Texting Tom Cruise

R. D. Laing says insanity is a perfectly rational response to an insane world.

After working with schizophrenics for ten years, I have to agree.

My views don’t endear me to my colleagues, however—for example, they resent my taking notes when patients talk among themselves about their meds. Sometimes I even take the drugs myself to gauge firsthand how they affect me or alter my perception.

But, probably the most controversial thing I do is take a patient’s concerns seriously, without dismissing his ideas as mad ramblings or the products of a disordered mind.

For example, Santos Arruda is a schizophrenic.

Some doctors view him as an incurable case and others as a fascinating study—but no one sees him as I do—as a gifted and unique human being.

“He’s got weird vibes,” Marsha whispers.

“How’s that?”

“He seems to know things before they happen and sees more than most people.”

Marsha’s an excellent psychiatric nurse and not given to exaggeration. As I listen, I adjust the venetian blinds on my office window to give us more privacy.

“Does he scare you?”

“Damn right he does. Weird stuff happens when he’s around.”

My ears perk up.

“I thought you were just spooked, but you say stuff happens—what kind of stuff?”

She hesitates briefly, but probably thinks, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Lights go off around him. I saw it—watched him walk down a corridor and knock out every bloody light he passed under.”

“That’s odd.”

“Yeah and it’s happened more than once and if he carries his I-Pod with him, the battery discharges.”

I arch an eyebrow, but she's not fazed by my skepticism.

“Anything else?”

“The usual oddities—some things he says are really weird.”

“Like what?”

“Told me the streets should be clean of rain today—stuff like that.”

“Oh, that’s just word salad—nothing unexpected there—the normal abnormal, if you get what I mean.”

“Oh, I do, James—but not many patients can talk backwards fluently.”

My eyebrows arch, but I can’t resist sarcasm, “And you’re suggesting we call in Father Karras?”

“I wouldn’t joke about that. Poor guy—relatives thought he was a witch—took all his mementoes and burned them, said they were amulets. He hid in a freezer in the basement or they would have dragged him off to an exorcism—as it was he ended up on the streets.”

“Bloody idiots!”

“I’ll say. Look James, can’t you get him out of here? He doesn’t belong. He’s a freelance writer—damn intelligent.”

“Can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a chat with him and see where he is.”

Later that day, I drop by the psych ward and find him staring out the window at the ravine below. He’s using his right finger to tap on his left palm.

I get people playing air guitar—but this guy's texting nobody.

“I’m Doctor Reimer, Santos, do you mind if I have a word with you?”

“No, please sit down,” he smiles.

He’s dressed in blue jeans and a jean jacket; his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and looks clean and well cared for. There are no tics, no slurred speech and he appears alert and friendly.

I glance down at his file and see under religious affiliation he’s listed the Church of Scientology.

“Are you going to ask about my religious beliefs?”

I stare at him. How did he do that—a possible coincidence?

“I’ve been a Scientologist for two years.”

“You and Tom Cruise,” I joke.

“Oh yeah, Tom—just texted him. We keep in touch.”

“Is that what you were doing when I came in—texting Tom?”

“Yeah. Sometimes we talk once or twice a day.”

I begin to feel Santos will not be released any time soon.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Fine…except the walls are vibrating.”

“They are?”

“Yeah… patients too. It’s kind of like a wave, you know. I feel the force and it rolls through the wing and next thing you know all hell breaks loose.”

I gaze around the empty common room and see a few stray patients nodding away on sofa chairs.

“Seems pretty calm right now.”

“It’s like a gathering storm—sort of what Dylan says—you don’t need a weather vane to tell which way the wind blows.”

Literally, as soon as he completes his sentence, pandemonium erupts.

Nurses and hospital security appear out of nowhere and I sit back dazed while the tumult explodes around me.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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