CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

A long, winding road like an unraveled infinity snake. A domed canopy of thick foliage to protect the path from the harsh burn of the sun, and also from the soothing comforts of the moon. After a drive that felt like a fairy tale journey, Christopher’s turquoise VW Beetle puttered into a sparsely filled parking lot and slid into a spot adjacent to a sign claiming:

 

Welcome to The Sweetville Happy Hotel!
Where troubled minds rest at ease.
Please lock your vehicle.
Do not leave purses, wallets, jewelry, spare change, expensive sunglasses, tools, compact discs, or other valuables exposed.
We are not responsible for any loss or damages.

 

“You sure you want to come in, Trix?” Christopher asked. “I’ll probably only be a few minutes.”

“Well, I already came all this way,” Trixie said. She placed her hand atop his and lightly massaged his knuckles. “It’s just your cousin. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Through the windshield, Christopher saw a man in an all-white jumpsuit rocking back and forth on a bench in perfect metronomic time. A few trickles of sunlight highlighted a glistening slug of drool escaping from his mouth. A woman dressed in almost identical garb danced barefoot in the courtyard, her arms playing an invisible accordion. An orderly stood nearby, ready to act, but only if absolutely necessary. The grass below their feet was brown and dry, like the top of a Marine private’s head.

“I know. It’s not that. I invited you obviously. It’s just that no one else ever comes to visit him. His mom, well, she got, uh…sick and his dad passed away. My mom couldn’t really take care of him well enough after…” Christopher looked distraught. Somewhere in the distance, a shriek almost indiscernible as human.

“After what?”

“Kinda complicated. He’s only been in here for a couple of months. He never really had a normal high school life or anything. Even though he’s a few years younger than me, we had a lot of classes together since he skipped a few grades. Super gifted kid but pretty much socially inept. He didn’t have any other friends, so we used to spend a lot of time together back then, before the…accident. I feel bad if I don’t come to see him frequently.”

“What happened exactly? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, that’s fine. If I can’t talk to you about it, then who can I open up to?” Trixie offered a shy smile, proud that she was worthy of sharing secrets. “You ever heard of the Linguistic Fetishists?”

“Is that the band with the video they keep playing on MTV? The one with the really bad claymation?”

Christopher shook his head and clarified that they were a group of brilliant researchers who devoted their lives to the study of all languages.

“Oh, okay,” Trixie said. “Yeah I know who you’re talking about now.” She had seen a brief story on the news about a convention the Linguistic Fetishists had held in town a few months back. Their expertise had seemed so extensive. Primeval unearthed glyphs. Covert slang. Tribal clicks. Uncharted developments of the imminent future.

“Well,” Christopher said, “he was interning for them and was apparently doing really well. Deciphering primitive languages and, like, pidgin dialects from places I’ve never even heard of.”

“No way! He could figure out what birds were saying?”

Christopher laughed. “No. P-I-D-G-I-N. Like slang that’s specific to a particular region.”

“Oh. Whoops!” Trixie wanted to crawl inside the glove compartment and hide. What brilliance would come out of her mouth next?

“But he was working on an infomercial for those Withering Wyldes weirdos when his illness hit him.”

“Oh my God. Did they do something to him?”

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I mean, I have my suspicions. Sometimes I think he got a little too close to cracking the code to their language, and they decided they didn’t like that very much.”

“Sounds like he was a mega-genius.”

“Yeah, totally. Still is, but he can’t figure out how to channel it properly anymore. I guess the major drawback to him being so smart is that it was only a matter of time before something in his brain burst wide open and altered his personality. And now he’s stuck in this shithole. Seems fair, right?”

Trixie noticed Christopher was putting up a good fight against the tears.

“Hey,” she said, “I’ve been…I’ve known people who have been in worse places than this. This is nothing. Really. Hell, I even knew a girl who ended up in here for a while.”

“Oh, yeah? Were you close?” Christopher missed Trixie’s near flub. He smiled at her with dumb adoration. She pulled down the sun visor and glanced into the tiny mirror. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing elfin ears. Her bangs were freshly trimmed, but not perfectly crafted.

