Mr. Handlebars. Mark Powers
1446 Words
MR. HANDLEBARS
by Mark Powers
The ward door buzzed.
“Oh! It’s Handlebars. Hi, John,” said the Oriental nurse, Joanne, standing by the nursing station, smiling.
Her eyes met obese nurse Dorothy’s, seated by the ward window, while, with raised eyebrows, she withheld a grin.
He looked in at Dorothy.
“Is there anyone special I’m supposed to talk to?”
“No, John,” she said, sighing. “Just begin your inspection of the rooms.”
“Okay.”
He looked at Joanne, as she was about to go down the hall, noting lips. He looked at Dorothy.
“What’s the problem, Mrs. Conners?” he asked.
“Come on in, John. And close the door.”
John complied.
“Have a seat please ...”
He sat by the door.
“John ...” she said, picking up papers on top of neatly stacked folders on the desk. “Several patients have written letters ...” She slid on glasses hanging on her chest. “They report that you, you only—no other staff—mistreated them here.” She watched him over her glasses.
“Here a man says that while lying on the floor in the day room, next to the sofa, asleep—you kicked him!” She frowned. “John, I don’t know what to make of this.” She sighed. Read on.
John entered a place, blanking her out: “La-la-la-la-la-la-la ... you fat farty cow ... you enormous pig! La-la-la-la ...”
* * *
“... that fat ass saying that stuff!” John said, dipping mop into dirty water; sliding it into flat wringer hooked to bucket’s side. He squeezed—forcefully. Here’s your head, b***h! I’ll show her. Goddammit!
Mop plopped on a dry part ... have to be more careful ... pick on those who won’t squeal, he thought ... Ones that are passive, vulnerable.
After all, I’m Mister Macho ... stroked his handlebar mustache. Smiled. He plopped the mop.
He began whistling.
* * *
He was playing a ferocious game of Ping-Pong in the day room—losing—to a schizophrenic, when he saw:
“Is that the guy that arrived this weekend?” John asked Phil, a big muscular black man.
“Yeah. Sure is,” Phil said, slurred, as if with mouth stuffed.
Maybe it is stuffed, John thought. Never know about these fuckin’ wackos ...
“Damn!” John said, as Phil slipped one out of range in his opposite corner.
Phil grinned missing front teeth. “Maybe dis just isn’t your game, D’zohn.”
John looked over. New guy was young—about twenty. Led by a nurse, he walked slowly to the sofa in front of the TV.
Wait until he screws up, John thought. Practice remedial reality on a loony ... He stroked his mustache, delivered a quick one to Phil’s left corner. “Got you, Phil,” he said, grinning.
“Damn! You playin’ like you mad.”
The ball sprung, rolled to the sofa.
“I’ll get it,” John said. He watched the new one.
He said: “Hello. I’m John ... Did you just arrive?”
“Yes.” He slowly faced John, but with no eye contact.
John looked steadily. I can’t watch him intensely; appear friendly. He smiled.
“What’s in your lap, a Bible?”
“Yes.”
Eyes twinkling. Mind working. He said:
“It’s okay to just watch TV ... By the way, what’s your name?”
“Ron,” he said, hollow.
“Well, Ron, go ahead and watch. I’ll see you later ... Ron?”
Ron looked. “Yes.”
He leaned, close to ear; said in hushed voice: “I know Him too, Ron. I’ve known Him for two years.” He backed away. Ron looked surprised; John knew.
Hesitating, said: “Three for me.”
John smiled; stroked his mustache.
* * *
John saw him two weeks later at dinner. John had been on vacation. Entered the day room to catch football scores on the news. Ron was sitting at the far end of a long recreation table. It paralleled the Ping-Pong table’s length. John almost laughed. Ron sat opposite a young, blond girl who eyed him with disgust.
A problem—with medicine!
Tapioca pudding drooled down Ron’s chin into his plate. “Oh, God!” the girl said, rising, taking her tray.
John returned to the TV, as she passed him and sat in front. He watched the scores—grinning, stroking his mustache. He saw Ron try chicken.
What the hell, he thought, lips lining faint grin. He frowned, removing the smile, and walked behind him.
“It’s okay, Ron,” he said. Mouth to ear, he whispered: “God understands. He won’t judge you, even though that b***h did ...”
Eyes wet, pudding on chin.
What the hell. He selected napkins; wiped the pudding. Standing, he delicately removed knife and fork and began slicing the chicken smaller. Oh, well. Pursed lips; slight wince.
“All the time you want, Ron ...” he repeated. Dr. Kaswell and his amazing pharmaceutical house-of-horrors, he thought. How does it feel being a vegetable? He nodded approval as Ron, with difficulty, swallowed. “That’s good, Ron. Every time means we have less left, less to go back to ...”
The remaining table members ate quietly, not looking. Lenny, a ten year old, finished and played Ping-Pong with Kelly, one of the teenage girls, as John and Ron watched.
Everyone else long finished as Ron ate.
* * *
They were playing checkers later that week.
“Do you mind that I always win, Ron?” asked John, removing Ron’s remaining pieces.
“No, I don’t mind. I think ...”
