Romans 12:19

When we first set up this arrangement, it was great. Operations were smooth as two eels swimming in a barrel of oil, and in this cushy system, Rusky and I were the slipperies. The psychiatric emergency department was the easy employment that kept us keeping on as we worked that sleepiest third of the day-the midnight to eight shift. And the particular special arrangement was how we parceled the dullness of this graveyard duty. Bore it equally, albeit singly. I was the early half, Rusky Peters, the late.

We also shared a suspicion that the boss was aware of the deal, but let the split ride because it worked so well. Or because we managed every situation, and he never had to be called in. Or maybe he figured it from our point of view: that one physician's assistant, rested and alert for any eventuality-be it lethargy or roving supervisors-was ever more efficient than two bored men jolting themselves awake as they learned of each other's uglier habits. Because time-wise, the twelve-to-eight is less arduous than awkward. And since we're there for emergencies, the workload is normally light. Further, when we split the shift, I know I worked harder than ten men. Rusky probably did his best, as well. And for back-up failsafe, if ever the necessity showed up, he and I had wherever phone numbers to recall each other in. Although as yet, we never needed to resort to such an extreme.

So matters were running chilly and smooth as a soft breeze over ice. Then Rusky, like a too-happy bird, began shitting in this comfortable nest. All because he's weak to the self-flattery that he is a player, and he met up with this woman who puffed some hot air into that ego balloon.

About a month or so ago, he rushed in ten after four, saying, "Jack! Jack, morning, man. Gotta tell you 'bout this one."

He put his coffee on his desktop, took a mirror out of a drawer, and stared into it lovingly. He shook his head as if trying to negate the admiration. Then he said, "Jack, you wouldn't believe this if it wasn't me telling you."

Not long after I met Rusky, I realized he was devoted to loving himself. Many a dull hour had been made amusing by his ready expositions on the affaire. But this morning I was tired. "Tell me tomorrow," I said.

"You gotta hear this," he persisted, "Listen up just one single minute. I'll make it brief. Okay, I'm coming to work, okay? I change to the express at Forty-second, okay? Maybe three, four people in the car, and then there's this fine, fine, fine fox. Pretty, pretty, pretty. She's wearing a sort of, y'know, a western outfit. A white cowboy hat with a silver band around it. Something feathery on the brim. And a white bodice thing. Blue and silver earrings. A Chinese tattoo high on her bare arm. Pants white, too, with silver sequins on the belt and the side of her legs and down her boots. The boots, cowboy too, black. But back up to her chest, man. Doozies. I mean, standing out doozies, proud nippled, too. Would at least a C cup. Well, y'know I know. So I sit down near the door, opposite her, okay? And..."

"Rusky," I interrupted, "you gotta tell me this one tomorrow. I'm dead right now." I handed over to him and escaped home by four-twenty that morning.

It took about a week more-while he went from ten minutes late to fifty-for me to realize that Rusky's condition was serious. That he had succumbed to being a late-night jockey to this rodeo queen of west Harlem.

Now I knew that Rusky had a wife at home. Always with a leer, his pet name for this Trinidadian woman was "Sweet Black Pepper." One reason he gave for choosing the late part of our split shift was that he could stay home and longer accommodate his palate for hot dishes. But when the cowgirl rode on the scene, the story he gave his wife was that we got busted. For a while, at least, we had to stop splitting the shift. So every night the tasty Missus saw him leave home for "work" promptly at eleven-thirty.

Caribbean man in New York City, I am busy balancing Third and First World cultures. Fully occupied and maintaining life on the tightest schedule. There's a Master's in Public Health at Columbia U. during the day. Then there's this night job that provides my purchasing power, bed and board. And of course, I have to style my normal Twenty-Something social life. Bottom line, sleep for moi, was precious. Of it I was always in dire need. So, when Rusky, Mr. Night Range Rover, bounced in at four-thirty or five loaded down with tired smiles and lame apologies, he vexed me to the bone. Rusky Peters was threatening my precise program, and disarranging the basic quality of my life.

Come four-thirty this one morning, matters were same old same-old. The general of Love was late again, and grown so tired of his dalliance, I nurtured a yen to arrange for him a Waterloo. The plan was to call his home at four-forty or so, and ask Ms. S. B. Pepper if Rusky was coming in soon, as I had an emergency at home.

