Luke Rhinehart - The Dice Man

‘My son is a mystery,’ he said. ‘It’s incredible to me that he should exist. He’s totally intolerant of others. You … if you’ve read what’s in that folder you know the details. Two weeks ago though – another example. Eric [he glanced nervously at the boy, who was apparently looking out or at the window] hasn’t been eating well for a month. Hasn’t been reading or writing. He burned everything he’d written over two months ago. An incredible amount. He doesn’t speak much to anyone anymore. I was surprised he answered you … Two weeks ago, at the dinner table, Eric playing saint with a glass of water, I remarked to our guest that night, a Mr Houston of Pace Industries, a vice-president, that I almost hoped sometimes that there would be a Third World War because I couldn’t see how else the world would ever be rid of Communism. It’s a thought we’ve all had at one time or another. Eric threw the water in my face. He smashed his glass on the floor.’

He was peering intently at me, waiting for a reaction. When I merely looked back he went on:

‘I wouldn’t mind for myself, but you can imagine how upset my wife is made by such scenes, and this is typical.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why do you think he did it?’

‘He’s an egomaniac. He doesn’t see things as you and I do. He doesn’t want to live as we do. He thinks that all Catholic priests, most teachers and myself are all wrong, but so do many others without always making trouble about it. And that’s the crux. He takes life too seriously. He never plays, or at least never when most people want him to. He’s always playing, but never what he’s supposed to. He’s always making war for his way of life. This is a great land of freedom but it isn’t made for people who insist on insisting on their own ideas. Tolerance is our byword and Eric is above all intolerant.’

‘Sorry about that, Dad,’ Eric suddenly said, and with a friendly smile got up and took a position directly behind and between his parents with a hand resting on the back of each of their chairs. Pastor Cannon looked at me as if he were trying to read by the expression on my face exactly how much longer he had to live.

‘Are you intolerant, Eric?’ I asked.

‘I’m intolerant of evil and stupidity,’ he said.

‘But who gives you the right,’ his father said, turning partly around to confront his son, ‘to tell everyone what’s good and evil?’

‘It’s the divine right of kings,’ Eric replied, smiling.

His father turned back to me and shrugged. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘And let me give you another example. Eric, when he was thirteen years old, mind you, stands up in the middle of my church during a crowded midmorning Communion and says aloud above the kneeling figures: “That it should come to this,” and walks out.’

We all remained as we were without speaking, as if I were the concentrating photographer and they about to have their family portrait taken.

‘You don’t like modern Christianity?’ I finally said to Eric.

He ran his fingers through his long black hair, looked up briefly at the ceiling and screamed.

His father and mother came out of their chairs like rats off an electric grid and both stood trembling, watching their son, hands at his side, a slight smile on his face, screaming.

A white-suited Negro attendant entered the office and then another. They looked at me for instructions. I waited for Eric’s second lungful scream to end to see if he would begin another. He didn’t. When he had finished, he stood quietly for a moment and then said to no one in particular: ‘Time to go.’

‘Take him to the admissions ward, to Dr Vener for his physical. Give this prescription to Dr Vener.’ I scribbled out a note for a mild sedative and watched the two attendants look warily at the boy.

‘Will he come quietly?’ the smaller of the two asked.

Eric stood still a moment longer and then did a rapid two-step followed by an irregular jig toward the door. He sang: ‘We’re OFF to see the Wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. We’re OFF …’

Exit dancing. Attendants follow, last seen each reaching to grasp one of his arms. Pastor Cannon had a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulder. I had rung for a student nurse.

‘I’m very sorry, Dr Rhinehart,’ Pastor Cannon said. ‘I was afraid something like this would happen but I felt that you ought to see for yourself how he acts.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said.

‘There’s one other thing,’ said Pastor Cannon. ‘My wife and I were wondering whether it might be possible if … I understand it is sometimes possible for a patient to have a single room.’

I came around my desk and walked up quite close to Pastor Cannon, who still had an arm around his wife.

‘This is a Christian institution, Pastor,’ I said. ‘We believe firmly in the brotherhood of all men. Your son will share a bedroom with fifteen other healthy, normal American mental patients. Gives them a feeling of belonging and togetherness. If your son feels the need for a single, have him slug an attendant or two, and they’ll give him his own room: the state even provides a jacket for the occasion.’

His wife flinched and averted her eyes, but Pastor Cannon hesitated only a second and then nodded his head.

‘Absolutely right. Teach the boy the realities of life. Now, about his clothing –’

‘Pastor Cannon,’ I said sharply. ‘This is no Sunday school. This is a mental hospital. Men are sent here when they refuse to play our normal games of reality. Your son has been sucked up by the wards: you’ll never see him the same again, for better or worse. Don’t talk so blithely about rooms and clothes; your son is gone.’

His eyes changed from momentary fright into a cold glare, and his arm fell from around his wife.

‘I never had a son,’ he said.

And they left.

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