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MICKEY Illustration: |
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How much would you
pay for a “Mickey”? Five Bucks? May be ten? Maybe twenty five, if we are
talking about Sunday night, all stores are closed and you REALLY need one…
Tony without any doubt would have given up his life for this little flask of
liquid bliss that in secrecy was splashing in a small glass bottle inside the
right pocket of Tony’s fleece jogging pants, old soft and stretched in the
knees. He just came back from an outing he was invited to by a tiresome and
boring volunteer from an always caring “Friends of Schizophrenia” society. Tony
was super happy to quarry this little precious trophy at the end of this long
day and was proud of him-self for having drawn a good (decent) gulp of
whiskey from his recent “ever-sober” and dull guardian and tutor of today. Of
course nothing comes for free and Tony had to put some work into getting his
wish fulfilled. As they say: “There is no free lunch”… This is an
exaggeration; of course, one should simply know where to go. One thing is
certain - no one could get booze for free, not even a “professional” freebee.
No one, except for Tony. Today he did it. Oh, boy, praise the folly! It is
truly the essence of life and the feeder of all rascals and scoundrels. What
are we without them? Just as he spotted
today’s good volunteer, Tony came up with a simple artless plan. Tony will be
friendly and pleasant and will ask him to take Tony for a ride. In the car
Tony will tell him how difficult, hard and arduous his life is, how
misunderstood he is and how everyday he suffers from disrespect. Than he will
add some colors to that picture and will create stories from his childhood.
He will tell the volunteer how his whore of a mother ran away with her lover
and how he was beaten up by his alcoholic father. How he was mocked for being
poor and how ill-tempered children from his small community school would not
accept him for who he was. Now tell me, who won’t be torched by this? What
kind of stone cold heart would not buy that and keep from crying. Maybe
someone… but here is the good news: there are no volunteers, especially from
the “Schizophrenia Society” decorated with a stone heart. That means that the
plan will most likely be successful. The main thing now – is to choose the
right itineraries, or to make sure, that this good-hearted dummy will choose
the route past the liqueur store. The rest is Tony’s business. Tony was not
worried about the truth being revealed. This “Good Samaritan” will never be
able to find out that Tony did have a very loving family, that his sisters
are visiting him regularly, and that his life in the Rehab Centre was in
clover: everyday he had freshly cooked good food, and his personal room was
tidy and clean with a personal bathroom and a nice TV set. He will never find out that Tony gets to go
on all sorts of outings several times a week and gets cigarettes every hour
and a half. Even if he would find out Tony would explain to him that he Tony,
was different and did not need all that junk. He needs only one thing –
freedom, real freedom. Who can argue that freedom is not the only true
virtue? If not for the stroke that Tony drank himself into a couple of years
ago that finally crippled him, Tony would not aim for just a mickey. He could
have swizzled a whole case of liqueur back then, but now… Now hoarse and with
speech impairment he had to sing another tune and use his plaintive
appearance rather than colorful picturesque speeches. Like in everything in
life there was a positive touch in this miserable post stroke existence. To
make one cry it was enough now to attach a pitiful, teary stare to a short
story. Absolutely
everything today was going as planned. The route for a ride was chosen
smoothly – with not one, but two liqueur stores on the way. The two had
plenty of time and spring weather was inspiring, encouraging everyone to
love, do good deeds and enjoy life. The volunteer seemed to be already
seasoned enough and ready for a feat. After a story about the sorrow
childhood accompanied by a little glance of entreaty and supplication that
Tony spiced with a tear shaking lower lip, the poor volunteer certainly was
ready to give Tony his last and only shirt. “Now is the time” – thought Tony
to himself and out loud, addressing him to the volunteer he hoarsely
whispered: - What are they doing for me? Ah? Just push
pills! Does that help me? No! Does anyone care? No! And Tony
indignantly struck the air in front of him. “Of course… I
understand,” replied the companioned volunteer. “I feel for you… So many
patients! How difficult it must be for everybody! I only can imagine…” “Difficult!” one
humble little freshly and timely squeezed tear streamed down Tony’s left
cheek. “Difficult… Who has it the hardest? Ah? Who? I am asking you now? The
patient,” replied Tony to his own question for the lack of answer from his
conversation partner. “Do we have anything… anything in life that makes us
happy? No, we don’t!” “Well, I guess you
are right,” the volunteer was definitely moved by Tony’s little presentation
and his face beamed compassion, concern and sympathy. “What can we do,
though? How can we help? Really, me, for example… How? Let say today? Maybe
we could do something special just today? Just so that this day would be
remarkable, not like any other day. Can we somehow make it a very special
day?” Tony was keeping
silent. “Maybe you could
tell me how?” insisted the volunteer once more. “What can I say … I
don’t even want to waste my breath cause I know you won’t do it even though
it is a mere bagatelle”. “Well… I’ll try,”
and the volunteer looked at Tony as if he was saying that he was ready to
listen and help regardless of what it will take. “You see… In a few
days,” Tony’s voice was low and hoarse. “It will be my little brother’s day.
