Senile Werewolves

When I was in LPN school, we did a rotation through the state mental hospital in Jackson, Louisiana. (Think One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.) We just called it “Jackson,” and it was a scary place. There was a lock-down forensic section with steel-barred cells painted in pastel pink and blue, which was supposed to calm people already zonked out on enough Thorazine to stone a team of Clydesdales. I never went anywhere behind the locked ward door that I didn’t have several of the student nurses sticking close to me. By that point, there were only two men left in the class, and the other guy was pint-sized.

One of the patients with whom I interacted was a fellow who had been shipped -- with an escort -- to Louisiana on a bus from New York City. He had threatened to kill the woman psychiatrist treating him in the Big Apple, and she wanted him somewhere far away. Let's call him “Roy.”

Soon as Roy stepped off the Trailways Swampland Express, he was scooped up and sent to Jackson.

In those days, getting involuntarily-committed was routine and easy, and he was an example of why.

Roy spent much of his time cutting out pictures of people from old magazines (using Kindergarten-style dull and rounded scissors) and pasting them into a scrapbook.

Something I noticed when looking at his book? 

He'd cut the heads off all the images.

There was a furlough-system for long-time patients who seemed to be improving that allowed them to leave the hospital and spend two days in a halfway house. The patients had an interview with the resident psychiatrist and if that went well, got a pass.

So Roy had the interview, and several of the nursing students, including me, got to sit in and listen to it.

Understand that patients really wanted the time outside, and they talked to each other, sharing the details, coaching each other, regarding what needed to be said to get the pass.

Roy came in, and he was more affable than Butch Cassidy: He smiled, he was polite, he said, “Yes sir,” and “No, sir.” His answers were careful and measured:

“So, Roy, how are you feeling?”

“Oh, I feel much better, sir.”

“Not angry?”

“Oh, no, sir. I realize that my temper got the best of me, and I’ve been working in the sessions and I have it under control.”

“That’s good, Roy.”

This went on in such a vein for ten minutes. Butter would not have melted in Roy’s mouth he was so calm and cool.

The interview wound down. Roy asked, “So, do you think I could have a pass, sir?”

And the shrink said, “Well, I don’t believe you are quite ready this time.”

The moon blinked full-on. Aaaoooh!

Roy shot to his feet, screamed “Go to hell, you fucking bastard!” and stomped out of the room.

One of the other students who hadn’t dealt with Roy asked the psychiatrist, “What, uh, is wrong with him?”

“Oh, he’s crazy,” the shrink said.

Always remembered that. Now, there is a diagnosis …

Now, the segue: Every time I read a verbatim text of a conversation with Orange Tiny Appendages? I am reminded of Roy. 

Somebody should be given a pair of plastic scissors and a stack of old magazines and put into a room with a double-deadbolt-door.