy people.
The
word of the day is "Deinstitutionalization". Plan on using it at least once
in a sentence, but only after I've put meaning to the word and what that
word has to do with this week's article. To deinstitutionalize someone
means that they are, in fact, bonkers, but their insurance only pays for a
short time at the local nuthouse. So, what happens is you take them out of
the institution and hand them their monthly supply of meds with an "I said…
good day, Sir". That is the reason my town is chock full of the crazies.
At one time they were all nestled safe in the arms of the State hospital but
due to cutbacks and lack of funds, are now walking the streets and talking
to stop signs.
In my
first article I mentioned the Blue Lady, the whacky woman with the invisible
friend who likes to order diet Margaritas. Well, she's not the only queer
(funny, not politically incorrect homosexual) person that comes into the
restaurant to dine, or stare, or drool in their soup. I could discuss the
bloke who resembles a dirty Mark Twain who sits at the bar, picks his facial
scabs and drinks his coffee with his mouth wide open. I could go into
details about the woman who comes in during the full moon just to warn
others of the dangers of mystical mischief and who cackled like a banshee
when the bartender dropped a crate of glasses. It sometimes resembles the
tea party in Alice in Wonderland; "Clean cup! Clean cup! Move down move
down!" and "Mustard?! Let's NOT be silly!"
The
person I'd like to tell you about is funnier than those and more paragraph
worthy. His name is Gerald.
Gerald
is an older gentleman in his 60's with a kind face and eyes that sparkle
when he sees the wait staff he's come to know by name over the last year.
He used to come in to read the paper, have his coffee and tell me about
Jesus and his love for the church and all things holy. Hardly seems crazy
unless you're an atheist, right? Wrong. Gerald is the poster child for the
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde syndrome. One minute he's asking you how Christ has
touched your life that day, the next he's a slobbering, cursing disheveled
old fart who's loudly wishing a pox on your soul. Some of the staff thought
he contracted late onset Tourrettes. Some thought he had the devil
upinta him. It was obvious to me the man was just forgetting to take
his meds, oh, about every other day or so.
Gerald
came in one day dressed in a very nice suit, smelling of pricey cologne and
just looking as if he was on his way to woo some fine silver haired fox at
the Senior Center. Since he normally wears old jeans and suspenders, it
caught me off guard and I had to comment, "Gerald, you look quite handsome!
What are your plans today?" Gerald's smile turned grey and his eyes took on
this wicked glaze and he drew in a breath and yelled loudly "Who said
that???" I blinked, stepped forward in concern for the man I'd grown to be
fond of and simply said, "Gerald, it's Angela". Spit was forming in the
corners of his mouth and I could feel the eyes of the other patrons staring
at us with that awkward silence a large room filled with people can have.
Again he drew in a breath and bellowed, "Mind your GOD DAMN business,
Whore!" Screw the "be kind to the grandpa" mentality. If I had been about
40 years older or he 40 years younger, I would've slapped his rabid face.
Yes, I was a social worker and should show compassion for the mentally
challenged, but I'm also a female who hates being called the "w" word…
unless I have the history and a list of names to prove otherwise. I walked
away from Gerald then, but the exchange started a daily psycho-fest for the
next three months.
One
day Gerald came in, sat at the bar and just laughed like a Hatter for
hours. He laughed so hard at nothing that he could barely catch his
breath. Another time he told everyone in the place that he hoped they died
of AIDS. Once he walked across the room to tell a young lady and her mother
that they should respect their elders… then added a pert "Go to hell". My
co-worker Josh's roomie came in one evening wearing a Joe's Crab Shack
t-shirt, and Gerald just had to inform him how he once contacted crabs from
a prostitute and how he cured it at home in his bathroom with some tweezers
and a lighter. Gerald would order a glass of wine, sip it and toss it down
claiming his water tasted funny and then order water, sip it and toss it
down claiming his wine tasted funny. He'd rip up his napkin and add it to
his food, or request a lemon wedge and then demand to know who threw it at
him. In between rants he'd get his wits back and discuss how Jesus saved
his soul, or read to me from the newspaper. Finally, he was banned
temporarily after he spat out his food and told the bartender that she was
fat and giving him indigestion, and that he refused to tip someone with such
a fat ass. The bartender weighs about as much as an 11 year old boy, so the
devil must have made him see double. What a long, strange trip it's been.
It's
been about 28 days since I've last seen Gerald, so I expect him any day
now. Medicare only pays for 29 days in the hospital before the pills are
handed over and they're warned not to take them all at once. He'll most
likely come in smiling, ask to sit in my section, and as I greet him and ask
him how he is, his eyes will shine and he'll just answer "Blessed". I'll
bring him his coffee, making sure I have time to visit with him since he's
alone in this world and he'll probably ask how my sons are doing by name.
Then as time passes and I bring him his check, he'll probably be grinding
his teeth and making this hissing sound as the swear words start to form on
his tongue. As I walk away to avoid the drama, he'll yell loud enough to
shake the windows, "Stay the HELL away from me, WHORE!!" Ahhhhhh, yes.
Good times. |
