Disturbing the Peace

  “I was?” He could remember nothing of last night after the ride in the ambulance with Paul Borg rubbing his back.

  “Yellin’ and screamin’, talkin’ a mile a minute; they shot you out and you still wouldn’t shut up. I figured, Jesus, this is some tough customer we got here; this must be some big son of a bitch. Then I seen you was even smaller’n me, and laugh? I damn near died.”

  “Yeah, well, look. Could I have a cigarette?”

  “I’ll save you,” the man said, and turned away.

  “‘Save’ me?”

  “He won’t save you,” another voice said. “He never saves nobody. He’s a prick.”

  The door opened then, letting in a rush of cool air – not fresh air, but cool and better-smelling if only because it came from some wider, cleaner corridor – and there was a loud, happy chorus of “Charlie!” … “Hey, Charlie!” … “How are ya, Charlie?”

  He was well over six feet tall and built like a heavyweight, a Negro dressed in greens like the others but dominating all of them, dominating everyone as he pocketed his key ring and moved slowly into the ward, trundling a medicine cart. “Good morning … Good morning,” he said in a deep, rich voice, and even the cop said ’Morning, Charlie,” after making sure the door was locked behind him.

  “Hey Charlie, can I see you a second?”

  “Charlie listen: ’member yesterday I asked you about somethin’?”

  They swarmed around him, coming from all sides as he wheeled his cart to a stop in the exact middle of the corridor, where he raised his head to address them all.

  “Nourishment, gentlemen!” he called out to one end, and “Nourishment, gentlemen!” to the other. The trays of the medicine cart held many shot glasses filled with what looked like bourbon whiskey or maple syrup: it was neither, though it tasted a little like both.

  “You bring my paper, Charlie?” said a man with a dirty bundle of newspapers under his arm.

  “Oh, now, Mr. Schultz, you have plenty of papers. Use up the papers you have, then maybe I’ll bring you a new one.” And he turned to one of the orderlies. “How many admissions last night?”

  “Eight. We got a hundred and seventeen on the ward now.”

  Charlie winced and shook his big head. “That’s too many. And there’ll be more coming in today, more tomorrow, more Monday. We don’t have facilities for that many.” With a jangle of his key ring he opened a door marked KEEP OUT, briefly revealing what looked like a snug little den – a table and chairs, shelves with cups and a hotplate and coffee-makings – and came out with two packs of Pall Malls in his hand.

  “All right, one at a time, gentlemen,” he said to the eager crowd that pressed around him. “Form a line to the right, please; one at a time and only one apiece. Not you, Mr. Jefferson, you’ve got a pack in your pocket. You know the rules: these are ward cigarettes …”

  Everything was slightly improved with Charlie’s arrival, with the “Nourishment” and the ward cigarettes: the lights were less glaring and the shadows less dark, and there were new discoveries to be made: a long wooden bench against one wall, other places to sit in a recess between sections of folded-up bunks and even a place to lie down – four dirty mattresses on the floor of an alcove at the far end, well away from the mainstream of walkers. But the padded cells were still there, six of them, and one now contained the twisted figure of the man who’d shadowboxed and screamed before breakfast. He lay with his mouth still open in the shape of outrage, as if ready to scream again in his drugged sleep, and his dark hair glistened with sweat.

  “Who shot Dr. Spivack out?” Charlie’s heavy voice inquired.

  “Roscoe, Charlie. He was actin’ up real bad.”

  “What happened to his pants?”

  “Tore ’em off himself, tryna make like a fighter. Then he started yellin’ about his malpractice suit and all that; wasn’t no other way to handle it.”

  “I don’t understand that. I thought he was coming along very well.”

  “He has good days and bad days, Charlie.”

  “Mm.” And Charlie got out his keys again. “Well, the least we can do is open the door. I don’t want him waking up with that door locked. Get him a new suit of pajamas, too.”

  “Okay, Charlie.”

  “Ah, Charlie, you’re a prince,” said a fragile, palsied man of seventy or more. “A prince among men. I swear to Jesus – I swear to Jesus you’re a saint, Charlie.”

  “Well, Mr. Foley, I thank you for the compliment, but I’ve already given out the cigarettes and I happen to know you received one because you tried to take two.”

