It's Kind of a Funny Story

Outside of 22, a black guy with long dreads is on a stretcher next to a curtain. He’s well dressed in dark brown—with black shoes like mine—and he’s holding his hip and writhing in pain. It’s something I’ve never seen except in movies—a man clutching himself and grimacing and swaying and breathing in little huffs and bearing his teeth and going “Nurse, nurse, please.” It looks like he’s dislocated his hip. He rolls over on his side and then back on his back, but nothing seems to help.

Who’s worse, soldier, you or him?

Dunno, sir!

It’s a trick question, soldier.

Well, him, obviously. I mean I’m sitting here loung-ing; he’s practically dying out there.

I expected more from you, son.

How?

You’re a smart kid. You should be able to see when somebody’s faking. And soldier—

Yes.

—Good job out there. I’m glad you’re still on board.

I don’t feel any better.

Life’s not about feeling better; it’s about getting the job done.

I look again at the black guy; as I do, a big police officer with closely cropped hair and those weird little fat bumps on the back of his neck saunters onto the scene with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. He takes an orange plastic seat and sits down right outside from me, between Room 22 and Room 21, another open-style, closet-sized space.

“Hey, how ya doin’,” he says. He speaks slowly and calmly. “I’m Chris. If you need anything, let me know.” He sits down and opens up his paper.

The black guy is really moaning now, bugging out his eyes at every nurse that passes by. He grabs his hip with both hands. Maybe he’s a heroin addict. They come to the hospital and pretend they’re hurt to get morphine. I watch him for minutes, trying to figure out if he’s real or fake. There aren’t any clocks. There are only beeps.

Chris shakes his paper. Page two is “86 Stories Down: Man Plunges from Empire State.”

“Jeez,” I say. I can’t believe it. “Is that about a guy jumping off the Empire State Building?”

“No.” Chris smiles, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Not at all.” He flips the paper back over. “You’re not supposed to be looking at this.”

I chuckle. “That is too much.”

“He lived!” Chris says.

“Yeah, right.”

“He did! And you will too.”

Did someone tell this guy what I was in for? Or do all people with mental difficulties get shuttled to room 22?

“What’d he do? Hit a tree?”

But Chris has moved on to page four. “Not supposed to be looking at this.”

Someone must have told him. He’s a cop in charge of making sure things are okay in the ER and someone must have told him they had a depressed kid in 22, and now he’s trying to be helpful.

I lie down on my stretcher, take my hoodie off, and throw it over my face. It’s not dark enough. I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m sweating. I want to do push-ups, but I can’t on the stretcher, and it’s probably a bad idea to do them on the tiled floor, which doesn’t look recently mopped. I don’t need to go into Argenon Hospital for depression and come out with diphtheria.

“Nurse! Nurse! Please!” the black man groans.

“Waaa-taaa. Waaa-taaa,” a woman croaks.

“Hey, what’s up?” Chris answers his phone. “No, I’m on.”

Beep, something beeps.

These are the sounds of the hospital, the hospital, the hospital.

“Hello, Craig?”

A doctor comes into 22. She has long, dark hair and a pudgy face and bright green eyes.

“Hey.”

“I’m Dr. Data.”

“Dr. Data?”

“Yes.”

Huh. I want to ask her if she’s an android, but that wouldn’t be very respectful; and besides, I’m not up to it.

“What’s going on?”

I give her the rap. It gets shorter every time. I wanted to kill myself; I called the number; I came here. Blah blah blah.

“You did the right thing,” she says, “A lot of people get off their medication and get into big trouble.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Now, besides wanting to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, have you had anything else going on? Have you been seeing things? Hearing things?”

“Nope.” I’m not talking about the army guy. Same rules as with Dr. Barney.

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, let me tell you what we can do for you, Craig.” She takes out her stethoscope, holds it in her hands, and folds her short arms. She’s pretty. Her eyes are serious and beautiful. “It’s Saturday, and on Saturday our best psychologists are here, the really good ones. I’m going to recommend that you see Dr. Mahmoud. He’ll be in soon, and he’ll be able to give you the help you need.”