ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: Searching
Book Two, Chapter 131: Drugged in Mind and Body
My lessee, Sam, slides a note under my door. I read it, then immediately run down the seven flights to his apartment and knock.
“Sam, it’s me. Will you talk to me?”
Hesitantly he opens the door, gray grizzle on his face. He mumbles something I don’t catch but backs up to let me in. I’m still holding the note he wrote me.
“I’m so, so sorry this happened to you. I’m so, so sorry I made that 911 call.”
Slowly he crosses the room to sit on the edge of his bed, and I sit next to him. This is a strange place for me to be. We’re not close friends. He’s never invited me into his room before. But I have to be here.
“The cops never asked me how I was or what my problem was. They just asked whether I wanted to go to The Healing Center or U of L. I know about The Healing Center — a horrible place. A bed and a bucket. I thought at U of L’s hospital I’d be hooked up to an I.V., get a bit of nutrients in me. But that’s not where they took me. They took me to U of L’s psyche ward where I was pumped with so many drugs that I’m stumbling and can’t think straight.”
He’s totally coherent now. I’m following every word he’s saying.
“It’s not your fault. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I know I talked to you on Saturday, but I don’t remember what I said that made you make that call. I was shocked when you knocked on my door and three cops were standing there. They took me away. I couldn’t leave the psyche ward. I was surrounded by screaming crazies talking about terrorists. I know I’m not crazy, but I was surrounded by crazies. Guards were outside my door. They took away my cell phone. I could remember only one phone number. I called him, but he couldn’t do anything for me. It’s a wonder I’m out now.”
“You told me you were dying. That’s why I called 911.”
“I was drinking to knock the pain of what I think is testicular cancer.” I cover my mouth with my hands. “I couldn’t tell you. How could I talk of this with you?”
He’s talking of it now.
“I’ve had this side ache for seven years, and now one testicle is enlarged and hurts. Something is wrong. I’m supposed to go to the Family Clinic tomorrow, if I can manage it. I need a CAT scan.”
Oh my god. He smokes, he drinks, he thinks he has testicular cancer. His mother, whom he was close to, died six months ago. He’s just out from two days in a psyche ward lying on a bed in a heavily drugged but conscious state with no cell phone or book or magazine at hand. Jesus. And what deeper psychic pain is all the smoking and drinking covering?
I look into his blue eyes. “Do you want me to go to the clinic with you?”
He shakes his head.
“Maybe ten years from now, I’ll be glad this happened,” he says. “At least right now I’m not drinking.”