  “Ah, Mother of God, how can you think of cigarettes? It’s spiritual help I need, Charlie. Spiritual help.”

  “I’m not the man to see about that. Why don’t you go sit down awhile? I have other people to attend to. You, sir; are you one of the new men? What’s your name?”

  “Wilder. John Wilder.”

  “Did you take your Nourishment, Mr. Wilder?”

  “Yeah, ‘Nourishment,’ ” said the old man. “You know what it is? It’s formaldehyde.”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Foley; you go along now.” Then he said “It’s Peraldehyde, Mr. Wilder. You get it three times a day; it’s very good for you. Settles your nerves.”

  “I see. And are you the chief orderly, or – or what?”

  “I’m a male nurse. There’s always a nurse on duty here; my shift’s eight to five.”

  “Oh. Well, look: it’s very important that I get to a phone as soon as poss—”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Wilder; you won’t be making any phone calls here.”

  “Well, how soon – I mean when can I see a doctor?”

  That was when he learned it would be Tuesday before the psychiatrists came back, that it might well be Thursday before they could interview him and that the length of his stay thereafter would depend on their decision. “So meanwhile,” Charlie said, “I’d suggest you try and make yourself comfortable.”

  He lumbered away, trailing other supplicants in his wake, and Wilder stood watching him go for what seemed an intolerably long time. “ ‘Comfortable,’ ” he said, and then suddenly he was padding after him, running, stepping in slime again and surprised by the shrillness of his own voice: “Comfortable in this fucking place? Are you outa your fucking mind?”

  Charlie turned back, looming over the chattering men with one long forefinger raised in admonition. “Mr. Wilder. I’m telling you now to keep your voice down and keep your temper under control. I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

  Yellow and green and brown and black; black and brown and green and yellow. The only way to shut out the sounds and the smells of this place was to concentrate on the colors, and to walk. Up past the latrine to where the cop sat; turn, back past the mess hall to the other end; turn. A small man could move unnoticed in a crowd like this if he kept his mouth shut and his eyes front and his arms close to avoid touching anyone. He could breathe at measured intervals and keep his own counsel; he could even burst into tears if he did so quietly; nobody would notice.

  Instead of crying he sat down in the only vacant place on one of the corridor benches, and a brown hand slid onto his thigh.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s all right. You can kiss me if you want, but only if you say ‘I love you’ first.”

  He was up and walking again, and he’d made three circuits of the ward when he found an empty mattress in the alcove at the far end. Sitting was better than walking and lying down was better still, though it sank him deeper into the smells of sweat and feet. He squirmed and sprawled facedown in total collapse – the hell with everything – and he even slept for a while, or thought he was asleep, until his eyes came open and saw that the men who lay very close on either side of him were masturbating.

  But after lunch there was another call of “Nourishment, gentlemen!” and another round of ward cigarettes, and he found himself walking with Dr. Spivack. He didn’t rec
ognize him at first because he wore fresh pajamas and had combed his hair and his face was free of hysteria: it was a tightly clenched, sardonic face.

  “You come in last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Half these poor bastards don’t even know where they are. You know where you are?”

  “Bellevue.”

  “Gotta be more specific than that, buddy. Bellevue Hospital is a great public medical institution. It’s—”

  “Okay; the psycho ward.”

  “And you honestly think there’s only one? My God, man, there’s an entire psychiatric wing in Bellevue. Seven floors, each one worse than the one beneath, and this is the top. The worst. This is the Men’s Violence Ward. Are you blind? Can’t you see these clowns in straitjackets? Can’t you see that cop? There’s got to be a cop on duty here because some of us inmates are police cases. Criminals. Nobody knows who; I don’t even think the orderlies know. I don’t even think Charlie knows.” He had been walking briskly, making Wilder stumble and hurry to keep up with him, but now he stopped short, grabbed Wilder’s arm and spun him around to face a stiff, jabbing index finger. “How about you? Huh? You a police case?”

  “No. How about letting go of my arm?”

  Spivack laughed and punched him on the shoulder. It seemed to be meant as a punch of camaraderie, but it hurt. “Hell, I’m only kidding; I knew you were okay from your face. Know how you look? Like some little kid’s lost his mother in a department store. What’s your name?”

