It's Kind of a Funny Story

Humble turns: “The black kid with the glasses: he looks pretty normal, but he has it bad. You notice he doesn’t come out of his room a lot. That’s because he’s scared that gravity is going to reverse and he’s going to fall up into the ceiling. When he goes outside, he has to be near trees so, in case the gravity stops, he’ll have something to hold on to. I think he’s about seventeen. Have you talked to him?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t really talk. I don’t know how much they can do for him.”

The guy looks up at the ceiling fan above the dining room, shudders, and forks food into his mouth.

“Then there’s Jimmy. Jimmy’s been here a lot. I’ve been here twenty-four days, and I’ve seen him come and go twice. You seem to like him.”

“We came in together.”

“He’s a cool guy. And he has good teeth.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

“Pearly whites. Not a lot of people in here have that. I myself wonder what happened to Ebony’s teeth.”

“What’s wrong with them?” I turn.

“Don’t look. She has none, you didn’t notice? She’s on a liquid diet. Just gums. I wonder if she sold ‘em, tooth by tooth. . . .”

I bite my tongue. I can’t help it. I shouldn’t be laughing at any of these people, and neither should Humble, but maybe it’s okay, somewhere, somehow, because we’re enjoying life? I’m not sure. Jimmy, two tables away, notices my stifled laughter, smiles at me, and laughs himself.

“I toldja: it come to ya!”

“There we go. What is going on in his mind?” Humble asks.

I can’t help it. It’s too much. I crack up. Juice and chicken tender bits spray my plate.

“Oh, I got you now,” Humble continues. “And here comes the guest of honor: Solomon.”

The Hasidic Jewish guy comes in holding up his pants. He still has food in his beard. He grabs his tray and opens a microwaved packet of spaghetti and starts shoveling it into his mouth, making slurping, gulping groans.

“This guy eats once a day but it’s like his last day on earth,” Humble says. “I think he’s the most far gone of everybody. He’s got like a direct audience with God.”

Solomon looks up, twists his head from side to side, and resumes eating.

Humble drops to a true whisper. “He did a few hundred tabs of acid and blew his pupils out. His eyeballs are permanently dilated.”

“No way.”

“Absolutely. It’s a certain cult of the Hasidics: the Jewish Acid-Heads. There’s like a part of their holy writings that tells them it’s the way to talk to God. But he took it too far.”

Solomon gets up, leaves his tray disgustedly at the table, and moves out of the room with alarming speed.

“He’s like the Mole Man, back to his hole,” Humble says. “The real Mole People are the anorexics; you don’t even see them.”

“How many people are in here?” I ask.

“They say twenty-five,” Humble says. “But that’s not counting the stowaways.”

I look around. Charles/Jennifer isn’t in the room.

“Did the, uh, you know, Charles? Did he leave?”

“Yeah, the tranny’s gone. Left this afternoon. Tranny hit on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Smitty lets him do that. Gets a kick out of it.”

“I can’t believe he’s just gone. They don’t, like, throw a party for you when you leave?”

“No way. People here don’t want to get out. Getting out means going back to the streets or to jail or to try and fish their things out of an impounded car, like me. Your kind of situation, with the parents and a house: that’s rare. And also, with so many people coming and going, we’d be nuts to try and have a party every time. We’d end up like Fiend One and Fiend Two.”

My tray is a mess from the food spraying out. “You crack me up, Humble,” I tell him.

“I know. I’m a great time for everybody. Too bad I’m in here instead of onstage getting paid for it.”

“Why don’t you try going onstage?”

“I’m old.”

“I have to get some napkins.” I rise and go out to Smitty, who hands me a stack. I return, wipe off my tray, and start in on the pear.

“You have a secret admirer,” Humble says. “I should’ve guessed. I know how you operate.”

“What?”

“She was just here. Look at your chair.”

I get up and check it. There’s a piece of paper lying there, face down. I flip it around, and it says HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GOOD TIME. VISITING HOURS ARE TOMORROW FROM 7:00-7:05 P.M. I DON’T SMOKE.

“See? Your little girl with the cut-up face just left it.” Humble gets up. “I had a feeling. Now you’re starting to look like a rival male. I might have to keep my eye on you.”

He deposits his tray and gets in line for his meds. I fold the paper up and put it in the pocket where my phone used to be.

twenty-eight

“Craig! Hey buddy! Phone!”