He passed away quite a few years ago…” Tony fell silent
skillfully suppressing his affected forced agitation, about his brother… Well
it was of course a pure lie. Tony never had a brother. He had two sisters and
both of them were well and lived not to far away from the Rehab Centre. But
of course there is truth … and then there is truth. It has been long time
since Tony learned to tell others stories that were far away from the real
truth. Sometimes he was telling those stories to himself. They made him feel
sorry for himself and that felt good. Were the stories true or was it a lie?
Does it matter? It was his truth and sometimes he even believed in it. If one
would try to refute, disprove his truth Tony would immediately throw a fit
and his rage would scare, and intimidate everyone around him. For this kind
of rage Tony had every right as he was officially attributed by clever
doctors to the army of insane lunatics. This time, just like many times
before, Tony’s new truth was calculated and had a very specific, very
achievable goal. “Me and ma brotha…
We were, like … inseparable…Where there was one – the other would be there
too,” said Tony after a short silence. “Once he died, I became so lonely… One
in the whole entire world… Sometimes I think I should have died together with
him… I would love to, but… somehow it does not work. I am still alive. See?…” The volunteer’s
eyes turned watery. He looked at Tony expressing love, compassion and
understanding and inviting him to talk, to tell more and finally, share his
cherished wish. “I thought… Maybe
this year I could remember him. Just have a little drink on the day he died…
Just sit there, have a drink all by myself and remember him. All those days
we spent together… You know… It’s just like we had life back than… And now…”
Tony nodded angrily. “In the Rehab… What am I going to remember him with? With
orange juice? Or maybe decaffeinated coffee? I’m sure those doctors
themselves drink every day. Does that mean they are going to offer me some?
Even for a special occasion? No way!” Tony nodded again and swiped with his
right hand in the most annoyed and exasperate way. “And you… What
would you like to remember him with?” “ You see, usually
my brotha and I had whisky to celebrate. Just a little, just so we could
relax a little bit. So… I thought… maybe just a Mickey… The whole big bottle
I do not even want to touch. Too much, you know. Bad for your health…And I do
not have anyone to share it with, so one little Mickey would just do it for
me. Just to remember him that day...” “Mickey – this is the small one? The
250 mills?” the Volunteer definitely was moving in the right direction. “Yeah! That’s what
it is!” “Then we’ll just
stop by a liqueur store on our way back and will grab one. You choose and
I….I pay for it. Finally it’s not every day that one mourns on the day of the
only brother’s death”. Tony decided to
keep silence. He turned his face to the volunteer his eyes almost watery with
expression of sincere gratefulness and gratitude. “Silence is gold,” said
Tony to himself. “And this is exactly the case,” and just to be on the safe
side he squeezed a stingy, lonely tear out of his right eye. * * * The two found a
parking spot right in front of the liqueur store. The volunteer helped Tony
to get out of the car and thoughtfully held the door to the store open for
him. Tony was not rushing: he was carefully choosing a good Mickey for
tonight – a quality, but not an expensive one: finally he was not some kind
of egotistical jerk. He patiently waited for the volunteer to pay for it and
as soon as this good deed was accomplished Tony expeditiously hid the
treasure in his pocket and asked to bring him home. Another pleasant
surprise was waiting for Tony at the rehab. All the workers on the unit – the
nurse and her assistant, with whom he would have to spend the rest of the
day, were casuals and novices. That meant that there was nobody to sniff or
frisk him, and he Tony would be able to roll the unit for tonight. At the entrance hе
said goodbye to the volunteer whose name he had long forgotten, and
supporting himself on the walker jerked the door open. “I demand the
