Respect the Chemistry

By sitting on the gurney, Mamet Holt could see the police officer’s dishwater gray eyes.

“Where are you from?”

Holt held his tongue. He almost bit it. In fact, he did. A trickle of blood ran over his gum, creating a metallic taste.

“How’d you get here? Where are you supposed to be?”

More silence. Officer Baylin Custin looked at the hat Holt wore. It bore the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblem signifying Holt had served in the United States Marine Corps.

“I was in, too. I was with Alpha Company, First Marine Division. Who were you with during your time?”

More silence.

It had been like this for at least a half an hour before the medical professionals decided to use an incapacitating agent to knock out Holt.

Before he received the shot, Holt had been running up and down the streets of Lowell, Massachusetts, handing out fliers for life. To disrupt this erratic behavior, the cops had been called. Under his own power, Holt decided to walk to the ambulance and go to the hospital.

Holt, like a bull, thrashed about and had to be restrained. The nurse Brenda Heartly’s forehead showed wrinkles. “Shhh…shh.” Holt soon slowed as his muscles ceased to tense. His eyes rolled in the back of his head. The professionals then strapped him to a table in a secluded room. He woke up and looked about as the light seemed dim against the tan walls and chipped floor tiles. The ceiling showed water damage. It looked like a burn in the corner. The smell of disinfectant, insecticide, and strangely stale bread permeated the room.

One of the Registered Nurses (RN) opened the door and two orderlies stood on either side of the door like sentries.

“Mr. Holt, are you ready to return to the milieu?” Nurse Abby Jaine asked. She had bright red hair, eyes the color of robin’s eggs and alabaster skin. Of slight build, she still had strong arms, abdominals and legs. She could have been the cover of a modeling magazine had she been taller.

“AAARRGGGHH!” Holt managed.

“Is that a ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Get me outta here!”

“Maybe a few more hours here….” she said in a sing-song voice.

“No, no. I’m quite ready.”

Abby motioned to the orderlies, Dexter Scott and Alex Patterson. After they undid the straps, Holt stood straight. It was like he was a warrior taken from a prisoner of war camp. He looked darker than his black skin, even more than usual.

“Alright, you’re just in time for lunch,” Abby was about fifty and had crows feet. When she smiled it seemed like the lines deepened.

A patient named Patrice Battin, coal black, tied bedsheets around his neck and walked like a king. His stride looked sure and even. There existed a regal air to his every step and the staff gave him space to walk and talk. The psychiatric ward was his kingdom and he lorded over it with supreme power. There existed a sonorous voice in him and an exactitude in relating the lines from these works of the best playwrights. He spewed soliloquies from the best of world plays with an ease and a profundity that echoed through the halls. A green novelist named York Downing working on his master’s degree wrote on scraps of paper because he couldn’t have his phone on the ward. The assistants appeared as financial wizards. One of them utilized the stock market. Ahmed and Jameson, Certified Nursing Assistants (CNAs) sat Holt down and discussed return on investment (ROI) as part of their breaks. In his patient scrubs he looked at the window and then at the newspaper. His favorite band would be at the stadium just adjacent to this facility. He would not be able to attend, obviously. There seemed to be a nagging and a raw feeling in his soul that he would miss this, their last concert ever. A young woman, yet named Frida Versa, snuck her phone and made beats on it. She sat in her room with the phone on silent and tapped away. The productions sounded lush and she used one of her earbuds to listen to the synthy loops she created. Each string, every horn sounded crisp and complex.

Then came the time for prescribed drugs. Never did they like a better time than when they found themselves with a cup of water and a cup of pills. Both Holt and Frida remained compliant in the art of taking their drugs. They never cheeked or spit out any of it. Their ability to not make a fuss about taking them allowed them to be focused on their health. With the onslaught of mental terrors that could wreak through their minds, they yearned to remain stable and respect the chemistry. They were their brains, after all and they wanted to celebrate the fact the doctors concocted the right cocktail to give them this power. Whatever chemicals remained their romance within their bodies. They knew that. It created something of worth in their lives to go from not knowing each other to being around each other in the day room. It sparked and then when they talked, their emotions became as deep as the images from an astronomer’s highest capacity satellite. They took in the moments.

Still, Holt found small pleasures in graham crackers and ginger ale and playing spades. algebra equations could never stymie him in the puzzle factory. He spoke with an associate of one of the law firms that would represent his case. A lawyer, a fighter, talked about how his time in the institution could garner him over twenty thousand dollars and permit him to receive a 100% disability rating for the rest of his life. It just made sense. No one talked about that, though. No one said anything about actually receiving money from being in a mental hospital. They didn’t talk about the soliloquies and the producer on her smartphone. He didn't shine the way that people show in the movies about people shouting obscenities or stripping down and spitting on other patients and staff. She had been exempt from that conversation as well. And no one considered the fact you could be compensated for your time in a psychiatric ward. It’s a quiet thing. For the reason simply that Holt knew that these human beings could be remembered, patients and staff together. Maybe it became a point of shame, of keeping the period where their loved one was in the mental hospital as discreet as possible.

