The Devil in Silver

All these methods came into play if staff merely suspected you weren’t doing as told. A hint of cognition aroused suspicion. The lack of slurred speech raised doubts. The staff were trying to stave off more than just hard work. A psychiatric patient without meds was like having a cyclone in your living room. That’s the fear, anyway. On the meds that same patient becomes a passing breeze. You can’t really blame the staff if they want to avoid storms. But what does the weather want?

When Pepper and Dorry and Loochie and Coffee got in line for their lunchtime meds, they all understood the pills weren’t their arena for insurrection. The point wasn’t to spit the pills into some staff member’s face. The four of them had to stop taking the antipsychotics and the antidepressants and the tranquilizers, all the various “stabilizers,” in order to mutiny. The rebellion required a little subterfuge first. So at lunch they got in line and plopped the pills into their mouths, tucked them under the tongue or by the gums and then discreetly spit them out later. No real challenge there. That wasn’t actually the hard part.

The trick was to seem medicated even as their bodies kicked. Because staff wouldn’t actually prod open their mouths and swish a finger over their gums. As long as the pills went in the staff assumed the pills went down. They were actually supposed to take every patient’s blood each week and test it to be sure the dosages weren’t too high or low, but this, like so many sensible hospital practices, went undone. Instead, the staff just tracked behavior. They noticed if the patient was being a little more aggressive recently. If the patient questioned staff commands more often. Even if he or she moved with new grace. These were all tip-offs. (And they didn’t generate lab costs.) So Pepper and Dorry and Loochie and Coffee had to enroll in acting class. To slouch like always; to let drool drip past their lips and onto their clothes at indiscreet times; to waver and wobble as they walked the halls; to never break character.

And the nominees for best actor in the role of reduced capacity are …

17

THREE DAYS OF practice and Pepper thought he’d mastered a thoroughly convincing slur. At this point he could make his lower lip dip down so far, make himself so damn unintelligible, that even Mushmouth from the Cosby Kids would be like, whatbee da fuckbee is dis guy talking abeebout?

He’d also learned to drag his left leg slightly when he walked. Step lively with the right but throw a little hitch into the left. The stride of the medically polluted.

This is why it took Pepper about fifteen minutes to get from his room to conference room 2 for Book Group. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure if he should attend the meeting. What was the point? He was ready to get to the next stage of their uncertain project: figuring out how to open the silver door.

But he had finished Jaws, read it even more quickly with his mind cleared, and actually wanted to discuss it. Though he wasn’t sure how he should handle slipping intelligent conversation between his fake droopy lip. He thought on this as he moved down Northwest 2 and into the oval room that held the nurses’ station. He pretended not to notice the three staff members all hunched in front of the computer, each one squinting at the screen in exasperated bafflement.

“What kind of program is this?”

“I booted it up three times. You can’t read what it says?”

“ ‘Equator. Equator. Equator.’ I see it, but that’s not the same as understanding it!”

Pepper passed them quietly, which was for the best. Those three were so angry at the computer and its almost willfully impenetrable program that they might’ve stuck him with a needle just to release their frustrations.

He reached Northwest 1 and looked at the ceiling, the tiled floors, the closed doors of the other conference rooms, the insipid nature paintings, looked at anything but the front door because he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t break character and go running for it again. The dream of freedom is a hard one to forget. But he managed to ignore it until he’d reached conference room 2.

To find that he was the first patient in attendance. Dr. Barger was clicking on the keypad of his Smartphone. His copy of the Benchley book facedown on the table. Next to that, a notepad and one pen.

“Pepper,” he said evenly, without seeming to even look up.

Pepper sat quietly. He felt like a student who’s made the mortal error of being the first kid to walk in the classroom, and he squirmed awkwardly.

In just another second, Dr. Barger set his phone down and said, “You look well.”

“I do?”

Pepper felt worried. Maybe his speech had been a little too clear when he responded just now? His face flushed. He did an internal check on his features: mouth slack? Check. Shoulders slumped? Check. Eyes vacant? Check. But then Pepper realized that to Dr. Barger all this counted as well, and Pepper felt the pride of accomplishment.