increase of my daily tobacco ratio!” – barked Tony from the doorsteps looking
straight at the young, tall and skinny nurse anxiously staring at him from
behind the nursing station. “I want
more smokes every day! I have the right to get it!!!” He knew damn well
that his tobacco ratio was maxed out as it is and his doctor would never
approve even a small increase but he also knew that an attack was the best
form of defense. This rule never ever deceived him before. The nurse jumped to
the cupboard with the clients’ files frightened by his yell and quickly
leafed through his chart hoping to find the right answer to Tony’s demand
exactly as he had expected. “Don’t worry…
Please, don’t worry,” muttered the nurse her voice trembling. “Give me just
one second, please. I’ll explain… In just a second…” “By the looks of it
– you are more worried than I am,” snickered Tony to himself and using the
perfect moment of confusion mastered by him in split seconds promptly rolled
his precious treasure into his room. His left leg was making large, loud,
angry steps while his right one was dragging carefully trying not to bang the
bottle against the walker. The riddle could give away his little secret. The rest of the
evening went by uneventful. Couple of times he bawled out at some of the
clients. Just so… Just to persuade himself and others around him that this
day and this evening was an ordinary one, no different from all the other
days and evenings that he spent here in the last two years. This way no one
would be suspicious and no one would even think of checking his room or
watching him more carefully. A couple of times he dropped a package of smokes
by the nursing station and demanded the nurse to pick it up for him that very
second. “You are a public
servant and I… I am the public! You have to serve me! Move!” yelled Tony
hoarsely at the young girl through the loud wheezing. The nurse quickly
dove under the walker just not to agitate “the poor client” and promptly
fetched Tony’s smokes: “Here you are. Please, don’t you worry”. “That’s it,” was
his reply, and instead of “thank you” he gave her an angry look and strolled
away. “That’s it,” he repeated to himself, “now no one is gonna sniff
around!” The evening was his. He was only anticipating the time alone with
his dear Mickey. “There it is …My
little one …” whispered Tony tenderly feeling the tiny bottle in his pocked.
He flopped down onto his bed with his clothes on and began to wait for others
to settle in their rooms. He waited for all sounds to be gone and for silence
to begin. He waited for the moonshine to cut through the cold skies and gild
his white windowsill. He waited for his loneliness… Sometimes those
lonely nights made him remember. Now as if out of spite, the stupid memories
were flooding his head. He did not like his memories and not because they
were telling him how hurt he was. No. If someone was hurt – those were the
people around him, and he was the hurting one. Nobody ever dared to touch him
or to show him any disrespect. The nasty part of his memories was that he
never could remember one day, one hour of his life when he simply felt happy.
Those enthusiastic, delightful teenagers always in raptures over something
that was surrounding him seemed to find happiness in anything. Any small and
stupid thing could make them excited. Anything! “Oh! Hurray!
Tomorrow is Valentine!” “Cool! My father
gave me his old car!” “Ah! My parents and
I are going for two weeks on vacation! We are going to fly an airplane!” “Retards!” thought
Tony and sometimes spat it out loudly, “retards and morons!” At times he even
thought they were a bit drafted or, maybe simply trying to fool him and
themselves pretending to be happy. Really, deep down, they were just as
empty, as angry and edgy as was Tony. Maybe they simply thought it was
important to pretend to be happy? Well, he was not one of those. Time went by. The
reasons to be happy for his teenage friends changed but their idiotic
excitement was still there. Of course Tony knew they sometimes had bad days
as well. For example if a guy has been dumped by his girlfriend he would naturally be down for quite some time but
than he finds himself another love, and everything is rosy again. “Oh! Cool!