  And for at least an hour Dr. Spivack talked, steering Wilder through the crowds on either side of the corridor, pausing only to interrupt himself with little advisory asides – “Don’t ever take a flop in there unless you really have to,” he said of the alcove with the mattresses; “that’s Jerk-off City” – and most of his talk was autobiography.

  He came from what he called a medical family. All his male forebears had been distinguished doctors in Germany until his father fled with his own family to this country in the thirties. His oldest brother was “tops: a first-rate heart man at Cornell Medical Center,” and the second was doing all right too, considering he’d never been the brightest guy in the world; he was a radiologist up at Mount Sinai – “You know, he’s dumb, but dumb in a way that doesn’t show. And he’s married to the most glorious piece of ass you ever saw, this big blonde Wisconsin girl with legs like – legs like – legs that defy description.” Then came his sister, who had married a psychiatrist – and wasn’t that the God damnedest thing? His own sister, for Christ’s sake, actually married to one of these Sigmund Freud freaks? And then came the youngest and the favorite, himself.

  “… Ah, I had my share of suffering when we first came over; my mother died; they called me the Katzenjammer Kike in junior high and I got a few bloody noses, but don’t worry, I’m not trying to break your heart. I always knew I’d make it and I did. Never had any sex problems, either, don’t worry about that. Never thought I was a fag or anything. Lost my cherry at fifteen on the beach at Far Rockaway and I’ve been wallowing in pussy ever since. Wallowing in it. You married, Wilder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe that takes care of it for some guys, but I’ll be a son of a bitch if any broad’s gonna hook me till I’m ready. What kinda work d’ya do?”

  “Sales.”

  “Yeah? That’s funny. You look smarter’n that. I always thought salesmen were slope-heads. Whaddya sell?”

  “Space.”

  The doctor reeled away in astonishment. “Christ, isn’t anything free any more? You sell space? Which kind? Inner space or outer space? Huh?”

  “I think you know what I mean,” Wilder said. “Advertising space. For a magazine.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I get it. Advertising space. What magazine?”

  “The American Scientist.”

  “No kidding? Well, that’s impressive. They run some pretty abstruse, sophisticated material. If you understand that stuff you must be fairly—”

  “I don’t understand it. I just sell it.”

  “How can you sell something you don’t understand?”

  “Isn’t that sort of what psychiatrists do?”

  And that earned him another of Spivack’s painful punches and a bray of laughter. “You’re okay, Wilder,” he said. “Anyway, I always knew I’d make it and I did. Straight A’s all through college and med school, did my internship at Johns Hopkins and came here as a resident two years ago. Internal medicine. Thought it was an honor to work in Bellevue Hospital; family did too. And I was damned good. That’s not bragging: I happen to be an excellent physician, that’s all. Then, wham! The old administrative double-cross, and look where the hell I wind up. Talk about irony, huh?”

  Wilder wanted to hear more about the old administrative double-cross but thought better of asking; and when Spivack began talking again he had changed the subject.

  “Speaking of fags,” he said, “you notice how this ward’s crawling with ’em? Fags, junkies, fall-down drunks. Another thing: you notice all this ‘Save me’ talk? ‘Save me, buddy,’ and all that? It’s supposed to be about cigarettes – they want you to save ’em the butt when you’re done – but it’s really kind of a half-assed prayer: you hear guys say it that don’t even smoke. They want to be saved. Find a lot of religious nuts in here. There’s one guy thinks he’s the Second Coming of Christ. Probably more than one – it’s a common psychotic delusion – but this guy’s a riot. Keeps to himself most of the time, then once in a while he puts on a show. Stick around; you’ll see him. Hey, and another thing: you notice how they only hire spades here? You know why?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Why d’ya think? Because they’re so ‘gentle’ and so ‘kind’? Yeah, yeah, they’ve got a Natural Sense of Rhythm too. They’re scared of ghosts and they’re just plain crazy about watermelon. What the hell were you, born yesterday? It’s because no white man’d work here for the kind of money they get. You know what kind of money they get? Even Charlie there? Huh?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wilder,” Charlie said, blocking their path. “Those pajamas of yours don’t fit very well, do they?”

