Disturbing the Peace

  They both stopped, three feet apart, glaring fiercely and ready for anything. Neither of them took up a fighting stance – their hands hung loose – but Wilder squared his shoulders and said “How’d you like a punch in the mouth, Spivack?”

  “From you? Funny little alcoholic creep? Shit; I’d wipe up the floor with you in five seconds and you know it.”

  “Don’t be too fucking sure of that, Spivack.”

  “Wanna try it? See what happens?”

  Then the KEEP OUT door swung open and Charlie was smiling there, happy with welcome. “Gentlemen?” he said. “Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?”

  Going about the cordial business of arranging chairs for them and measuring out instant coffee while the pan of water bubbled on the hotplate, he seemed unaware of their red, hard-breathing faces and trembling limbs. “I generally enjoy a little coffee at this time of the day,” he said, “and once in a while it’s nice to have company. If you don’t mind I think I’ll just shut that door. Makes the air a little close in here, but I don’t want to give the impression I’m holding open house. Sugar and cream, Mr. Wilder?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “It’s only a powdered cream substitute, of course, but it’s very tasty. You, Doctor?”

  “No, thanks. Black.”

  At first Charlie did all the talking as they sat and sipped and smoked in this unaccustomed luxury. Wilder kept waiting for his monologue to turn into a lecture (“… Now, I don’t want to see any more trouble between you two …”) but it didn’t, and soon they were able to relax. They could even exchange bashful, halfsmiling glances of complicity, like bad little boys who’d managed to raise hell without getting caught.

  “… Well, I’m certainly glad the holiday’s over,” Charlie was saying. “These long weekends are always difficult. We get badly overcrowded; we don’t have an adequate staff; it’s good to have the psychiatrists back. Oh, now, never mind, Doctor, I know your opinion of psychiatrists; we needn’t go into that. All I mean is, from my point of view, it’s good to have them back because they make decisions. Some of the men here have to go home to their families, right? Some have to be sent to alcoholic or narcotic facilities, some have to be sent up to Wingdale or Rockland or wherever, and some – well, it’s no secret – some have to go to criminal court. And I mean, those decisions have to be made, right?”

  Spivack frowned over the careful stubbing out of his cigarette. “Charlie,” he said, “will you tell me the truth?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Who was it – which of these big decision-makers of yours – exactly which one of them told you I was a paranoid schizophrenic?”

  And Charlie leaned back for a delighted peal of laughter, placing one great white shoe on the edge of the table. “Ah, Doctor, you tickle me. It wasn’t any of ’em. It was you yourself ! You came out of an interview – what was it, two, three weeks ago? – and you said ‘Better watch out for me, Charlie, I’m a paranoid schizophrenic’ It was you yourself told me!”

  But Spivack was not amused.

  When Charlie’s laughter dwindled he put both feet on the floor and leaned earnestly forward. “I do know one thing, though, Doctor. Mind you, this isn’t criticism, but I imagine every time you see those psychiatrists you go in with a negative attitude. I imagine you tell them about filing your malpractice suit and so on, and of course that’s understandable. You’re a physician too and you’ve been placed in a difficult situation here. All I mean to suggest is this: why don’t you surprise them next time? Walk in there and answer their questions, make a good appearance, show a little sense of humor, let them see the kind of rational, agreeable man you are most of the time, the kind of man you are with me, or with Mr. Wilder here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Spivack said. “I’ll turn on the old charm. Hey, here, I forgot to give your pen back.” He unclipped it from his pajama pocket and slid it across the table. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an envelope, do you, Charlie?”

  “An envelope? No.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Even if I had an envelope I’d still need a stamp. Thing is, I wrote a letter to my sister. Want to read it?”

  “Oh, I’d rather not, Doctor, if you don’t mind; I don’t really enjoy reading other people’s personal—”

  The door shuddered with pounding and a voice called “Charlie! There’s a turd on the floor! Some son of a bitch dropped a turd on the floor …”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said as he escorted them quickly back into the corridor. “I’ll have to lock up here. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Would there now be a resumption of their fight? Evidently not. Spivack walked moodily but not angrily, and soon he made shy, tentative efforts at conversation. “There goes a Wingdale man,” he said as they passed a muscular, dull-eyed Puerto Rican wearing work clothes: high-top shoes, denim shirt, green twill pants with wide, old-fashioned suspenders. “When they dress ’em up that way it’s Wingdale every time. And oh Jesus, look at that.”

  A very old white man stood crying like an infant – “Wah! Wah! Wah!” – as an orderly approached him with a straitjacket. He twisted away and tried feebly to escape; in the tussle his pajama pants fell and revealed genitals so shriveled and small that they might have been an infant’s too, and he clutched them either in shame or anxiety.

  “Hey there, sexpot,” Spivack said in passing.

  “Save me, buddy,” the shuffling men were saying of their cigarettes, “save me …”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll save you. Hey, look, Wilder: there isn’t a soul in Jerk-off City. Want to sit down?” And they sank onto the stained mattresses. “Want to read my letter? I mean I worked like a bastard on it; seems like somebody ought to read the damn thing.”