Later on, when he was lamenting his blasted marital peace, and asking me for explanation of my rash act, I'd apologize that, in the excitement of my crisis, I had dialed his home number by instinct. A true mistake, and regretted, of course.

Whether he believed or not, I figured that from then on, he'd want to come to work on time. If only to escape from the Missus Pepper's heat. So my intention on that night was to give him until four forty-five.

Then at four thirty-three, the EMS brought in a patient.

They'd restrained the fellow. The paramedic at his head wore an angry scowl and was rough with the stretcher as he pushed it in. His partner, at the guy's feet, wore a huge grin. Curious, I raised an inquiring eyebrow at Partner. He signaled me for patience, and the three of us transferred the patient to a bed in the Psych. room, buckled him down on it. Then, while the offended one immediately strode away, the amused paramedic paused to give me the story.

The patient had been rushing up to passers-by in the street and shouting "Romans 12:19!" in their faces. Someone had complained to the police. As it wasn't exactly a crime, they called for an ambulance to bring him in to us. For nearly an hour the EMS guys had coaxed and maneuvered to get him inside the ambulance. Then as soon as they did, he had peed all over the floor and on the pants leg of the offended fellow.

Left alone pondering the paramedic's satisfied grin as he departed, I looked at my restrained crazy and mused ironic about all those off-base others going loose out there. My patient was older and thin, and being quiet on the bed, so I decided to do his paperwork first. That way I could refocus on spiting Rusky's tardiness. I set the alarm for an extra five minutes. My disinformation plan was still green-lit.

He beat four forty-five by twenty-eight seconds. Breezed in with a chatty "What's happening, Jack?" in a tone irritating as the first rabid car alarm on a sleepy-Sunday morning.

Still, I was relieved by his presence. With a sigh, I swallowed my vexation, discretely aborted the countdown. I pushed off from my desk and pointedly went to my locker.

He eyed the patient on the bed. "What's with him?" he asked.

"Observation," I said. "They just brought him in. He was bothering people, preaching at them in the street."

"So what's new 'bout that?"

I didn't answer.

"You talk to him yet?"

Tone sarcastic, I said, "Thought you might want to do some work before you go back home."

Rusky grimaced, rolled exaggerated eyes at the ceiling and retreated to the desk. "You want me to finish writing him up then?" he said.

I glowered hot spikes through the back of his neck.

He turned around. "You smell piss?"

"The patient pissed himself in the ambulance," I answered coldly, continued getting my carry-bag together.

"Pissed up the ambulance, eh? Well, I back him up on that. I say piss on the ambulance, too. Sticking me with this stinking job." Then at nearly five o'clock in the morning, he found this stale humor funny, and burst out a cackle like a hen just shit an egg.

My resentment nearly broke on him then. So casual and callous he was. Here souring my end of our arrangement with his selfishness. But I didn't have the energy. Truth was that lack of sleep had battled me down to about half a man, and only anticipation of my warm bed kept that half-man moving. Far too tired, he was, to indulge in routine anger. So I put off challenging the charming Rusky for another day.

Five minutes later I was telling him my usual, "Say I'm at lunch and call me if there's a problem."

Then, out of nowhere, a gruff voice chimed in, "Don't miss this lesson of Life, sleepyhead. The more that knows, the better."

Rusky's and my eyes ganged up on the patient. Suddenly I was most curious about this guy. For there is a crucial understanding that work in the Psych. Emergency teaches. Crazy people may seem funny, but they never try to be. And this guy had just called me 'Sleepyhead'-a pretty smart crack, considering his situation. So all at once, this guy wasn't so much crazy as he was a suspicious character.

Rusky, fresher from good sleeping or whatever, responded first. "Know what? What's to know?"

The guy never looked at him. He kept his head towards me, while his eyes looked off to a point close left of my face. He addressed this space beyond my ear, "The very truth, my young brothers. Romans 12 and 19."

Rusky sounded a professional "Hmmm." Then, as if wanting one small point cleared up, he continued, "What's true about it?"

The guy remained transfixed by the inquisitor behind my ear. His eyes were steady as if painted onto his face. He said, "This human being," and nodded with the grand authority of special privilege.

Rusky's glance sidled over to me as he persisted, "What about him?"

Then it seemed to me that Rusky, too, had glanced apprehensive behind my left ear before he looked back at the guy. That fleet peek got to me. Immediately I wanted to know what he had seen behind me to make him avoid my eye. But the guy was asking of his out-of-sight vision, "Is this human tired trying? Isn't this human tired?"

