"Sorry, no. I am not a mental health professional, so I don't have professional
opinions on your mental health. It is, however, my amateur opinion."
"Oh, well."
"So where are you at now, vis-a-vis the hospital?"
"Well, they don't tell me much, but as near as I can make out, I am stuck here
semipermanently. The court found me incompetent and ordered me held until I was.
I can't get anyone to explain what competency consists of, or how I achieve it
-- when I try, I get accused of being 'difficult.' Of course, escaping onto the
roof is a little beyond difficult. I have a feeling I'm going to be in pretty
deep shit. Do they know about the car?"
"The car?"
"In the parking lot. The one that blew up."
Doc Szandor laughs hard enough that his pacifier shoots across the room and
lands in a hazmat bucket. "You son of a bitch -- that was you?"
"Yeah," I say, and drum my feet against the tin cupboards under the examination
table.
"That was *my fucking car*!"
"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry," I say. "God."
"No no no," he says, fishing in his pocket and unwrapping a fresh pacifier.
"It's OK. Insurance. I'm getting a bike. Vroom, vroom! What a coincidence,
though," he says.
Coincidence. He's making disgusting hamster-cage noises, grinding away at his
pacifier. "Szandor, do you sometimes sneak out onto the landing to have a
cigarette? Use a bit of tinfoil for your ashtray? Prop the door open behind
you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"'Cause that's how I got out onto the roof."
"Oh, shit," he says.
"It's our secret," I say. "I can tell them I don't know how I got out. I'm
incompetent, remember?"
"You're a good egg, Art," he says. "How the hell are we going to get you out of
here?"
"Hey what?"
"No, really. There's no good reason for you to be here, right? You're occupying
valuable bed space."
"Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a feeling that as soon as you turn
me loose, I'm gonna be doped up to the tits for a good long while."