"I see," I said, moving in for the kill. "I see. Where would I get more
information on the protocol? I'd like to research it before my hearing."
"I'm sorry," the doctor said, "we don't provide access to medical texts to our
patients."
"Why not? How can I defend myself against a charge if I'm not made aware of the
means by which my defense is judged? That hardly seems fair."
The doctor stood and smoothed his coat, turned his badge's lanyard so that his
picture faced outwards. "Art, you're not here to defend yourself. You're here so
that we can take a look at you and understand what's going on. If you have been
set up, we'll discover it --"
"What's the ratio of real paranoids to people who've been set up, in your
experience?"
"I don't keep stats on that sort of thing --"
"How many paranoids have been released because they were vindicated?"
"I'd have to go through my case histories --"
"Is it more than ten?"
"No, I wouldn't think so --"
"More than five?"
"Art, I don't think --"
"Have *any* paranoids ever been vindicated? Is this observation period anything
more than a formality en route to committal? Come on, Doctor, just let me know
where I stand."
"Art, we're on your side here. If you want to make this easy on yourself, then
you should understand that. The nurse will be in with your lunch and your meds
in a few minutes, then you'll be allowed out on the ward. I'll speak to you
there more, if you want."
"Doctor, it's a simple question: Has anyone ever been admitted to this facility
because it was believed he had paranoid delusions, and later released because he
was indeed the center of a plot?"
"Art, it's not appropriate for me to discuss other patients' histories --"
"Don't you publish case studies? Don't those contain confidential information
disguised with pseudonyms?"
"That's not the point --"
"What *is* the point? It seems to me that my optimal strategy here is to
repudiate my belief that Fede and Linda are plotting against me -- *even* if I
still believe this to be true, even if it *is* true -- and profess a belief that
they are my good and concerned friends. In other words, if they are indeed
plotting against me, I must profess to a delusional belief that they aren't, in
order to prove that I am not delusional."
"I read *Catch-22* too, Art. That's not what this is about, but your attitude
isn't going to help you any here." The doctor scribbled on his comm briefly,
tapped at some menus. I leaned across and stared at the screen.
"That looks like a prescription, Doctor."
"It is. I'm giving you a mild sedative. We can't help you until you're calmer
and ready to listen."
"I'm perfectly calm. I just disagree with you. I am the sort of person who
learns through debate. Medication won't stop that."
"We'll see," the doctor said, and left, before I could muster a riposte.
I was finally allowed onto the ward, dressed in what the nurses called "day
clothes" -- the civilian duds that I'd packed before leaving the hotel, which an
orderly retrieved for me from a locked closet in my room. The clustered nuts
were watching slackjaw TV, or staring out the windows, or rocking in place,
fidgeting and muttering. I found myself a seat next to a birdy woman whose long
oily hair was parted down the middle, leaving a furrow in her scalp lined with
twin rows of dandruff. She was young, maybe twenty-five, and seemed the least
stuporous of the lot.
"Hello," I said to her.
She smiled shyly, then pitched forward and vomited copiously and noisily between
her knees. I shrank back and struggled to keep my face neutral. A nurse hastened
to her side and dropped a plastic bucket in the stream of puke, which was still
gushing out of her mouth, her thin chest heaving.
"Here, Sarah, in here," the nurse said, with an air of irritation.
"Can I help?" I said, ridiculously.
She looked sharply at me. "Art, isn't it? Why aren't you in Group? It's after
one!"
"Group?" I asked.
"Group. In that corner, there." She gestured at a collection of sagging sofas
underneath one of the ward's grilled-in windows. "You're late, and they've
started without you."
There were four other people there, two women and a young boy, and a doctor in
mufti, identifiable by his shoes -- not slippers -- and his staff of office, the
almighty badge-on-a-lanyard.
Throbbing with dread, I moved away from the still-heaving girl to the sofa
cluster and stood at its edge. The group turned to look at me. The doctor
cleared his throat. "Group, this is Art. Glad you made it, Art. You're a little
late, but we're just getting started here, so that's OK. This is Lucy, Fatima,
and Manuel. Why don't you have a seat?" His voice was professionally smooth and
stultifying.
I sank into a bright orange sofa that exhaled a cloud of dust motes that danced
in the sun streaming through the windows. It also exhaled a breath of trapped
ancient farts, barf-smell, and antiseptic, the *parfum de asylum* that gradually
numbed my nose to all other scents on the ward. I folded my hands in my lap and
tried to look attentive.
"All right, Art. Everyone in the group is pretty new here, so you don't have to
worry about not knowing what's what. There are no right or wrong things. The
only rules are that you can't interrupt anyone, and if you want to criticize,
you have to criticize the idea, and not the person who said it. All right?"
"Sure," I said. "Sure. Let's get started."
"Well, aren't you eager?" the doctor said warmly. "OK. Manuel was just telling
us about his friends."
"They're not my friends," Manuel said angrily. "They're the reason I'm here. I
hate them."
"Go on," the doctor said.
"I already *told* you, yesterday! Tony and Musafir, they're trying to get rid of
me. I make them look bad, so they want to get rid of me."
"Why do you think you make them look bad?"
"Because I'm better than them -- I'm smarter, I dress better, I get better
grades, I score more goals. The girls like me better. They hate me for it."
"Oh yeah, you're the cat's ass, pookie," Lucy said. She was about fifteen,
voluminously fat, and her full lips twisted in an elaborate sneer as she spoke.
"Lucy," the doctor said patiently, favoring her with a patronizing smile.
"That's not cool, OK? Criticize the idea, not the person, and only when it's
your turn, OK?"
Lucy rolled her eyes with the eloquence of teenagedom.
"All right, Manuel, thank you. Group, do you have any positive suggestions for
Manuel?"
Stony silence.
"OK! Manuel, some of us are good at some things, and some of us are good at
others. Your friends don't hate you, and I'm sure that if you think about it,
you'll know that you don't hate them. Didn't they come visit you last weekend?
Successful people are well liked, and you're no exception. We'll come back to
this tomorrow -- why don't you spend the time until then thinking of three
examples of how your friends showed you that they liked you, and you can tell us
about it tomorrow?"
Manuel stared out the window.
"OK! Now, Art, welcome again. Tell us why you're here."
"I'm in for observation. There's a competency hearing at the end of the week."
Linda snorted and Fatima giggled.