"Why don't you tell me? I'd like to know," said Rusky.

All at once the guy focused on my face, then on Rusky's, then back and forth he switched two or three times before settling on Rusky. Maybe his face was less tired-looking. I seized the moment to make a quick search behind me.

Nothing there but room.

Reassured, I looked the fellow over professionally, classifying him. That eye-play of his declared against psychological normalcy. Such avoidance behavior was typical of some disturbed people. Just as I decided this, though, I happened to meet his eyes. They were light brown and soft, and sensible. Slow-moving as if weighted with a heavy sufferance, the appeal in them was so sincere that he didn't seem crazy at all.

As I surrendered to that call in his eye, all madness slipped away, and left his face earnest, intriguing, persuasive. And my urgent nagging pull to go home and rest departed sullen, rebuffed by the fellow's appeal for sympathy.

He said-more argued sensibly as in a debate. "This here human being, he shouldn't be manacled. He's already imprisoned in the blackest chamber, and without his heart. He can hurt no one. No need to tie him up tame like a beast."

His diction was spoken in a voice calm and reasonable, a little chiding, maybe. With a sense that he'd next recite his patient civil rights, I looked at Rusky for support, met shoulders shrugging okay-with-me. I was all for it. The guy was frail, didn't look dangerous. In any case, it was two to one, us against him. Before I could nod my agreement, Rusky reached over, removed the restraints. The guy sat up on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, he studied the wall before him, and the desk, and the lamp above it, and then the ceiling. With his attention caught on something up there, he resumed his flat reasoning tone, "This human lost out to the beasts. Lost his heart to them. Lost when it rode away with them. It was only nine. But on that cold, cold morning it was long gone."

He spoke this tomb-toned, his gaze hung up on the ceiling, and suddenly his eyes filled and trembled on the brink of spilling. The wet in them sparkled reflections of the ceiling bulbs, shining a bleak, electric vitality. This vigor, so incongruous against his gaunt dark face, suggested of jewels a-gleam deep down an open grave. And at this notion, a sinister idea sprang into my mind, roused a chill of goose bumps up my arms. Suppose we had here only a very sad man, one raging sane under a guise of madness!

He had continued speaking, pausing a lot, but persistent, as if dragging some personal significance out of his story. "...as usual. Big, square, yellow. Typical. It rode this human's heart away, though. Bused him out to get him off the street. Out of the jungle with the monsters and their dogs. Those strong, hard monsters out there. Oh yeah! Tried to send him away from their rampage. 'Send him off to school,' the mother said. 'We gotta join the struggle.' So this human soldier put his heart in the yellow bus. There was nothing useful he could learn around here.

"But the slaves of the Beast are everywhere. There is no escape. No. Them old monsters always win. Safe in the yellow bus, a driver-monster took my heart down near the sea, and ravaged him, and when he was done, tossed him in the brine and left him there. Left him cold and raw, and drove away, because the monsters triumph every time. Yes, they do.

"That driver-monster won each day they searched the streets for my heart. That monster won with each scream that bled the mother's eyes. Gleeful it had won, that monster grinned big, yellow, crocodile teeth each time it joined the searching. Then the ocean would stomach the nastiness no more, and threw this human's heart up from its belly. Laid it dirty on the beach like vomit.

"Laid it rotten there, carrion for flies and seabirds and crabs. Puked it clear, so everyone could see the screaming still on his face. Such terror no sea could ever wash away. Laid it bare, so all could see the ripped up flesh at his asshole. Plain there, where the monster had fucked this human's little heart.

"The police came. Hmmph! 'Identify,' they said. Recall a face forever gone. Except for the snarl from his fear. Except the torn flesh at his ass. That was all this human could identify."

The guy stopped talking. His brimming eyes screamed for a blink to shed their painful load. He stared at the ceiling, frozen and aloof as quiet swelled in the room like tension into a balloon. I glanced at Rusky for some echo of my discomfort. He didn't notice. Stock still, mouth hung open as if for better intake, he was gasping for more.

The patient provided, "They caught that driver-monster. Yes, they did. On the lookout, they caught it dead at the business. A little girl this time. It touched on her, she told her daddy, and they tracked the monster to its den. Found all those babies' clothes there. Some belonged to this human's heart. The monster had kept them for souvenirs.

