The Devil in Silver

Dr. Anand was no stranger to the buffet table, a man of Indian descent who sounded a little like a working-class guy from an Irish neighborhood. He dropped those r’s when he wasn’t being careful. He sounded like he was talking through his nose, not nasal but surprisingly high-pitched.

The big man wasn’t concerned with ethnography just then. He hadn’t said anything since crossing the threshold of the big doorway. That’s because he wasn’t actually there. Only his body filled his chair. The rest of him lagged a little behind. It was still back in the lobby.

The big man knew he should be listening to this doctor. If anyone could explain how soon he’d be released, it must be the barrel-chested Indian dude squatting on the dinky chair right in front of him. But he just couldn’t do it. His ears felt stuffed up and his mind fuzzy. He wanted to turn and look over his shoulder, try to find that lagging part of him that would make sense of this moment. He didn’t actually move, for fear the cops might pummel him.

“So why do you think you’re here?” Dr. Anand asked.

The whole room waited for his answer.

Except for the orderly, who pulled out his cell phone again, muted the device, and tilted his head down toward the screen. He wore the glazed-eyed grin of a man watching something that showed skin.

In some strange way it was deeply reassuring for the big man to see this familiar incompetence. He asked, “If this is a hospital, how come you’re not checking my blood pressure or something?”

Three of the staff members at the table recorded this question in their notes. The patient’s responses during the intake meeting were vitally important. Not only what he said, but how he said it. Did he seem agitated? Morose? Distant? Combative?

(Combative.)

Dr. Anand nodded slowly. “This is a psychiatric unit. We’ll take your vitals and all the rest, but first we want to get to know you.”

Psychiatric unit.

Two words the big man could honestly say he’d never imagined hearing in a sentence pertaining to him. Open container in public, public urination, twice he’d been in fights where the police had been called. He’d never had trouble that caused him more than an overnight stay in a lockup. Most of the time they were just ticketable troubles. One time he hopped a turnstile—in a rush to get to Madison Square Garden for Mötley Crüe’s Girls, Girls, Girls tour; the one where Tommy Lee did his drum solo in a rotating metal cage suspended over the crowd—the cops scolded him, gave him a ticket, but he still made the show. (And it was great.) That’s the kind of trouble the big man had been in. But this?

Dr. Anand leaned forward. “Is this your first time?”

Huey answered for him. “As far as our records indicate.”

Staff members noted this in their paperwork as well. All those pens writing on the tabletop at the same time sounded like a skateboard’s wheels on pavement.

“I want my lawyer,” the big man said. Wasn’t that what he should tell them?

Huey squeezed the big man’s shoulder. The silver diver’s watch appeared in his eye line. The big man blinked rapidly, as if the cop was about to conk him. Instead the cop explained, “It don’t work that way. You haven’t been charged with a crime yet so an attorney isn’t your right.”

The big man pulled at the handcuff attached to his right wrist. The metal thunked against the armrest. Even the orderly looked up now. Inside New Hyde this orderly counted as the muscle, the one to hold a thrashing patient down, separate two patients fighting over a kid-sized carton of milk. (Nurses did the same, but that was not what they’d been hired to do.) Now the orderly sized up the big man, tried to figure if he could handle the new admit once the cops, and their handcuffs, were gone. The big guy wore cheap khaki slacks and a button-down light blue long-sleeved shirt. Both in sizes you only find in Big & Tall stores. The new guy had size to him, no doubt, but it was the kind of bulk you find on bouncers at shitty bars; the kind of guys who wear overcoats to hide the fact that their bellies are bigger than their chests. A big man but not a hard man. He’d probably do more damage falling on you than punching you. The orderly came in a smaller package, but was made of denser material. He’d been a wrestler in high school and stayed in good shape. He felt sure he could maintain control later on. Threat assessed, he looked back down to his screen.

The big man pleaded, “If I’m not charged with anything, then you can let me go.”

Dr. Anand shook his head faintly. “Unfortunately, no. You’re categorized as a ‘temporary admit.’ Which means the police leave you in our custody for seventy-two hours.”

“Three days? I’m not staying here three more minutes!” He bucked in his chair. Dewey and Louie had their hands firm on his shoulders in an instant, keeping him seated.