“I guess. Kind of an old friend, for lack of a better term. Her name was Gwen. She was probably released a while ago. Geez, I sure hope so. But I never came to visit her when she was here. We kind of weren’t friends by that point anyway. But still…I pretty much suck.” A strand of loose hair intruded on her bangs. Christopher unconsciously brushed it away for her. She leaned over, placed her hand on his thigh, and gave him a soft peck on the cheek.

“No, I definitely get it,” he said. “No matter how many times I come here, it still gives me the creeps.” He attached his steering wheel lock and exited the vehicle, then hustled around to the other side to open the door for Trixie.

“My, oh my. However did I find such a gentleman?”

“Darling,” he said in his best attempt at a Groucho Marx impression, “those are my principles, and if you don’t like them, well, I have others.”

“Marriage is a wonderful institution,” she replied, considerably less successful with the same impression. “But who wants to live in an institution?”

 “Could you be any more perfect?”

“I could, but that would take too much effort.”

“You’re on fire today.” He offered his bent elbow and she took it. “Shall we begin down the yellow brick road?”

“I’m ready.” They started down the path, which was, more accurately, made of weather-worn asphalt. Fossilized wads of gum formed ground constellations and persistent weeds pushed through cracks, withered fingers escaping from forgotten tombs.

“I probably should give you a heads up, though. I know you’ve heard a little bit of this from his messages on my machine, but the way my cousin talks now, it’s a little odd at first. And that’s putting it lightly.”

* * *

At the front desk sat a piggish receptionist with a hornet’s nest in place of a hairdo. The air in the lobby was humid. Stagnant body odor permeated the space.

“Sign in, please,” the woman said, her pitch all nasal, no low end. Her nametag read: Ruth, but the H was smeared so it looked more like Ruta. Christopher shook his head and scribbled his name.

“Isn’t Linda here?” He tried to peer into the office behind the front desk. “She knows me. I’ve been coming for a couple of months.”

“Nope. Out sick. Who you here to see?”

“William Ekkert.”

Ruta the Pig Woman stared at Christopher and then dug through a few papers, pretending to scrutinize them, but not actually paying close attention.

“Which room is he in?” Trixie asked.

“Ah, that’s the Dr. Seuss wannabe, right? Room 999. First floor. Okay, go ahead.” She waved Christopher in with her ham-hock hand, then glared at Trixie. “Not you, missy. You need to sign in, too.” Ruth/Ruta tapped her press-on nail on the desk. Christopher shot her a scathing glare, but she had already returned to skimming her Reader’s Digest.

Trixie looked down at the sign-in sheet. It read:

 

Signing this absolves us of any and all liability.
All guests must register—No exceptions
Yes, that means you.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Trix. It’s just a formality. You’ll be safe. I’m right here with you.”

“Says the man who doesn’t get paid just above minimum wage to have feces thrown at him on an almost daily basis,” Ruth said, her eyes never leaving the page of the magazine.

Christopher and Trixie began their trek down the long, narrow hallway. The fluorescent lights, exuding the full extent of their wattage, highlighted every flaw in the walls. They passed by cobweb chandeliers. Dust bunnies thick as Berber carpet. Peeled paint posing as abstract wall art.

“God, she was a mega-bitch,” Trixie said.

“Yeah, well, I almost can’t blame her considering where she works. Almost. I think it’d get to most people. I know I couldn’t do it.”

On the right side of the hallway they passed office spaces, a custodial closet and a unisex restroom. The left was strictly for the patients. The first patient room, 111, was open and vacant. An orderly was hosing it down. The space was about fifteen feet square, but there appeared to be another fifteen feet of solid cement wall between it and the next room. Trixie searched for the reason behind that design and came up short. A faint moan crept under the door of Room 222. A face peered out of Room 444, a man with striking amber eyes, grey spittle caking his lips. Soon they passed by Room 777. The door was ajar and Trixie watched as another orderly attempted to coax a catatonic woman the size of a wildebeest into consuming a bowl of mush. The orderly shoved a spoon up against the woman’s tight-lipped mouth. The mush splattered to the floor. When they reached Room 999, Trixie could hear a strangely melodious hum coming from behind the door. Christopher knocked and it ceased.

