It's Kind of a Funny Story

I’m sitting with Humble outside the smoking lounge for the 10 P.M. cigarette break, thinking about where I was at the last 10 P.M.: just getting into Mom’s bed. Humble doesn’t smoke, says it’s disgusting, but everyone else in here does, practically, including the black guy who’s afraid of gravity; and the big girl, Becca, both of whom I thought were underage. Armelio, Ebony, Bobby, Johnny, Jimmy . . . no matter how nuts they all seem, they have no problem migrating to the upper left of the H and sitting down on the couches quietly to wait for their particular brand of cigarettes, which I learn the hospital does not, in fact, provide for them—they come in with the packs themselves and the nurses keep them in a special tray. Once they pull a cigarette out of their respective packs, they walk single file through a red door, passing Nurse Monica, whose job is to light everybody up. When the door closes, the smell drifts out from under it and you hear talking—everybody talking all at once, as if they saved their words for a time when there was smoke to send them through.

“How’re you doing for your first day, Craig?” Nurse Monica asked me five minutes ago, as she closed the door. “You don’t smoke, I see.”

“No.”

“That’s good. Terrible habit. And it happens so much to people your age.”

“A lot of my friends smoke. I just, you know . . . never liked it.”

“I see you are adjusting quite well to the floor.”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good, that is so important. Tomorrow we’re going to talk more about your adjustment and your situation and how you’re feeling.”

“Okay.”

“You gotta watch out for this one,” Humble said. “He’s crafty.”

“Oh yeah?” Monica asked.

I was looking for the blond girl, Noelle—I had to remember to meet her—but she wasn’t around. Neither was Solomon. Next to Humble was the woman he identified as the Professor, watching us with her bugged-out eyes. Unprompted, Humble started talking with me and Monica about this old girlfriend of his, who had, in his words, “pig-tail nipples, like curly fries, I kid you not.” Monica laughed and laughed. The Professor said Humble was disgusting. Monica said it was okay to laugh once in a while, and did she have a story to share?

“Yeah, we all know you had some indiscretions in your youth, Professor,” Humble prodded.

The Professor got a dreamy look in her eyes. I almost thought she was going to have a seizure. And she said, in a light little voice, with a nasal twinge: “I had a lot of guys, but I only had one man.”

I was wondering where I’d heard that before, when Armelio interrupted.

“C’mon buddy! Phone is for you!”

“Right.” I get up.

“You’re lucky, buddy. It’s after ten. They usually shut the phone off at ten.”

Shut the phone off. I picture a big lever in my mind, a man heaving it down.

“What happens if someone calls and the phone’s off?”

“It just rings and rings,” Humble yells out, “and people know they’re not in Kansas anymore.”

I walk down the hall. The pay-phone receiver is hanging and swaying. I pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, is this the loony bin?” It’s Aaron. It’s Aaron, high.

“How’d you get this number?” I ask. The man with the beard, who I saw rocking in the dining room when I first came in, is pacing the central hall, staring at me.

“My girl gave it to me, what do you think? What’s it like in there, dude?” Aaron asks.

“How do you know where I am?”

“I looked it up, man! You think I’m an idiot? I go to the same school as you! I did a reverse number search and found exactly where you are: Argenon Hospital, Adult Psychiatric! Dude, how’d you get in adult? Do they serve beer up there?”

“Aaron, c’mon.”

“I’m serious. How about girls? Are there any hot girls around—ow!”

I hear laughing in the background, above rap. “Gimme the phone!” Ronny’s high-pitched bleat comes through the line. “Lemme talk!”

Ronny comes into focus: “Dude, can you get me any Vicodin?”

Howls. Howls of laughter. And in the background, Nia protesting: “Guys, don’t bother him.”

“Gimme—Craig, no, seriously.” Aaron is back on. “I’m really sorry dude. I . . . just, how are you, man?”

“I’m . . . okay.” I’m starting to sweat.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t have a good night, and I checked myself into the hospital.”

“What’s that mean, ‘didn’t have a good night’?”

The man in my stomach is back, tugging at me. I want to vomit through the phone.

“I’m depressed, okay, Aaron?”

“Yeah, I know, about what?”

“No, man, I’m depressed in general. I have like, clinical depression.”

“No way! You’re like the happiest guy I know!”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s a joke, Craig. You’re like the craziest person I know. Remember on the bridge? But, you know, the problem is you don’t chill enough. Like even when you’re here, you’re always worried about school or something; you never just kick back and let things slide, you know what I mean? We’re having a party tonight—where are you gonna be?”

“Aaron, who’s in the room?”

“Nia, Ronny, Scruggs, uh . . . my friend Delilah.” I don’t even know Delilah.