From Walking the Line

1997

Walking the Line

            Dr. F is going around the room asking us each how our meds are going, and when it comes my turn I’m going to spit in her face.  She’s the big shot of McLean.  This isn’t public stuff and it’s none of anyone’s business how my meds are going.  She gestures with pointy red nails.  This one says the meds are making him incontinent.  He even shuffles in his seat for effect, and is wearing sweat pants.  Lovely.  That other one says he’s been drinking again.  Like hell I want to hear that shit.  I watch Dr. F’s perfectly red lipsticked mouth make shapes like O’s and fake smiles and bubbles like they come from a bubble-pipe.

            But it doesn’t begin here.  It begins at the beginning of time, when there was The Thing and there was randomness, just open space and The Thing.  The Thing was Evil. The Thing needed a home, and It found Me, so I became Evil.  That was long before meds and long before shit happened.

            That is what I tried to explain to the doctors but they didn’t believe me.  They didn’t believe in The Thing’s existence so they don’t believe in my existence.  I am nothing to them, a nobody.  I could die and they wouldn’t notice.  I would suffer and they wouldn’t care.  The nurses will throw shit at me.  The Thing said they would.  The Thing gave me a vision of nurses with shit on their uniforms coming after me. 

            I tried to explain this a while back to the doctor on the Unit, but he cut me off mid-sentence, murmuring, “You’ve got a problem with anger,” and then he walked off somewhere.

            “Like what?”  I haven’t been paying proper attention to Dr. F.

            “When do you see Dr. Mitchell?”

            “I don’t want to tell you.”  The Thing doesn’t want me to tell her.  “My heart hurts and so do my legs.”

            “Maybe you should eat something.”

            My stomach is filled with blue cotton.

“Julie, sit still.  Stop rocking, stop muttering.  Group is almost over.”

            I remember the supermarket.  The Thing was after me.  I told it to stop.  I rode my bicycle there from McLean, trying to make The Thing stop.  I tried to make the bicycle speak to me.  Another man came and locked his own bike near mine.  His helmet and gear were very sophisticated.

            “Excuse me, sir, I’m just locking my bike here, at the supermarket.  It is a very nice day, yes, it is.  My seat is worn, well, you need some air in your tires--good day.”  Tell it to stop.  Stop.  The Thing is Evil.  Evil, tell it to stop--

            “Tell it to stop.”  Hearing my own speak

            “Pardon me?”  His voice about as deep as a tire iron

            “Tell it to stop.  The Thing.”

            “What Thing?”

            “Never mind.”

            He disappears behind the corner, behind a mountain of corn.  Corny and horny.  People here are cornier and even hornier.  All employees wear Kelly green aprons and matching shirts from Hell.  The Thing tells me these things, and The Thing is from Hell, too.  Apples in bags whisper to me from the bleachers.  They giggle and glisten and titter among themselves in their soggy get-ups.  Disgusted, I walk inside.

grapefruit pineapple oranges lemons ALL HALF PRICE

I wander around the store and pray for peace.  The bicycle guy is following me poised to clonk me over the head with his bicycle pump.  I’m not afraid of him.  I’m afraid of The Thing.  A fat lady kisses strawberries.   I follow a roll of toilet paper down the aisle.

            “Miss”

            thrashing a look at him I see a boy in a green apron “Miss are you crying?  Is there something I can do for you do for you do for you?”  No for you no for you no for you

            “Make The Thing stop.”  I poke a tomato and it vomits its seeds.

            “What Thing?  Please don’t put your helmet on those kiwis, we like to keep those clean, Miss.  Clean, Miss.”

            I wonder if I stuck my finger in my ear, if it would come out the other ear.  “Make The Thing stop.”

            “McLean filth.”

            Wave hello to a few people I don’t know.  So as not to disturb the limes, I steal over to the Shop the World aisle with nonfat Mexican refried what-nots and canned tofu beans all the way from China.  McLean filth uh huh.  If he wants filth he should try hospital food.  Motherfuckin’ Egg McLean shove it up his nostrils.  Box lunch in a baby seat.

“Julie, how was group?”  It is Kitty.  The Thing is bothering me and I don’t know what to tell Kitty. 

            “Kitty, you’ll save me from it, won’t you?”

            “Save you?  Save you?  I asked you, Julie, how group was.  Can’t you answer my question?”

            “Group?”  I am still peeling limes and sorting funny-colored pills.

            “Group.  Yes.  Medication Group with Dr. F.  Did you talk about your medications?”

            “The Thing told me--”

            “Wait. What did Dr. F say?”

            “I don’t know.  The Thing--well, Dr. F said nothing.  Nothing, I guess.”

            “Fine then.  That’s just fine.  Everything’s okay, then.  With your meds.  No changes, I see.”

            “I suppose.”  I suppose, but I don’t think she sees anything, she doesn’t see me; her glasses are too dark for this dark, dark space at McLean fucking Hospital where pretty-colored pills wait their turn.

            “And you’ve been to all your groups.”

            “Uh, yeah.”

            “Okay, you’re all set.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

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