Oh! Great! Oh! I’m so happy!” (deleted the second Again) Once when Tony was
just sixteen he managed to unlock his father’s safe closet and snatched the
whole bottle of whiskey. He almost downed it on his own and for the first
time understood what it meant to feel happy. To say he felt absolutely happy
would be of course an exaggeration. But it felt sticky, it felt slow, it felt
lazy… It felt as if all his feelings were sucked into some kind of marsh. He
felt so lazy that he did not even care to hate or be angry. Nothing mattered.
It seemed as if he would not give a damn even if his house would burn down
this very moment… “That’s LIFE!”
thought Tony trying to strain the little part of his brain that was still
capable of producing thoughts and… passed out… Next morning of
course, Tony’s father found out about the missing bottle and Tony was in
trouble. There were fists flying. Dad was yelling and screaming. He said that
he would not take Tony with him to hunt for Tony’s seventeenth birthday.
“Now!” he yelled, “the hell with you! I’am not taking you hunting! Never!
Don’t even dream about it! How can I trust you now?!” Tony did not take
that seriously. He knew there were almost two full months left until his
birthday and it was not too hard to turn dad’s threats around. It wasn’t
exactly rocket science. Just drop something like: “Dad, I want to be just
like you when I grow up!” Then clean the chicken-house a couple times without
a reminder. And that was it. Bruises from his dad’s fists wouldn’t last long.
Besides, Tony was used to the fights by then. Sometimes he thought he even liked his
father’s violence. No, he did not like the pain inflicted by his dad but
rather something that this pain provoked in him. He liked the furious, raging
anger, the vehement and fervent hatred that those fights were waking up in
him. It was at least something
colorful. Something much better then his everyday numbness. That year just as
Tony anticipated, everything was fine by his seventeenth birthday. His dad
forgot about all his threats and together with Tony he went for his usual
autumn hunting trip. Now he knew what else could make him feel good besides
the booze. To say “feel happy” would sound too strong again. One can hardly
call happiness an exultation over a little embattled prey, small useless
victim of a leisure hunt. They were hunting almost all day, got a whole bunch
of birds and returned home by sundown. Daddy, as always, found his bottle of
whisky and did not seem to need anyone else. Tony stayed in his room thinking
about the rifle and how cool it would be to get it and go shooting and
hunting on his own. Who would know that he could get this opportunity that
same night? * * * Late in the evening
after dinner some neighbors came by. They remembered that it was Tony’s
birthday and came to say “Hi” to the “newborn” as they called him, and to
have a chat with his parents. Everybody had some beer, then whiskey, then
beer again… It happened to be a good get together. After midnight the quite
tipsy guests left. Tony’s mom finally found her way to the bedroom and slept
in. Daddy blacked out right there where he drank – in the living room, by the
always-on-and-loud TV. Without any trouble
Tony pulled the key to the safe with firearms from his dad’s pocket. Now a
real gun was only steps away from Tony. He quietly opened up the safe, took
dad’s favorite Ruger Deefield rifle and stepped out into the garden. In the
black sky eternal distant stars were shadowing their trembling humble light
into the crispy cold air. The chilly almost wintry October night crawled into
the garden and exhaling frost spilled over the grass. Tony sat on the stairs
his face numbing from cold. It felt as if the emptiness of that cold and
lonely night was lying heavily on his chest and did not want to let his heart
beat freely. “So… I am seventeen now… Hurray! Now what? “ thought Tony
“Tomorrow is a school day again, and again I have to face those idiots with
their perma-happiness: ‘Ah, so sweet! Ah, so cool!”… Then I’ll get home and
will argue with mom again and will have to explain to her that I am not a
slave to work in her house. Do I need it? Why the hell should I put this up?