"After that was the pictures. All those pictures. Big monster pictures. Black and white, and color. Everywhere. High school graduating class pictures. Saluting the flag army pictures. Ex-fiance pictures. Everywhere was monster pictures. In some it was smiling.

"The lawyers explained that it was insane. City lawyers working for the Law. Had a history of nervous breakdowns and anxiety, those city lawyers argued. The tenth-grade teacher, grey-haired honest, remembered it had always been a problem. Totally mental, the city lawyers summed up. It needed treatment. So they put it in a hospital to get well, and they brayed about it in the picture papers. The monster lawyers said that was best for society.

"This human lost bearings then. Sleep scoffed at him and ran away. Trumped by the trials, this human caught a need to go. Be ever-moving. Went into the raging monster streets. Sought to understand those raging ways. Grinned and growled in their manner, while the woman at home wept and complained. This human was too far gone, she said. This human was a ghostman, never talking, ever walking. Help her try to live, she begged. Better if he disappeared in truth, the goodly woman fretted. So this human did.

"The Salvation Army took the human in. There he found the word of the Good Book. There he learned to deal with watching outward. He lived like a spider in a corner, saw how Uncle Time is a patient teacher. Remembered how Almighty Lord, too, He lost a son."

The guy stopped again. Expressionless in the accumulating silence, he stared fixedly, between Rusky and me. I wanted him to go on, but didn't have the courage to interrupt his pause. As he talked, his eyes had dried out. Now their inner rims were raw and smarting, suggesting blood. Involuntary sympathy, I squeezed my eyes tight shut. But he never even noticed, far less followed suit.

Again, Rusky was stronger than I. Cleared his throat and prodded, "Mm-hmm, so what's that gotta do with the Romans? Huh?"

The guy didn't take him on at all. Just remained sculpted in his silence.

I found it difficult to guess his age, except that he was older than maybe thirty-five. His curly hair was foul, matted with knots, but plentiful, and vigorously black. He was thin, the skin so taut-smooth over his face bones, no age lines or wrinkles showed. Yet, there was an over-used look to him. Like wrapping paper that's been crumpled and smoothed out many times. With him, years seemed an inappropriate measure of age. His life itself was worn.

He startled me out of my thoughts by resuming abruptly. "But this human couldn't fasten to the Word. Like a wayward goat, he strayed. That burning eye in his mind betrayed him. Led him from verse and chapter of the Holy Book. Pulled him from the strict fine print to the fat captions in the dailies.

"The monster's face was back. Released and born anew, bold in black on white. More hair and fatter, smiling. The prodigal was home again. The doctors, city doctors, had tested him. A visit to a clinic once a month, but he was fine. The monster could come home again.

"Drawn and driven, don't know why, this human became watch-man at the cure clinic. Then one day the monster visited. And that counted the one last chance this human got. For he might have tamed his wilding eyes then. But the vision of his heart came into his mind, ripped and floating in cold brine. So this human's salvation lost out to the sting in the wounds.

"And it was that same Wildness that braved the train, and trembled as it dared to sit beside the monster. Right next to it. Heard it whistling. Looked into the sunny face it wore. It was going home, and happy. Bold and frightened, the Wildness trailed it all the way to its den, and the monster never noticed the shadowing.

"Then the Shadow found method for its purpose. Went to the Salvation Army shelter and washed. Though it did not cleanse its human soul. Dressed in their donated suit, and their donated shoes, and still reaching for the Way, took the Holy Book in hand before returning to the monster's den. Rapped on the door.

"From inside, the monster's voice said, 'Who?'

"The Shadow gripped the Good Book tight, said, 'Salvation calls.' It clutched the Book even tighter.

"The peephole rattled. An eye glittered through and was gone. Locks clacked quick and the den's door opened. The monster, from the dim and narrow hallway, said, 'Hi, Reverend, you're new. But come on in.' Its smile was same as in the tabloids.

"The Shadow thrilled with terror as it passed the monster close. Clothes against clothes as it went on in. Chilled same way again when the monster led to a chair, and lightly touched the Shadow's shoulder, and yet never felt the scorching flame within it. With a tremble, the Shadow realized that the monster did not recognize its past. It was so at home, at peace.

