It's Kind of a Funny Story

“It’s like a rite of passage,” Johnny says. He speaks slowly and without any accents in his words. “‘Everyone must eat the omelet.’”

“Yeah, you’re in now,” Bobby says.

“Huh.” Johnny exhales.

“How did everybody sleep?” I try.

“I’m anxious, real anxious,” Bobby says.

“Why?”

“I’ve got that interview tomorrow, with the adult home.”

“What’s that?”

“Huh.” Johnny exhales. “It’s where people like us live.”

“It’s a place like this, basically, except you have to hold a job,” Bobby explains. “You don’t need a pass to leave; you can leave whenever you want, but you have to prove you’re employed and be back by seven o’clock.”

“Wait, you can leave here with a pass?”

“Yeah, once you have five days inside, they have to give you a pass if you ask for it.”

“I’m gonna try and be out in five days.”

“Huh,” Johnny exhales. “Good luck.”

I start in on my orange, which is about two hundred times more edible than the omelet. “Why are you nervous about the interview?” I ask Bobby.

“Anxious, not nervous. It’s different. It’s medical.”

“Why are you anxious, then? I’m sure you’ll get in.”

“You can’t be sure of a thing like that. And if I mess it up, I’ve got problems: I’ve been here too long; my coverage isn’t going to last. Once you’re giving the tours, it’s really time to leave.” He takes a slow bite of oatmeal. “The last place wouldn’t let me in because I’m too much of a picky eater. It’s not like this place. You can’t pick your food.”

“So now you know what not to say!” I point out.

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“See, when you mess something up,” I muse, “you learn for the next time. It’s when people compliment you that you’re in trouble. That means they expect you to keep it up.”

Bobby nods. “Very, very true.”

“Huh, yeah,” Johnny says. “My mom was always complimenting me, and look how I turned out.”

“This kid has some promise.” Bobby laughs. “He’s on the level.”

“Huh, yeah, on the level. You play guitar, kid?”

“No.”

“Johnny here’s a great guitarist,” Bobby says. “Really great. He had a deal in the eighties.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Shhh,” Johnny says. “It ain’t nothin’.”

Bobby continues: “He can play better than the guy they bring in here to play for us. But he’s a cool guy, that guy.”

“Yeah, he’s on the level.”

“He’s on the level. Is he coming in today for group?”

“That’s tomorrow. Today is art.”

“With Joanie.”

“Right.”

Bobby sips his coffee. “If there wasn’t coffee on this earth, I’d be dead.”

I scan the room: everyone’s here but Solomon, the Anorexics (who I’ve now seen peeking out of their rooms like, literally, skeletons in closets), and Noelle. I wonder where she is. She didn’t show up for vitals. Maybe she’s out on a pass. I hope she’ll be around tonight for our date. Technically, it’ll be my first date.

“You know, I’ll tell you why I’m really anxious,” Bobby pipes up, leaning in over his coffee. “It’s this stupid shirt.” He pushes forward his Marvin the Martian WORLD DOMINATOR sweatshirt. “How’m I gonna do an interview in this?”

“Huh.” Johnny exhales. “Never underestimate the power of Marvin.”

“Shhh, man. I’m serious.”

“I have shirts,” I say.

“What?” Bobby looks up.

“I have shirts. I’ll lend you a shirt.”

“What? You would do that?”

“Sure. What size are you?”

“Medium. What are you?”

“Uh, child’s large.”

“What is that in normal?” Bobby turns to Johnny.

“I didn’t even know children had sizes,” Johnny says.

“I think it would fit,” I stand up. Bobby gets up next to me and, although his posture is way different—backward, really—he looks like a decent match.

“I have a blue-collared shirt that my mom makes me wear to church every week. I can have her bring it.”

“Today? The interview’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah. No problem. She’s two blocks away.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Sure!”

“All right,” Bobby says. We shake hands. “You’re really on the level. You’re a good person.” We look into each other’s eyes as we shake. His are still full of death and horror, but in them I see my face reflected, and inside my tiny eyes inside his, I think I see some hope.

“Good person,” Johnny echoes. Bobby sits down. I put my tray back in the cart and Humble comes up behind me.

“You didn’t sit with me, I’m very hurt,” he says. “I might have to jump you for your lunch money later.”

thirty

Nurse Monica brings me into the same office that I was interviewed in the day before, to ask me how I’m adjusting. I look at the white walls and the table where she showed me the pain chart and think that I’ve actually come kind of far since yesterday; I’ve eaten and slept; you can’t deny that. Eating and sleeping will do a body good. I needed the shot, though.

“How are we feeling today?” she asks.

“Fine. Well, I couldn’t sleep last night. I had to take a shot.”

“I saw on your chart. Why do you think you couldn’t sleep?”

“My friends called. They were kind of . . . making fun of my whole situation.”

“And why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they are not your friends.”

“Well, I told them . . . ‘Screw you,’ basically. The main one, Aaron. I told him ‘Screw you.’”

“Did that make you feel good?”