Do I have to be engaged in all this drudgery called ‘Life’?” Tony grabbed the
rifle and aimed at one glimmering, flickering star somewhere up in the sky.
He bent his pointer somewhere near the trigger and half whispered half
exhaled: “Bang!” Then looked up at the tree tops barely distinguishable in
the dark air: “Stupid stars! Too far to shoot…” He was right on
that one. A bullet, small drop of plumb sent from the cold October night
would not reach a star in a million years.
“It won’t get there but do I really care?” kept Tony thinking. Well,
he did not. His life was here, in this ugly marsh filled up with rapturous,
ever-delighted morons surrounding him every single day… Tony looked at his
feet dressed in old worn-out runners covered in mud with the back pressed
into the sole, then at the crispy cold grass hardened by the frost, and a
genius idea came to him: what if he would cut it off right now? What if he
would just clear off from this strange place for ever? Where? Tony did not
believe in God or the Devil, neither in the hell, nor in paradise. He did not
care where he would go, just wanted to leave behind all that stupid everyday
drag called life. And what a chance he had tonight! “On my birthday night…
Just one shot and I’am out of here… Like a real guy too…” thought Tony,
nodded his head and smiled to himself. That was the kind of death he could
only dream about… Not to lose any
more time, Tony turned his baseball cap backwards so that the cap peak would
not be in the way and put the barrel to his chest where his heart was
pounding heavily under the checkered cowboy shirt just an inch away from the
cold metal of the weapon. Tony’s left arm supported the heavy rifle his right
hand’s thumb on the trigger. The boy inhaled for the last time and slowly
applied pressure… Shit!!! Why didn’t
he shoot all the owls in the neighborhood first?! Just as he almost broke the
resistance of the sensitive trigger and his goal was only a hair away
something moved in the thick dark crown of the nearest pine tree. A few
branches broke off, and a big heavy owl dashed out of the tree loudly
flapping her strong wings. Tony’s left hand twitched and the right thumb
pressed the trigger as if in a spasm… The bullet broached
his chest just an inch or two above the heart. In powerless rage Tony fell
down on the steps of the porch. He carefully felt the area where just seconds
ago dad’s rifle was pointing to shoot through his heart. Blood! Sticky, still
warm and already cooling down on the surface of his flannel shirt it smeared
between the tips of his fingers. “Bloody loser!”
yelled Tony in a weak voice. He spat and right away realized that his spittle
fell on his own chest, somewhere near the wound. Could he cry right now he
would but it seemed that mother-nature didn’t grant him even that small gift
- the ability to cry, to shed tears and let all his heavy feelings out. The
ability to let them go... In silence he lay there staring at the high, cold,
dark unreachable skies. Woken up by the
sound of the gunshot Tony’s mom and sisters appeared at the doorsteps on the
porch. He heard them cry, squeak and yell, he heard them run into the house
and try to wake up his sleeping drunken dad. Then there were sirens of an
ambulance, and a couple of calm and easy-going nurses. There was a stretcher
and a silent ride to the hospital. It felt as if someone turned off the
light. No, it was not the light …those were all the lights in the world. It
felt as though Tony was cast under the water and no noise or light, not even
thoughts were able to reach him. It was a blissful NOTHING. Perhaps it was
the place where Tony tried to get on the wings of the small plumb bullet from
his father’s rifle? Now skillful
doctors were trying hard to get him back, out of there. Than there were
dressings and bandages, there were clean hospital smells and much later –
endless visits to boring and stupid counselors, psychologists and
psychiatrists: “Have you had
suicidal thoughts before?” “………………………” “Were yopu planning
to use your father’s rifle? “………………………” “Were you teased
and mocked at school by your peers?” “………………………” “Have you been
getting along with your parents and siblings?” “………………………” “What are the most
pleasant memories of your childhood?” “………………………” “What if you had a
magic wand? Just imagine….. You have a magic wand that can fulfill all your
wishes. What would you wish for?” “………………………” “What kind of
relations did you have in your family?” “………………………” Tony kept silent.