"In the middle of the room there was a camera mounted on a tripod, klieg lights all angled at a couch near the wall. What was the monster up to? Giggling like a shy person, it explained, 'Self-portraits, he-he-he. Yessir, that's what I'm at, sir. He-he-he. It's my therapy, a sorta self-esteem thing. Y'know. I really enjoy it now. Don't want to brag or nothing, but I'm pretty good, too. The staff at the clinic like my pictures. Without me asking they say so. They think I learned it good. They were really supportive when I told how I converted half the kitchen into a darkroom. They're great people. Everything's great since I put my life in the hands of the Lord, Amen...'

"On and on it went, that monster. While somewhere in the Shadow's mind an idea was trying to form. But the monster was such a babbler. Going on about the staff, and the doctors, and the therapists, and how well things were going, and the new camera, and the cost of printing paper, and more and more, and too much more, and all of the prattle only frightening the baby idea that was trying to birth in the Shadow's mind. All the constant blather squishing the baby idea up against the sharp corners and clever twists inside the Shadow's head.

"The monster never stopped chatting, '...yes, Rev, I'm okay now. Saved by the Blood and proud t'say it. Yessir, I might've sinned and fallen on bad times. I know that. But I've done my time, and I've found my Lord. Oh yea! I'm cleansed, washed pure by the Blood of the Lamb...'

"Deep in the Shadow's mind the idea was starting to breathe a little easier. Was growing close to tell its secret, its purpose and plan. But it was muffled back into hiding when the born-again monster intruded by blurting out, '...y'gotta stay for dinner, Reverend. You just gotta. We could pray afterwards, but first y'gotta share my pot. I don't get much company. Can't afford to let one go after I catch him. Ha-ha-ha. I'm just not gonna let you go this evening. What y'say to that, huh, Rev? Wanna put this on the couch over there?'

"No way around it. For answer, the Shadow began helping the monster clear photography stuff off the table.

"The monster was a ceaseless talker: 'These fried fish is something else. They's porgies, y'know, inexpensive, but deep-fried. Good fish cooked good. Y'know what I mean. Ha-ha-he-he. They all swim in the same sea, huh? Ha-ha-ha. Really great you're staying, Rev. Really great. Y'going to like these crispy porgies. When I was inside, used to dream about Fridays, 'cause Fridays was fish-day, and mos' times it was porgies deep-fried.'

"While the monster was talking, it had set down on the table two yellow place mats, then two broad plastic plates on the mats, then two glasses of water. Next, it placed a green vase with little white roadside daisies in the centre of the table.

"The Shadow just stood out of the way, watching and listening. The monster went back and forth, its voice rising and falling in a wavy rhythm, loud near the table, soft from the kitchen. The Shadow still gripped the Good Book in hand, and concentrated on trapping the baby idea. But the monster said, 'Rev, come help bring in the food.' So the Shadow gave up and trailed the monster into the kitchen.

"The kitchen was a very clean place. Didn't seem the monster had just been cooking there. No dirty spoons, or gravy drip spots. No bits of food about the counters or anything like that. The place was gleaming. Three iron pots were on the stove burners. The monster took two of the pots and said, 'Rev, you bring this big one with the porgies.' It led off for the table, promising, 'Y'going to like this fish, Rev. Just don't you be bashful now.'

"The Shadow followed carrying the fry pot.

"The monster asked, 'And guess what we got for dessert, huh? Guess.'

"From behind, while the monster shut up for that little bit, the Shadow swung the heavy pot of crispy-fried porgies.

"It was a good hit. Made a solid THUNK when pot and skull connected, before the monster sagged down to the floor. Some hot oil spilled on its neck, slowly scalding a new color there. Other than the clatter of the smaller pots, as the monster crumpled, the place became quiet. And although the monster did wheeze some, it was a gentle sound. The den seemed roomier with the chatter gone. Slowly, the Shadow felt becoming human and hungry. So he picked up a deep-fried porgy and crunched into it. It was okay.

"The monster was groaning and feeble, trying to get up but unable to hold balance. The head swayed lead heavy. With each scramble forward on its elbows, the monster slipped in the gravy and greens from the two smaller pots. It strained and grunted, making mild noises. Not a bother.

"The monster squiggled red eyes up to the Shadow, hands covering its monster face. Blood had run down one side of its neck, clotting like Jell-O. The monster tried talking again. But just a mishmash of grunts and groans came out.

"The human returned to the living room and sat on the couch. He felt the heat and glare from the spotlights, and closed his eyes to wonder if the monster had recognized his past as yet.

