Walker Percy - Love in the Ruins - The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World

“No sir.”

“You’re still on patient-staff status.”

“Yes sir, technically.”

“I remember that. It is the first time in my experience that a doctor-patient on A-4 has ever been put on patient-staff. Remarkable. We have great respect for your abilities, Doctor. Let’s see, you’re in encephalography with Dr. Wilkes. How is it going?”

“I was with Colley Wilkes. Five months ago.”

“I noticed today you’re down for The Pit, heh heh heh. I saw you once before, Doctor. Great, heh heh heh. What’ll it be today, high medicine or hijinks or both? You know, Doctor, if you could ever get on top of your mood swings, you have a real contribution to make. Hm”—again poking through the chart—“too bad the Skinner box didn’t do more for the anxiety and elation-depression. I wonder if we hadn’t better get on with implanting electrodes—”

“Sir, excuse me. I believe I understand. Rather, there is a misunderstanding. You are under the impression that I am here as a patient together with the other patients outside, for my monthly visit with you. Right. I’d forgotten, Monday is patient day.”

“That reminds me.” He consults his watch. “I fear we’re running a bit over. But don’t worry about it. Always glad to see you. I predict you’ll soon make A-3 and permanent staff. For the time being, hang in there where you are.”

“With Colley Wilkes.”

“Tremendous fellow! A renaissance man.”

We rise. There lying on the desk between us like a dog turd is my lapsometer. I can’t bear to look at it. Neither can the director.

“But, sir—”

“Dr. More, tell me the truth.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you think you are well?”

“No sir, I’m not well.”

“Well—?” He spreads his hands.

My God, he’s right. $25,000,000. An ontological lapsometer. I’m mad as a hatter.

But the Director suddenly feels so much better that in an access of goodwill he does look at my machine and even gives it a poke with his pencil.

“Amazing! What workmanship. Say, why don’t you use it in The Pit today, heh heh heh. Where did you get it machined?”

“In Japan,” I say absently. “You remember Dr. Yamaiuchi.”

“The Japanese are amazing, aren’t they?”

We reflect on the recent excellence of Japanese workmanship.

“What do you call this thing, Doctor?” the Director asks, exploring the device with his pencil.

“Lapsometer.” I am unable to tear my eyes from his strong brown farmer’s hands.

“The name interests me.”

“Yes sir?”

“It implies, I take it, a lapse or fall.”

“Yes,” I say tonelessly.

“A fall perhaps from a state of innocence?”

“Perhaps.” My foot begins to wag briskly. I stop it.

“Does this measure the uh depth of the fall?”

I stand up.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Am I to understand then that you do not intend either to approve my article for Brain or my application for funding from N.I.M.H.?”

“We’ll cross that bridge at our next month’s meeting. Right now I’m more interested in the hijinks in The Pit, heh heh. And don’t worry about being on A-4 much longer. I believe you’re ready for A-3. Glad to have you aboard. You’ve no idea how hard it is to keep staff these days. Now back to the old hospital in Boston—”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“There is one thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” I’ve gone past my ten minutes. His glossy eyes bulge at his watch.

“Why did you tell Art Immelmann you had approved my application?”

“Who?”

“Art Immelmann.”

“I never heard of him.”

“He’s a liaison man between N.I.M.H. and the funds.”

“Oh my, one of those fellows. They’re bad news. They all say the same things: the war in Ecuador has dried up the money.”

“He says Ford, Carnegie, and Rockefeller are willing to fund me.”

“Good!” He doesn’t believe me.

“But you don’t know him?”

“I steer clear of those fellows!” For some reason the Director laughs immoderately, which in turn sets him off into a fit of coughing.

“Then you’ve told no one about my invention or article?”

Handkerchiefs pop in and out. The Director, still red-faced, shakes his head and gazes past me. He has other patients!

The next patient passes me in the doorway, a sorrowful angry man in a string robe who stares at me furiously, tapping his watch with trembling forefinger. His cheek quivers with rage. I’ve encroached upon his time. Rage shakes him like a terrier. I recall being possessed by this demon. Once, after brooding two days over a remark made by a fellow patient, I walked up to him with clenched fists. “I resent that remark you made two days ago. In fact, I can’t stand it any longer. Take it back!” “O.K.,” said the startled man and took it back.

My feet shuffle past the elevators, my hands groping for the pockets of my string robe.

Where am I going? Back to the wards?

The center is not holding.

Where am I going? Back to my narrow bed on A-4 with its hard mattress and seersucker spread stretched tight as a drum, a magic carpet where I can lie and wing it like a martin.

Why is it I feel better, see more clearly, can help more people when I am crazy? Not being crazy, being sane in a sane world, is the craziest business of all.

What I really want to do is practice medicine from my bed in A-4, lie happy and stiff on my bed, like a Hindoo on his bed of nails, and treat sane folk and sane doctors from the sane world, which is the maddest world of all.

Where am I? Going past Love. On the bench in the hall sit volunteers. J.T. Thigpen and Gloria and Ted ’n Tanya. J.T. strokes his acne with his fingernails. Gloria reads a textbook open on her plump thighs. Through the diamond-shaped window I catch a glimpse of Father Kev Kevin reading Commonweal at the vaginal console.

“See you Wednesday!” whispers Ted.

“What’s that? Oh.”

On the lower level Buddy Brown and Moira are standing next to Mr. Ives in a wheelchair. Moira hangs her head. Buddy greets me with the cordiality of a good enemy.

“You’re just in time, Tom!”

“In time for what?”

“To give Mr. Ives the once-over. Be my guest.”

“No thanks.”

“Look at this.” Taking a reflex hammer from his pocket, he taps Mr. Ives’s knee tendon with quick deft taps.

Mr. Ives dances a regular jig in his chair, all the while watching me with his mild blue gaze.

“Isn’t that upper-motor-neurone damage, Doctor?” Buddy asks me.

“I don’t think so.”

“Try it yourself.” He hands me his hammer, a splendid affair with a glittering shaft and a tomahawk head of red rubber.

“No fanks.”

“What? Oh. Then I’ll see you shortly.”

“Fime.”

I do not speak well. I’ve lost. I’m a patient. But Buddy doesn’t notice. Like all enemies, he puts the best construction on his opponent. But Moira knows something is wrong. She hangs her head.

“Is something wrong?” she asks in a low voice.

“I’m fime.” I notice that they are waiting outside the tunnel that leads into The Pit from the lower level.

“Don’t forget Howard,” says Moira.

“Who? Oh.” Howard Johnson. “Nopes.”

“Who is Howard?” Buddy asks.

“We can go now,” whispers Moira. She sees the abyss and is willing to save me.

“When will you come in?” asks Buddy.

“Eins upon a oncy,” I reply.

“O.K. Eins zwei drei ,” says Buddy, willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. “He’s going to the men’s room,” he tells Moira, trying to make sense of me.