He firmly decided not to talk with those idiots. What could he tell them? Did
they really want to hear that the only thing he was regretting was the fact
that because of the stupid owl he misfired? Was he suppose to share with them
that had he had a magic wand he would first shoot all the owls and than
finish what he planned? This time Tony had one wish only: he wanted to be
left alone. He wanted all those morons to leave. He wanted them to stop
asking him their idiotic questions. Pretty soon it
became clear, that Tony was not wishing to communicate and maintain the
dialog with experts. He was left alone and awarded with a fancy psychiatric
diagnosis. Now he was getting the whole bunch of pills every single day.
After that …. After that there were years of heavy drinking, successful and
not so much so fistfights and close acquaintance with local cops… And now he was old
and not as strong as before. They signed him out into some kind of fancy
“experimental rehabilitation facility”. What was he supposed to be
rehabilitated from? He did not give a damn, nor did he care. If someone would
offer him a magic wand, he would first try to get rid of all the doctors
because it was them who pulled him back from NOTHINGNESS on that remote
October night. After that he would have gotten all the owls, and at the very
end, he would have taken care of
himself. The clock on the
wall was ticking its eternal hobbling rhythm, and all even the most restless
patients of the rehab probably slept by now. It was quiet. Out of the pocket
of his fleece vest Tony fetched two round white pills that he managed to
sneak at dinner time, when the evening meds were dispensed. He carefully
cleaned them from the flakes of tissue that his pockets were always stuffed
with and sat down on his bed. It was Tony’s old proven effective recipe,
which he called “Tony’s cocktail”. He liked the supper-buzz he was getting
from mixing hard liqueur with the pills prescribed by his psychiatrist. This
mix was just cutting off all his thoughts and feelings and gave some rest to
his heart tired and worn out by anger and hatred. He put the two little pills
on the tip of his tongue. Tony opened his
little bottle of whiskey and made the first generous gulp. It felt hot. The
gulp of whiskey rolled down his throat, warmed up the stomach and immediately
requested a gasp of fresh air. Rapidly and loudly Tony sniffed the stuffy air
of his room and made another gulp. II All mornings in the
rehab are the same. Tony gets up, wets his face so that the nurse would think
he had a shower, gets his pills and goes to the breakfast table. For
breakfast he usually gets porridge, cheese and a couple of eggs, and usually
his breakfast is delivered to his table. Everyone in his care would prefer to
bring him his food rather than provoke his anger. When angry, Tony was scary.
He knew that and was using it smartly.
This morning though
he did not feel well. His lips seemed unwilling to shape words, his tongue
was heavy, and his right leg did not want to move. Unsuccessfully he tried to
explain to the new caregiver what his usual breakfast was but could not
articulate even the most common words. The novice could not understand him,
and Tony blew up: after another attempt to explain himself Tony chucked a
flowery plastic glass at the caregiver. He missed but the fact itself that a
patient is throwing objects at staff members created panic as always. Those
stupid morons called everything “weapon” even if it was an orange or an empty
and weightless plastic glass. That was exactly what happened this time.: “An
object was used to…” heard Tony someone reporting on the phone. “Oh yes, one
definitely can say ‘violence’…” Of course, the
nurse arrived immediately with her stupid questions like “Why did you throw a
glass?” and “What made you so upset?” Tony really wanted to say something
colorful to her but his tongue did not want to move at all, and instead of
words he mumbled something incomprehensible. “Something is wrong
with him!” shrieked the nurse. “He might have a stroke! Quickly! Somebody!
Call the ambulance!” Just minutes later
a couple of muscled guys were dragging Tony on a stretcher and a minute later
he was already rushed to the hospital. Than there was the same routine well
known to him: “Your name?” “Your place of
birth?” “Your year of
birth?” “Your card number?” Someone answered all the questions for Tony,
and he was rolled into the waiting room. A few more minutes passed, and
through the corner of his eye Tony saw a strongly-built gentleman approaching
him swiftly and quietly. The gentleman was in his late forties, with thick
gray hair and rectangular frameless glasses carrying a notebook in his hand.
