Just Another Night At The Puzzle Factory

Friday, 6:55pm The Cuckoo's Nest:
I am sitting at the front desk of the unit, by the ocher painted elevators - purportedly to ensure that none of the denizens of the ward make a break for said elevators, and the freedom to gallop out into the chilly November Brooklyn night - running the streets in ill-fitting (and often stained) blue speckled gowns, that seem to have been engineered specifically so that the wearer's posterior is exposed exactly once with each step. I think I need to wash my eyes.

I am here to pass out soap, toothpaste, an odd comb or two, and other personal care items, but mostly my job is to serve as a focus or release valve for the rantings of those here incarcerated. So I listen - sometimes thoughtfully, offering soothing words or a different perspective, but more often staring glassy-eyed at the clock wondering if "crazy" can be contracted through over-exposure.

One of my coworkers wheels an elderly male patient by the desk, taking him to be toileted, and I am pleased that I have been spared this gruesome task, at least for another hour or so after I have eaten. The old man has been getting electric shock treatments - I find myself wondering if sizzling human smells worse than the lingering odor of flatulence that permeates the linoleum clad halls - caused, no doubt, by the persecuted chicken served for dinner nearly two hours earlier. I wonder if even the extra-strength Tide I keep for my work clothes will get the fetid aroma out of my garments.

The televisions on either end of the unit announce that "This is Jeopardy!" - one a split second after the other, creating a peculiar delayed stereo effect that enhances the surreal nature of this nightly experience. I hear two patients arguing heatedly about some piece of religious minutiae, over the smug quips of Alex Trebek. I have learned that religion and psychiatry can make for a rather volatile cocktail; having no energy for a wresting match with them, I wish they would stop.

I am trying to think of a topic to write on - to get the creative juices that I've allowed to stagnate flowing again - but as I sit and sip my soda, I find that the only juices flowing are the ones from my kidneys.

7:05pm With five hours to go I find that I am missing the clip-clop sounds of a certain pair of high-heeled shoes.