Jaimy Gordon - Bogeywoman

I made a wild leap for the quietroom window. It was five feet above the spot where I bounced off the wall, and probably too small for my head, even if I could hold on tight enough to butt a hole in the glass. Still it felt good to bounce off the wall and I did it again, and again. Satisfying noise of my little pieces rearranging themselves, like a sack of potatoes thrown down from a barn loft. Then suddenly I found myself dangling from the padding three feet up-how was I doing this? It must be that superhuman strength of mental patients you hear about: I was four feet up, then five-godzilla knew what my toes and fingers were sticking to, but somehow I stayed up. And six and nine and finally I squinted through the woozy glass.

Seventy feet down, at the bottom of so many fathoms of clear black jelly, streetlights came on like burning heads of hair, and at their feet, the tops of cars bulged silently in and out of view. The ayrabbers’ barn doors were still open; under the jelly of night the hole behind them was lit up like a palace. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass- Lemme outa here I screamed-reared back a little, getting ready to butt it. The door opened behind me and I let go.

“Ow… ow…” Naked and flat on my back. “You are hurt?” “Cheese… what gives you that idea?” “You fall.” “Hump no, I jumped.” “How you get up there? What you are holding on?” That voice dried and cured in the smoke of five hundred thousand Gypsygirl cigarettes was at last a little impressed. “It’s that old, ouch, superhuman strength of the mental patient,” I croaked, and rolled back my head until I could see as far as the door. Could it really be madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse? It was. “What are you doing here!” I growled. Because of the crabs I wasn’t even glad to see her. Thank godzilla there was no more light than the undersea glow from the green linoleum corridor, all the same I bunched myself in a sitting position, pulled my infested thighs discreetly together, threw an arm across my nuzzies. Sumpm hit me softly in the shoulder. A hospital gown. I got up and tied it on. “How come you’re here at night?” I mumbled rudely, not even caring anymore that she never answered a question from a mental peon-and then to my amazement she replied: “I like night duty. I’m not so crazy for sleep like some people. I like to watch sun come up. For a week, maybe two, I will do it…” I hardly dared read the message I could see so clearly between her words, but there it was: Because you are here, Miss Bogeywoman . She’s here because of me. Of me!

“So,” said Doctor Zuk. “Maybe you would like a little to talk?” “Sure,” I said uneasily. I must say the whole thing struck me as highly irregular. Yes there was that furtive conservatism of the mental patient setting in, and then I was in a rotten mood on account of that itch, that itch at the x spot sucking everything down to its level. To think that just last week I’d thrown myself at her feet for this chance, kissed her imaginary ankles, and she’d kicked me into the imaginary gutter. Next she had betrayed me to the fuddies, landed me in a quietroom, I’ll never speak to that Zuk hag again I’d been thinking. And now here she was, inviting me-to talk!

“Could we, er, walk and talk?” I proposed, “I got this restlessness.” “ Ach, choleria , in these shoes?” She pointed at her silver sandals. She wore no nylons under her dress. It was the middle of summer but this seemed raw to me, even nasty. I stared at the erosion cracks along her heels. There too she looked her age, as old as the hills and crags. “O all right,” I mumbled, and followed her down the hall. We ended up in a converted broom closet where nurse’s aides sometimes played cards. It was the usual Rohring Rohring hole in the wall, cracked plaster, exposed pipes, distant guts gurgling, roaches traversing the woodwork. She twisted a key in the lock behind us and we were alone. The first thing she did was toss her key ring on the rickety tabletop in a heap. When her knee touched it, the table tilted down two inches on its gimpy legs and the keys slid to one edge. I pulled my chair closer. I tried to keep my shifty eyes off those keys. One hand pressed my itchy crotch, hard.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

“So, er, uh, any hope of getting back to East Six? Lemme outa here! I been Quiet long enough,” I blurted, like a common ordinary mental patient. She tilted her spiky head and shrugged. “Why you are telling me this? Don’t get funny idea like I am your dreambox mechanic. You want something? Be grown-up woman. Talk to Dr. Feuffer.” “You kept me busy for the fuddies,” I accused. She smiled a little, as at a charming memory. “Ach, you have beg for it. And your face! How you like it when that iron door gets shut the first time, BOOMS! However, like people say in country where I come from, God he fastens one gate and opens a thousand. Perhaps there is open gate someplace and you don’t see?”

“I might have to push one open with that superhuman strength of the mental patient,” I grumbled. “Is all for your education, my dear,” she said blandly, “you are talented person, a thousand gates, where is the sport? For you, God closes a thousand gates and opens one.”

I was in no mood for the inscrutable god of the East. I eyeballed her keys. I was thinking how most of the people who ever lived probably itched like mad at their x . I wondered if that made it easier to die-a half million soldiers scratching away all night in the trenches, never any peace, or latrine detail in some prison camp, ten females shaved to their skulls, shoveling shit and still scratching. “God doesn’t even know I’m in this bughouse,” I said. “He’s still tryna find the six million Jews he lost, and the one million Gypsies and the five million Poles and the fifteen million Russkis, what does he care about one mental peon in a dump like this…”

Funny how all that itching and death composed me as good as any little red or blue pill. I almost smiled, but Zuk didn’t smile. She was staring at the tabletop, her face hard. I was scared I had bumbled over some line, I mean who knew what she was-a Jew, a Gypsy, a Pole or a Russki, she looked like all of em mixed up together. But then I saw what she was seeing. Never mind the corpses at Auschwitz, she was waiting to see if I’d grab those keys, maybe even-hoping? Possibly… even… suggesting? Finally she got bored, leaned back in her chair, folded her arms and looked me in the eye.

“What you are doing in this hospital, Miss Bogeywoman?” she asked. “You are not so crazy. You know in old country where I come from people don’t run so fast to psychiatrist. Somebody think she has djinn in head, somebody say she is Fatima bride of Mohammed, then maybe yes. Why are you here?” “Whaddaya mean?” I said, feeling my citizenship called in question, “I’m not just in the bughouse, I’m in the bughouse bughouse. And I don’t have a key either, well, now I do,” I added, suddenly plunging a finger through the O of her keyring. Five matching silver keys marked DO NOT DUPLICATE. I played them like a castanet. “ Somebody thinks I’m buggy,” I said.

She made no move to snatch them back but pressed her ugly fingertips together. “With you, Miss Bogeywoman, is all game. Is funny hunger for craziness, itch for crazy,” she said, and I almost fainted-dropped her keys and snatched them up again-Charlie Chan gong in the nervous system, the shock of being found out. But then I saw I wasn’t found out. This was accidental telepathy out of the hot-wired air. She knew not what she said. “Don’t worry, I tell no one. You are crazy like hare in March, like weasel in henhouse maybe. You want to be crazy. Is some kind mating dance with you.”