His feet packed into soft and shiny shoes of brown leather were making quick,
firm, confident and at the same time quiet steps. A young girl, perhaps a
nurse or a student, was following him just a step behind. “A doctor…” thought
Tony. “This is the kind I hate the most, and….” – But even his thoughts were
tangled by now in his head. The doctor reached Tony’s bed and opened a skinny
folder passed to him by his assistant. He quickly skimmed through the page
and looked at Tony a little bit above his tiny glasses: “Well my friend,
how are we doing today?” “U-u-u-a-a-an!” Tony
tried to swear but even the swearwords refused to comply. He angrily cut the
air right in front of him looked at the doctor and spat on the floor right
beside his bed. Oh, I do understand
you my friend,” the doctor tried to comfort Tony. “Do not get upset. We will
take good care of you, and you will be just fine”. The intonation
itself, the way this doctor was speaking was clearly giving away his
belonging to the upper class, and for some reason that was making Tony really
mad. “U-u-ua-a-h-ah-u!”
he tried to reply, again attempting to scramble sounds together and form some
words. “Please, don’t
trouble yourself my friend. Really, it is not good for you now. Just try to
relax,” the doctor smiled at Tony in the friendliest way and started making
notes in his notebook. “A-a-a-u-u-u!”
Mumbled Tony and pointed at doctor’s notebook. “Ah-h! I guess now
I understand you my friend! That is quite brilliant indeed! You want to write
instead of trying to speak? Brilliant! Susan, please, would you give this gentleman
your clip-board and a pen?” In just seconds all
items, mentioned by the doctor were passed on to Tony. Thank God one hand was
still working and for the first time in many years a genuine happy smirk
touched his face. With an effort he scribbled something on the piece of paper
and returned it to the doctor’s assistant. She read while Tony watched
carefully for her reaction. “Here…” She
definitely seemed confused. “Here… I don’t think it is important… Clinically
important, I mean…” “It is OK,” the
doctor evidently decided to assess the writing himself. “Everything can turn
out to be an important clinical piece,” and he carefully pulled the paper out
of his assistant’s hands. “Fuck off” stated
Tony’s message in big clumsy letters “Well, most likely
you are right. It may not necessarily be important clinically,” and the
doctor gave Tony a quick and careful look. U-u-u-ah-a-a-a!”
mumbled Tony once again pointing at Sue with his tobacco-stained yellow
finger. “Sue, would you
please give him another sheet? He seems to be a little bit upset, I can
certainly understand that.” Once again the
assistant passed on to Tony her clip-board and a pen. And once again a short
message was ready to go in just minutes. This time Tony insisted that doctor
reads the note himself. To make sure that he was understood, he pointed his
finger at the doctor and mumbled something again. The Doctor got him and took
the paper from Tony’s hands. “Fuck YOU!” was
scribbled there this time. Tony shook his head
as if in support of the written and just read statement and tried to smile.
Doctor looked at him again. He stood up, whispered something to his assistant
and gave Tony another look: “Well, my friend… I
will see you later. Take care, and, please try to calm down and enjoy
yourself.” Still mumbling,
Tony made an attempt to grab the doctor’s chair by the leg and throw it at
the moron but the doctor was clever and quickly pulled the chair out of
Tony’s reach while Tony angrily and helplessly spat on the floor and threw
himself on the narrow hospital bed. He was sweating and anger was strangling
him.
III The very clever
nurse from the rehab was right. Tony did have a stroke and he died later the
same night. This time luck was on his side, and doctors could not bring him
back. The very next day, a letter written by Tony’s psychiatrist was sent to
everyone in his care. Here is what it
said: “It is a very sad
day for all of us. Yesterday one of our clients Tony C. passed away in
hospital. He was a courageous man. That is with dignity and pride that he
withheld all the difficulties and ordeals of his life. His beautiful heart,
his pleasant manners and nice temper helped him to acquire a lot of friends.
His life was not easy, and we can call him a true hero of our time. Our
memories about Tony will always be beautiful.”
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