  “Okay; sure.” He accepted the smudged, much-folded sheet of paper and opened it.

  Dear Sis; dear Miss Priss:

  If you are languorously glancing through The New Yorker and sipping an ever-so-extra-dry martini when you receive this letter, or if you are changing from a terribly sweet little cocktail dress into something svelte and provocative for evening, or if you are dabbing a delightfully subtle Parisian scent at your throat in preparation for prolonged and exquisite dalliance with your husband tonight, then don’t bother to read it. Drop it among the crushed gardenias and the empty Liebfraumilch bottles and the Tiffany invitations to parties you’ve chosen not to attend.

  If, however, this letter finds you on your knees in your dungarees scrubbing the kitchen floor, or scouring a pot so badly encrusted with last Saturday’s Boeuf Bourguignonne that your fingers bleed into the Brillo, or better still sitting and grunting and raising a stink on what I believe your husband calls the “John,” then read the hell out of it, baby. This is important. This is reality.

  1. – Call Dad.

  2. – Call Eric and Mark.

  3. – Tell your husband he is a simpering, pretentious little fool.

  4. – GET ME OUT OF HERE.

  HENRY

  “So whaddya think?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s pretty funny, but the general tone does seem a little—”

  “‘Hostile,’ right? That’s every psychiatrist’s favorite word.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that; I just mean it seems a little on the self-defeating side. Doesn’t seem very likely to accomplish its purpose.”

  Spivack sighed and stuffed it back into his pajamas. “Ah, I guess you’re right. Purely an academic question anyway. Haven’t got an envelope; haven’t got a stamp.”

  Wilder’s name was called on Thursday morning. He stood by the cop at the door, combing and recombing his hair while Spivack gave him last-minute counsel.

  “It’s an inquisition. They ask you questions – loaded questions, the kind that’d never stand up in a court of law – and when you answer they don’t listen to you: they listen at you. They let everything you say slide past and hang in the air while they study it. Because it’s not the substance they care about, it’s the
style. You can almost see them thinking ‘Mm; interesting. Why did he make that slip? Why that particular choice of words?’ Oh, and they watch you like hawks too. Not just your face – it’s very important to keep a straight face and look ’em in the eyes – but everything. Squirm around in your chair, cross your legs, put your hand up to your head or anything like that and you’re dead.”

  “Okay, Wilder,” an orderly said. “Let’s go.”

  There may have been less than a dozen white-coated men in the interview room but there seemed to be twice that many. They sat row on row in chairs with writing-panel armrests, like students, and Wilder faced them alone in an ordinary chair with his sweating hands on his thighs, as if he were their teacher. Nobody smiled. A bald, heavy man in the front row cleared his throat and said “Well. What seems to be the trouble?”

  It probably lasted a quarter of an hour. First he did his best to tell them about the business trip to Chicago, about the week of insomnia and heavy drinking, about Paul Borg and St. Vincent’s and the poorly remembered events that had brought him here.

  Then came the questions. Had Wilder ever been in a mental hospital before? Had he ever been under psychiatric care? Had he ever sought treatment for alcoholism? Had his drinking ever gotten him into trouble? With an employer? With his family? With the police?

  No, he kept saying, no; no; no – and through it all he held his face straight, sat still and didn’t gesticulate. But after the questions they stared in silence; they seemed to expect him to make a summing-up in his own defense, and that was when everything went to hell. One hand leaped to his wet brow and clung there. “Look,” he said. “Listen: I know if I say ‘I’m not crazy’ it’ll probably just convince you I am; but even so, that’s my – that’s my position.” The hand fell back to his thigh, but he knew he was squirming because he heard his chair creak. “I don’t think I’m crazy, or mentally ill or emotionally disturbed or whatever the hell, I mean whatever you people call it.” His mouth was so dry he could feel every movement of tongue and teeth and lips in their laborious effort to form speech. “I know I was behaving erratically or whaddyacallit, irrationally last Friday, but that was last Friday. After the first couple of nights’ sleep and the first few doses of formaldehyde, I mean you know, Peraldehyde, I think I was all right again, and I’m all right now; so the point is – Christ’s sake, is anybody listening?” The spastic hand flew to his head again, messing up his hair, and his eyes closed to shut out their faces.

  “What makes you think nobody’s listening?”

  “Because I’ve been locked up in a God damned – because this place is enough to drive anybody out of their – I don’t know.” He opened his eyes, but nothing could be done about his hand. “Look. Listen: I don’t think I belong here any more and I think I ought to be discharged. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  He was reminded again of a classroom – this time of one whose students are embarrassed because their teacher has made a fool of himself – so his face twitched into an apologetic little grimace and he said what teachers often say at such moments: “Are there any – questions?”

  “Okay, Wilder,” said the orderly, and he was escorted back and locked into the ward, where he wanted to smash his fist against the wall or scream or kick a window again with his filthy foot. Instead he walked and smoked, promising to save people.