  “No, I – No, they don’t.”

  “Sometimes the night people are careless. We have Small, Medium and Large. A man of your size needs Small. I’ll see about it.”

  “Yeah, you do that, Charlie,” Spivack said, “and while you’re at it why don’t you see about your buddy Roscoe. I want that little bastard put on Report, is that clear? If he shoots me out one more time I’ll have his nurse’s license. Is that clear?”

  “All right; try to keep your voice down, Doctor.”

  “Charlie’s the only halfway decent one they’ve got,” Spivack said when they were walking again. “Know something? This fucking place was built in the nineteenth century and it hasn’t changed a bit. Look at that.” He pointed to a bench. “And you seen the benches in the mess hall? Antiques! Antiques! Get some faggot antique dealer up here and he’d pay a thousand bucks apiece for ’em. Listen. Little piece of advice. Watch out for Roscoe. First morning I was in here he let me sit in my own urine for an hour and a half. An hour and a half ! And mind you, this was after I’d asked him for a urinal seven times. Bastard kept telling me to go to the latrine, go to the latrine, go to the latrine.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  Spivack struck his own head with the heel of his hand in a spasm of exasperation. “You’re missing the point, Wilder! The point is, when a patient asks a nurse for a urinal he’s supposed to get it. Ah, Christ, I thought you showed a glimmer of intelligence, but you’re just as fucking dumb as all the other fucking – Look: get lost for a while, okay? My father and my sister are coming to see me tomorrow and I happen to have a few things on my mind.”

  So he was alone again, but it wasn’t long before he had his Small pajamas, which were heartening; then he joined a group huddled in one of the padded cells whose door had been propped open. The man with the newspapers was there – he had spread part of his c
ollection on the floor for study – and among the others were two young boys, white and Negro, who sat deep in conversation against the rear wall.

  “… So we was all fooling around this vacant lot up behind the Breyer’s Ice Cream sign, see,” the white boy was saying, “and see, I should of gone home when the other kids did; that’s where I made my mistake. Anyways, it was getting dark and me and this Kovarsky was just kind of sitting there talking and smoking cigarettes behind the sign, and then he—”

  “Hold on a second, Ralph, you goin’ too fast. Who’s this Kovarsky?”

  “I just told you. He’s this big-shot kid in the neighborhood out home; all the kids are scared of him; I mean he’s, you know, real big and he talks tough and he’s got a Record. Breaking and Entering. He’s nineteen. Anyways, he says for me to stick around after the other kids go home and I says okay. I mean I know it was dumb but I guess I was kind of – I don’t know, kind of—”

  “Flattered, right?” the Negro boy said. “Sure, I can see that. So then what?”

  “So then he starts giving me cigarettes and telling dirty stuff about girls, telling the names of all the girls in the Senior Class he’s had innercourse with, and like that. You know.”

  “Yeah, shit, I know those kinda guys. How old’re you, Ralph?”

  “Fifteen. I mean I’m fifteen now; I was fourteen then. So anyways, all of a sudden he kind of moves in close and opens up his pants and tells me to – you know. Go down on him. Blow him.”

  “Jesus.”

  “So I tell him no and I get up quick and start to run around the sign and he makes a grab for me and says he’s gonna break my arm. That don’t scare me – I know he can’t do nothing like that on account of his Record – but then he says, ‘Okay, kid, you got a choice: be nice to me and I won’t tell nobody nothin’. Run on home, and I swear to God you’re never gonna hear the end of this.’ ”

  “Oh, Jesus,” the Negro boy said.

  “So I go home, and the next day at school all the kids start in on me. You know. ‘Hey, Ralph, what’s it taste like?’ That kind of stuff. Dirty stuff. Or they’d grab the front of their pants and say ‘Wanna go up behind the Breyer’s Ice Cream sign, Ralph?’ And then around the candy store they start calling me Hot Lips Volpe. That’s my last name, Volpe. Even the big kids, Juniors and Seniors. Even the girls. ‘Cause see, what he did was, this Kovarsky, what he did was, he told everybody it was me wanted to suck him off.”