"When he opened his eyes the camera was looking straight at him. And at last the idea birthed. It flew right out of the human's head and into the camera's violet eye. He followed over and examined the camera. He studied it and studied it, and then understood. 'Remember this, remember this,' the idea whispered. Then explained what was right for the occasion and what the human must do.

"Back on the floor near the kitchen, the monster was sloshing and slithering around like a big, slow monster worm. It couldn't even crawl. Plenty patience, and strength, was what the human needed to pull and drag and position it near the couch before taking off its clothes.

"No help, the monster moved without support as if in sleep, blank eyes rolling around in their sockets. It took good effort to make it naked. Then, when positioned on the couch under the lights, the human found the face too bloody and dirty, so he had to clean it with a towel from the kitchen. When all was right, he went behind the camera and took a picture of the monster, just so, rolling eyes and all. Then he returned to the kitchen for the chopping knife he had seen.

"Blood on the couch would mess up the pictures, so the human put the monster back on the floor to cut its dick off. When he put his hand on its balls, the monster jerked up almost to sitting. The human chopped on its face with the big knife to put it back down, slashing its forehead and most of its nose. As the monster tried to keep the blood from coming out, it kept shoving aside the chunk of loose nose. It looked messy, but it was really okay, since the face shots were already taken.

"The mess grew when the monster's dick and balls came off. It was tough to cut the meat with all the bloody slipperiness, and the monster jerking around struggling and kicking about. The human had to get the fry-pot and bash its head again before it sagged limp like a sack.

"With this slippery dead weight it was even harder to position the monster for the next set of pictures. The balls and dick kept sliding from its mouth..."

"Okay! Sir, okay. All right now! That's enough of that. You've gotta stop this stuff, sir."

That was Rusky Peters.

As the story came out, I'd vaguely noticed Rusky gradual retreat from the bed's edge where he'd first sat down. Now, at his stern shout, I looked closer at him, saw his strained face trembling and shiny. First time I saw how horror formed on his features. I wasn't sorry for him, though. Suddenly I remembered my own frustration during those many early morning minutes spent waiting for him. A smirk in my tone, I said to him, "Take it easy, Rusky. Calm down. The patient needs to talk his thing out. You can't let it get to you."

Our side play hadn't matter one iota to the guy. Like a Harlem hydrant in hot summer, his mouth never stopped running its spiel, just slowed in volume. Rusky, in his fret and choosing not to listen anymore, went to the desk and began taking charts from the work drawer. But I wanted to hear the patient's crazy story. I still couldn't figure his Romans, whatever the score.

"...and took a portrait of that, too," he was saying. "By now the monster was cool meat. But there were enough pictures, so the human dragged the body to the bathroom. With all the blood and shit, the house was a stink, so first, he stripped and cleansed himself. But no sooner he'd stepped out on the bathroom's floor, his feet were in blood again. So he took all the sheets and towels from the closets and spread them on the floor. That way it was cleaner to walk about.

"The human got to the rest of the idea right away. With a cleaver from the kitchen, he chopped the monster into smaller bits. It hadn't seemed so big stretched out whole, but in chunks of joint to joint, it almost filled the bathtub. Took ten garbage bags to package. By then the human was tired. He took another shower and a little nap. The idea was working out fine.

"Later on, as he well knew how, he carried the camera into the darkroom to process the film. He found in there like a proper placement advert. Every solution labeled and dated. Same way every jar, every soaking tray, cupboard, can, and counter. It was so neat the human felt at loss. But he managed a few prints, contrasty, but good enough.

"Except for the monster stacked and packaged in the bathroom, the human was nearly done. Several trips out the hallway to the garbage compactor took care that the monster garbage went safely down the chute. Then the human pocketed the negatives and prints, and with the Holy Book in hand, went out the door of the monster's den. And he was well gone.

"Everything had gone exactly as the idea had suggested. Except that when this human sent the prints to the papers, they never presented them to the public at all."

"You did WHAT???" Rusky shouted, so loud and sudden, he startled me nearly off my chair. So he'd been listening all along! And now his revulsion seemed to penetrate even the patient's aloofness. For the man stopped talking and lay back on the bed. He was still for a moment, then rolled halfway to the wall, hiding his face from us. We could see his shoulders jigging up and down, though, and we could hear his soft, throaty chuckling.