  “How’d it go?” Spivack inquired.

  “Shit, I don’t know.”

  “Slimy bunch of bastards, aren’t they? Make your flesh crawl. And when you think of the power those fish-eyed fuckers have over a man’s life – I mean talk about your FBI; talk about your CIA; talk about your Nazi secret police …”

  But an hour later Charlie beckoned him aside for a hushed, private talk near the KEEP OUT door. “You did very well in there, Mr. Wilder.”

  “I what? I did? How do you know?”

  “Well, now, never mind; I just happen to know you gave a good account of yourself. Matter of fact I understand they’ll be taking you down to Rehabilitation after lunch. It’s very nice there, very clean; they seldom keep a man more than twentyfour hours. Give you a little counselling, finish up your paperwork, get your clothes and you’re free to go. But look: it’s a busy day and I may not see you again, so I’ll just say goodbye and wish you well” – he held out a big hand to shake – “and another thing. I think it’s very nice the way you’ve been so friendly with Dr. Spivack; talking with him, taking your meals with him. Dr. Spivack didn’t really have any friends here till you came. He’s a fine man, as you know; only trouble is he’s a little – disturbed. Well. Good luck, sir.”

  “Thanks. Thanks, Charlie.”

  And he watched him move away to bear down on the beautiful boy in the turban. “Gail! Now, Gail, how many times have I told you to take that pajama top off your head? And put your penis back in your pants where it belongs. Nobody wants to look at that thing.”

  They called six or eight men to stand by the front door after lunch, and Wilder was among them.

  “Well, look at you,” Spivack said, advancing on him. “Wudga do in there anyway? Bribe ’em? Blackmail ’em? Crawl around and kiss their asses? Hey, wait a second. Got something for you.” And he probed in his pajama pocket, to which Charlie’s pen was clipped.

  “What’s this? Another letter?”

  “No, shitface. My address and phone number. If I ever do get outa here I might buy you a drink sometime.”

  “Well, that’s very – Sure; thanks.”

  “So here’s the pen: wanna give me yours?”

  And Wilder did so. “I’ll look forward to it, Spivack,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath. I may forget your fucking existence in an hour and a half. Anyway, keep a tight asshole, Wilder.”

  “I’ll try. You too.”

  The door opened, not to let the men out but to admit an elderly female nurse trailed by a dozen very young girls in fresh blue-and-white striped smocks and white stockings.

  “My God,” Spivack said. “Student nurses. Beautiful little student nurses on a training tour.” He stepped back into the corridor and stood with his arms flung wide, like a master of ceremonies. “Girls, I’m delighted to see you. It’s nonsense for them to send you up here because once you graduate you’ll never get near this place, but even so you might learn something – Oh, it’s all right, Nurse,” he said to their leader, who seemed to have been stricken dumb. “I’m a staff physician; I can handle this. Girls, what we have here is a relic of the nineteenth century. This isn’t a ‘psychiatric ward,’ you see; it’s a madhouse …”

  Some of the girls looked bewildered and a few looked scared, but most had begun to giggle behind their hands to show they found Spivack “cute.”

  “Officer,” the nurse was saying to the cop, “who’s the charge nurse on this ward?”

  “His name’s Charlie, ma’am. I can’t leave the door, but I’ll send somebody to get him – just a second. Hey, uh—”

  “… We have psychopathic criminals here, girls, and we have men in advanced stages of madness caused by venereal disease and alcohol and drugs, and we have at least one Second Coming of Christ; then we have men who don’t belong here at all. Take my own case: I’m what you might call a political prisoner. Hospital politics, that is; medical politics. I don’t suppose they teach you girls about medical politics, but I really think they should because believe me it’s a very real, very treacherous—”

  “Doctor!” Charlie came loping up the corridor in a swarm of laughing men. “Doctor, I want you to leave those girls alone …”

  The door opened again to let Wilder’s group out, and then it was locked behind them.

  Rehabilitation was very nice and clean indeed: real beds, chrome-and-leatherette armchairs, good showers with soap and a kind of shampoo guaranteed to remove lice. The talk was quiet and most of it courteous: nobody wanted to make trouble.

  “Counseling,” the next day, meant being taken into a roomful of cluttered typewriter d
esks – it might have been a state unemployment office – and sitting down beside a pale man who looked like an underpaid clerk but was said to be a psychiatric social worker.

  “… and you’ll be seeking psychotherapy after your release, right?”

  “Well, I don’t know; I haven’t really thought about it.”

  The interviewer stopped typing, closed his eyes and ran pale fingers over his face. “You know something? I don’t understand some of you people. You’re a mature, well-employed man with family responsibilities. You spend a week as an involuntary patient in the tightest lockup in the city and you ‘haven’t really thought about it’ ”

  “Okay. I will, then.”

  “You damn sure better, mister. Now. Can you afford private care, or do you want to apply for outpatient 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?”