“What did your doctor say about being in touch with reality?” Eyed Ron. “Are you ready for another game?”
“No. Go ahead.”
John set his. Ron did likewise; slower.
“You want to be black?” John asked.
“Okay.”
“So, what did he say?”
“He ... said ... he’d give me medicine ... to get me in touch with reality,” Ron said.
You need a good swift kick.
“So you think it’s working ... getting you in touch?”
“I think so ... I mean, it is, but ...” Drew breath. Sighed. “It’s rough ... but, like ... I used to get an erection when I played Ping-Pong with Kelly ... I ... wasn’t used to—girls... But now, with reality, doesn’t happen ... I’m even afraid ...”
“Of what?”
“... I might not like ... girls ...” Ron grimaced. He rose. “It’s personal. I should only be telling my psychiatrist.”
John touched his arm; held a hand there. “I think you like girls, Ron,” he said.
“You do?”
“Yeah, sure.” Cocky grin. “Yeah, man. I’ve seen you look at girls.” He smiled.
Ron avoided his eyes.
“Have a seat, Ron.”
* * *
“You know, liking girls is okay, Ron ... according to the Bible. Song of Songs, man.” He patted Ron’s arm; held his hand there. Sensing discomfort, removed it.
“You think ... God would try to ... take back s****l feelings?” Ron asked. John stared; mind running.
“No, Ron, I don’t believe so ... You see, the fact is, Ron, it’s okay to like girls ... but (head shaking) I don’t know about lusting, Ron.”
I said that?
Surprise!
Ron insisted his desires were normal!
John nearly smiled; held it. “Ron, come on. You said yourself that when you played Kelly you got an erection! Isn’t that extreme? What would the Bible say?”
Extreme pain; mouth opened, closed, opened: “I’m going to watch TV.” He rose.
“Okay, Ron,” John said. “But think about it, will you?”
* * *
A few days later, John was glad to hear that Ron was having a rough time, but was angry—bewildered—Ron wouldn’t talk with him. He’d seen him quietly, obvious agitation, walking hallways, playing checkers with patients and staff: On an evening his parents visited, he wanted sedation to quickly sleep to escape anxiety.
“What’s bothering him?” he asked nurse Sarah. They were in the snack area.
“Well ...” She surveyed the activities room. “I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, hushed, “but Nurse Genaro said he simply had to speak with her last night. He didn’t trust other regular staff. Seems he has some obsession about becoming a ... homosexual. Uh ...” A nervous smile creased her lips.“... for some religious reason God is trying to take away his feelings for women. Crazy, huh?” She laughed.
“Completely,” John said, smiling. “What does she think started this?”
“Who knows?” she said. “He couldn’t wait for his doctor this morning. He rushed into his office. But he came out a little calmer. He didn’t look so tense ...”
While John was mopping the floor, Ron passed. He let him circulate more.
Catching eyes rounding the corner, he said: “Hey, Ron, I heard you’ve had a rough time. I feel pretty bad about it ...” Ron, tremors evident; walked the hallway. “Want to talk, Ron?”
“s**t!” he muttered. I can’t let him reveal our discussion! He’s got to understand!
Ron came by again.
“Ron ...” Silence. “You can’t keep avoiding me ...” he said. “We’ve got to come to an understanding ...”
Halfway down the hall, Ron slowed, returned; stood a few feet away.
“It’s rough now, Ron,” he said, pleading. s**t, I really am pleading. Ron looked, bleary-eyed. “You’ve got to understand that everything I shared about God and ... lust (s**t!) was ... to help you. You know, one brother to another ...”
“What does God want?” Ron asked. “He’s too unknowable ... I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, Ron. I’m no minister, or psychiatrist ...”
“You’re a source,” Ron said; eyes black, shiny mushrooms. “You spoke God’s thoughts—a Christian! I know. Who am I?”
“That’s right, Christian brother. But this place is secular.” He thought quickly. “... they don’t tolerate Christians in the secular world, you know.” He peered in a strange, detached way.
Approval: please! I’d like to wring his f*****g neck!
“I don’t know,” Ron said dreamily. “Something’s pushing me—can’t say. Damn!” Face contorted. “Things ... blurred from this medicine. Bright lights in this place! Got to go. Keep walking ...”
John grabbed a shoulder.
“Please, Ron. Secret’s ours. Okay? Brother to brother.”
Ron jerked; walked.
Down the hall, before entering the activities room, he smiled strangely back; said: “My psychiatrist represents God ... I think—hope. I can’t deny him ... my ... best ... efforts. I can’t deny God. I can’t deny him ... anything ...”
John touched his forehead and knew he’d been sweating.
* * *
Some days later, nurse Dorothy instructed him to wait for Ron Thatcher’s psychiatrist to speak with him later that morning.
John stroked his mustache.
* * *
Nobody can claim religiously inspired mental illness as solely indigenous to these United States, but Mark Powers’s Mr. Handlebars, well, with or without a banjo and a gun, John exploits religio-nutty in a truly Calvinist-c*m-Cracker fashion: the guy is one of ours. One hundred percent pure Amerikrazy!
- Writer