Inexplicably, the sound teased a hesitant smile to my face, and I looked over at Rusky. His consternation was also slowly changing to a doubtful amusement. I think he had my thought - that we'd been at the fool's end of a most elongated tall-tale. Instead of skepticism of hard experience, it was funny how we had been caught up. Still, you never can know with displaced street-folks. Their lives are so improbable that you have to expect anything. So they can fool you a little every time.

As the mood of relief and the ridiculous passed over us, Rusky ventured forth his cackle. I had to smile, too. But as only the memory of our smiles lingered, we realized the patient had never stopped his chuckling, and he had been going on too long.

We became an emergency team then, quick and efficient as one, two, three. Rusky called out, "He's hysterical!" and as I was swift to the medicine cabinet for a syringe, he rushed over and rolled the crazy supine. And again we were surprised. The man had never been laughing. It was sobs that he chuckled, and was still crying out through his dry, skinny face.

Ugly deep grooves bracketed his mouth, a maw gaped downward as if in wait for his guts to heave through. The fine skin around his eyes now showed a million wrinkles, making his face a horrid, haunting mask. Yet still his eyes remained dry and parched, denied the soothing warmth of tears.

Mine, though, were smarting fast. I wanted somehow to help this poor man. I put a hand against his face, murmuring, "Not to worry," or something, while with the other I made a covert motion to Rusky indicating I was ready to administer the sedative.

In an instant, Rusky had pinned him, and despite his feeble resistance, I pulled his pants down and gave him a shot in the gluteus. For truth's sake, I've got to say this: When Rusky and I work in synch, we're just about the finest Psych. Emergency team anywhere.

The guy calmed down gradually, although with his breathing in dry shudders and long sniffles, he still seemed to be straddling the ragged edge of mental sickness. But even as he relaxed into oblivion, he continued a soft protest. "Lend him no aid. It's meet and right that the human suffer..."

I held his frail shoulder, tried to console, "Just let the sleep come, my man. It'll do you good."

He shook his head slowly. "This penance will not be denied. He's got to suffer Hell. This human needs to bleed his sin..."

I didn't want him going off again. I didn't want to hear more. Whatever his story, it'd wait another time. At least until the doctors of the day shift. Right now it was too painful to me, and maybe even unethical to let him continue.

But he fought the sedation to get his say in. "The tabloids, you see, they never showed a single picture. Made this human's effort never matter, never happen. They never did a thing. They scorned him so only 'cause he went against the Word. He grievously sinned and strayed from the Way. For this he's compelled to suffer Hell. For he cannot blame the idea born of his brine-stung heart. He should've denied its whispering, slithering way always in his head, hissing over and over, soft as a sigh, ever selling its poisonous song of..."

Then he was asleep.

For a little while, we listened to the emptiness his voice had left. Eventually I murmured, "Poor guy."

"Madness is a bitch," Rusky agreed.

Our words said but the froth of our thoughts. I know much more was brewing in my mind. Rusky looked at his watch, then at me. "You're looking tired, Jack."

It was five thirty, I saw. I picked up my carry-bag again. Rusky said, "Go on, man. It's late. I'll call you if the boss shows. Promise I'll be good tomorrow. Serious."

Day hadn't quite cleaned yet. The streetlights' glare on Lenox seemed contained by the lingering bulk of the tall concrete buildings. The few folks about seemed grim and huddled close within their own concerns. Above, the sky was a gloomy, silvered grey, featureless as the face of God.

As I walked to the subway, my thoughts returned to the tormented sleeper. I remembered his talking face, empty of emotion as this dawn sky. Yet when he cried, he had been so completely taken over by his anguish. If his story was true, it seemed a shame his mad grief had diminished the measure of his revenge. This made me think of God and judgment. That maybe His system of justice was too oblique for mortal man. Maybe He didn't realize that people are busy-and more conscious about time. We're probably even busier than He is. Just as ants are busier than people. But perhaps that was how He sees us humans. Just a scurry of ant-types!

Down in the subway, waiting, my thoughts persisted around the guy's surrender to his suffering. Somehow, he seemed oddly content with it, devoted to reliving the ordeal that unraveled him. His yearning for the pain puzzled me, though. What was the nature of such a hellish ease? Then I thought of his fearful and never explained Romans* 12, whatever. I have a Bible in my bookshelf. If my train ever comes, and I get home today, I'll check the text.

*Romans, 12:19 Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.