Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

“I’ll be back,” I say.

“This guy, so busy,” says Armelio.

“He thinks he’s all important,” Noelle says.

“I woke up, and the bed was on fire!” says Jimmy.

We all look at him. “You okay, Jimmy?” I ask.

“My mom hit me in the head. She hit me in the head with a hammer.”

“Oh, wow.” I turn to Armelio. “I heard him say stuff like this down in the ER. Has he talked about this before?”

“No, nuh-uh, buddy.”

“Hey, Jimmy, it’s okay.” I put my hand on his shoulder. At the same time, I bite my tongue. You can think someone’s hilarious and want to help them at the same time.

“She hit me in the head,” he says. “With a hammer!”

“Yeah, but you’re here now,” Noelle says. “You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hit you in the head with anything.”

Jimmy nods. I keep my hand on his shoulder. I keep my tongue bit down, but I make little chuffing noises as I try to keep from laughing, and he looks up and notices. He smiles at me, then laughs himself, then picks his cards up and claps my back.

“It’ll come to ya,” he says.

“That’s right. I know it will.”

I excuse myself from the room and head down the hall. Right at the end is Aaron, holding the record I want. Dad didn’t have it.

“Hey, man,” he says sheepishly, and as I approach, he leans it against the wall. He’s a dick, but I’m not perfect either so I come up and hug him.

“Hey.”

“Well, you were right. My dad had it— Egyptian Masters Volume Three.”

“I so appreciate this.” I take the record. It’s got a picture on the cover of what looks like the Nile at dusk, with a palm tree lilting left, echoing the brightening moon, and the purple sky rolling up from the horizon.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about everything,” Aaron says. “I. . . uh . . . I’ve had a weird couple of days.”

“You know what?” I look him in the eyes. “Me too.”

“I bet.” He smiles.

“Yeah, from now on, whenever crap goes down, you can be like ‘Oh, Craig, I had a bad few days,’ because I will get what you’re talking about.”

“What’s it like in here?” he asks.

“There’s people whose lives have been screwed up for a long time, and then there are people like me, whose lives have been screwed up for . . . you know . . . shorter.”

“Did they put you on new drugs?”

“No, same ones I was on before.”

“So are you feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“What changed?”

“I’m going to leave school.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m done. I’m going somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to talk it over with my parents. Somewhere for art.”

“You want to do art?”

“Yeah. I’ve been doing some in here. I’m good at it.”

“You’re pretty good at school too, man.”

I shrug. I don’t really need to explain this to Aaron. He’s been demoted from most important friend to friend, and he’s going to have to earn that, even. And you know what else? I don’t owe people anything, and I don’t have to talk to them any more than I feel I need to.

“What’s up with Nia?” I ask. Have to tread care fully here. “I got your message, about how things were bad.”

“They got worked out. It was my fault. I got all freaked out about her being on pills and we broke up for like, a few days.”

“Why did that freak you out?”

“I don’t need any more of that in my life, you know? I mean, it’s bad enough with my dad.”

“He’s on medication?”

“Every form of medication in the book. Mom, too. And then me, with the pot . . . when you come right down to it, there isn’t anybody in the household who isn’t seriously drugged except the fish.”

“And you didn’t want your girlfriend to be, too.”

“Her smoking is one thing; I just . . . I can’t really explain it. I guess you’ll have to go out with someone for a long time to understand. If you’re with somebody and then you learn that they need to . . . take something on a daily basis, you wonder—how good can you be for them?”

“That’s pretty stupid,” I say. “I met this girl in here—”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, and she’s really screwed up, as screwed up as me, but I don’t look at that as an insult. I look at that as a chance to connect.”

“Yeah, well.”

“People are screwed up in this world. I’d rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and . . . you know . . . ready to explode.”

“I’m sorry, Craig.” Aaron looks at me deep and holds out a hand for me to slap. “I’m sorry I was a bitch to you.”

“You were a bitch.” I slap his hand. “This album partly makes up for it. Just, don’t do it again.”

“All right.” He nods.

We stand still a minute. We haven’t moved from the crux of the hallways near the entrance of Six North. The double doors that I came in through are eight feet behind him.

“Well, listen,” he says. “Enjoy the record. And—hey, they have a record player in here?”

“They still smoke in here, Aaron. They’re kind of back in time.”

“Enjoy it and be in touch, and I’m sorry once again. I guess you won’t be chilling for a while.”

“I don’t know. I may never be chilling again.”

“Did you almost kill yourself to get in here?” Aaron asks. “That’s what Nia told me.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t capable of dealing with the real world.”

“Craig, don’t kill yourself, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“Just. . . don’t.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll see you soon, man.”

Aaron turns and the nurses open the door for him. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just someone who hasn’t had his stay on Six North yet. I take the record to Smitty to store behind the nurses’ station.

Six North doesn’t need a PA system, because of President Armelio, but it does have one, used regularly for the simple and rhythmic messages of “Lunch is served,” “Medication,” and “All smokers to the smoking lounge; smokers, get your smokes.” This afternoon it pipes up with a longer message, courtesy of Monica.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon our patient Craig Gilner, who is leaving tomorrow, is going to be drawing his artwork for everyone on the floor. If you’d like your own personal piece of Craig’s art, come to the end of the hallway by the dining room. End of the dining-room hallway, five minutes. Have fun!”

I sit down in the backmost chair, by the window that peers out over the avenue that crosses the street I live on, so close to my real life. I look over at my conference chair where I meet with my parents and Noelle. I have a second chair set up in front of me as an art desk, with stacks of board games on it and a chessboard on top. It’s a little flimsy, but it’ll do.

President Armelio is first to approach. He strides up, barrel-chested and sure of himself, like a torpedo.

“Hey, buddy, this is great! You gonna make me one of your heads with the maps inside?”

“That’s right.”

“Well let’s go, buddy. I ain’t got all day!”

Right. Armelio is going to have to be done fast because he is fast. I sketch the outline of his head and shoulders without a second thought and start in on his brain map. Highways, that’s what Armelio has in his head—six-lane highways running parallel, streaking through a city, with purpose and minimal on-ramps. He doesn’t have any quiet little streets or parks; it’s highways and a grid, and no rivers either. The highways hardly even connect because Armelio doesn’t mix up his thoughts; he has one and does it and then he moves on to the next. It’s a great way to live. Especially when the biggest thought is wanting to play cards. Cards have to be represented in Armelio’s brain somewhere. So I sketch some streets into an ace of spades right in the middle—it’s not a great ace of spades, but Armelio gets it.