They journeyed to multiple Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) lodges. Holt knew that the mushy spaghetti and watery sauce only came with the first batch. The second one would be al dente and the sauce would be hearty. Of course he couldn’t get past the way Frida looked. She had burned herself with an iron. Her cheekbones protruded from brown skin and she projected jade cut green eyes. Holt walked over to her and saw her frown turn to a small smirk.

“It’s always the second––”

“I know. You’ve gotta watch them switch pots and get new pasta.”

“What were you supposed to do this summer?” Holt asked. It was almost a whisper, like a prayer.

“I was just going to start my label online. Then I did this,” she pointed to her injury. “What about you?”

“I wanted to see my favorite band. They’re playing a few blocks away from here. It’s reported to be their last show.”

“Damn.”

“I know. There’s no way I’ll be able to go but I could see some footage from your phone, if you don’t mind.”

“When are they performing?” Frida asked.

“Tomorrow night.”

“No. We’re going. We’ll be the only ones in sneakers without laces like it was the eighties.” They smiled. “There’s a talent show tomorrow downtown. Where is the concert going to be?”

Holt’s eyes widened. “Downtown just a few blocks from the auditorium.”

“We’re making plans.”

“All we have to do is cut out when everyone is getting into the bus…or even earlier,” he suggested.

“Exactly,” Frida replied. She smiled and the white teeth contrasted her skin. The bus ride back to the ward allowed them to hold hands and she gave the other wireless bud from her phone to Holt. By listening to her production, a wave of sophistication pulsated into his ear. This sense of being held by the sonics of this young woman’s work propelled him to be right by her side. When they got off the bus, they took in the summer air and noticed lightning bugs stringing in the evening.

Everyone wore their best clothes to the talent show. The flopping of sneakers and shoes and falling pants painted the scene. Frida looked at Holt. They didn’t hold hands but each others’ gazes and the idea of what to do at the right moment. Money stayed in their wallets and on their phones. They could use their mobile devices on these types of trips. What kept them in good standing remained their scheme. They even felt confident that Battin would perform his lines from the plays.

While the two talked, Garmin West had overheard the budding couples’ plans and tipped off the staff. For this, he would be given ten days less time in the psych ward. West grinned and sighed at his wheeling and dealing. Not a snitch, West proved to be a tattle-tale, having no honor of being someone who informs.

One act showcased a one woman show about the black women in the first Gulf War from America. She told how the number of black officers increased even more during this time. Another individual got up on stage and sang all three verses of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic." He possessed a baritone voice that shook the rafters. The whole event didn’t include a competition, just a display. The patients seemed genuinely moved. At the time that Battin took to the stage, the patients looked at him. He wore gold slippers and a white mantle. He cycled through the centuries of premiere plays. Frida and Holt looked at each other. Everyone rose to their feet and applauded him. Battin just kept speaking the lines as the couple snuck out while the auditorium stood and cheered. They made their way to the exits and started going down the street. They held hands. The concert hall stood just a few blocks away. Frida looked at Holt. She smiled. Their feet pounded the concrete. Tears streaked Frida’s face. She didn’t even like the band that Holt claimed as his favorite but she liked him. Heat surrounded them and it felt as if the summer would only deepen. Booming noise from the center appeared muffled except for when the doors opened and the building was like a giant amplifier. When they came to the front of the street to just get to the center, they hugged.

Just then a wall of orderlies blocked their path and surrounded them. “No, no, no!” Frida exclaimed. Holt looked wild eyed and spun around to see more CNAs and orderlies. He pulled Frida into his arms as the staff members moved closer to them. Holt kissed Frida’s mouth as the others all charged and pulled them away from one another. Patterson grabbed Frida’s arm and marched her to an opposite bus. Scott pushed Holt into the other one. Nurse Abby sat in front of Holt, standing and showing a sense of authority over him.

“This is what happens. You’ve ruined it. You’ve ruined it for everyone else. Now, there will be no more dinner trips. Forget coming into the city again. You and Miss Versa will be separated. She will be on a psychiatric floor that will not be disclosed to you. Do you understand, Mr. Holt?”

Holt held up his chin. He didn’t say a word. Not a syllable. The July air seemed breezy and warm and somehow salty. To feel the warmth of the evening and to look at the dying sun, he sighed again and felt the season slip away from him.