“William, you there? It’s me. Chris.”

A quick scurry of slipper-clad feet and the door opened a crack. A nervous eye peeked through. When the door swung wide it revealed a young man with a figure so runty and a face so callow that he could have auditioned at a casting call for pre-teens. He wore a long brown pocket tee that fit him like a baggy dress. Thankfully he also wore a humble pair of dark sweatpants to counter this image. A teenage mustache gone wild sprinkled his upper lip.

“Well, hey man, what’s the pleasure of this?” he asked.

“William, what happened to your eye?”

William touched the bandage on his forehead as if he had forgotten it was there. “Oh, this is nothing. Just had to question why,” he said.

“Why?”

“Yes, why. Why I cry. Pay attention, cuz. I know you don’t get high.”

Trixie found William’s responses disturbing and difficult to follow. She was beginning to understand what Christopher had meant in regard to his cousin’s peculiar speech impediment.

“Jesus Christ, why didn’t someone call?” Christopher asked.

William held his arm out, inviting his guests into his living quarters. The décor was sparse. A small cot was topped with a bundle of tattered sheets well overdue for a wash. Next to it was a wood nightstand that had been busted and glued back together so many times it appeared to be holding itself together out of spite.

“Dunno. They probably couldn’t read the writing on the wall.” William attempted a subtle nod toward the partition directly behind his cot.

This piqued Trixie’s interest. She glanced at the wall and saw nothing. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed, confused or some combination of the two.

William tapped at his raw, pink knuckles. Though he was barely set to enter his twenties, his hair was thinning from excessive follicle picking.

Christopher whispered to Trixie, “I think I know what happened to his eye. This is what they call SIB. Self-injurious behavior. He’s never going to admit that, though.” Turning his attention back to his cousin he asked, “William, who did this to you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “My words within these walls will never ring true.” He lifted what was left of his hair and pointed at a pale scar etched into his scalp. “Not quite a lobotomy. More like transorbital sodomy.”

“Fucking hell,” Christopher said. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Hard to say exactly where they’ve been poking.” William shrugged, smirked, and returned to his original tangent. “I’ve always been a healthy boy, only allergic to avocado and soy. I can handle my own affairs, but I think sometimes they’re still scared by what they see in my eyes. Realistically, it should come as no surprise.”

William was beginning to sound like a bad hip-hop artist. Trixie couldn’t take it anymore. A laugh escaped her lips.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she said. “It’s just…your cousin’s really funny.”

William wiped his eye with the back of his arm, scanned Trixie up and down and pushed his tongue deep into his cheek. He nodded approvingly. “So, my man Chris…are you going to introduce me to your honey?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. I was just distracted by this whole eye thing, which, by the way, I’m definitely looking into later. Fuck. Hopefully Linda will be here next time I come by. There never seems to be anyone else in charge around this fucking place.”

“I know,” William said. “It’s quite a disgrace.”

“This is my girlfriend. Her name’s Trixie.”

Trixie swooned internally upon hearing those words spoken aloud. The title of girlfriend was so concise. Was that really the first time that official term had been used? Did it actually matter considering it was stated in front of someone classified by the city as mentally unstable?

William did a clownish little bow, grabbed her hand and came within inches of kissing her fingertips. She could feel his hot breath licking her cuticles. The scent of garlic wafted up to her nostrils.

“Nice to meet you, William,” she said. He simply nodded and smiled.

“William, if you feel comfortable, would you mind explaining your situation to Trixie, since I already know the drill?”

William began a rapid-fire verbal delivery. “Well, Miss Trixie, if I deviate from the rhyme scheme, my brainwaves kill. I may not always make perfect or even general sense, but that only becomes problematic for the terminally dense. They call it Lotus Aphasia, ‘cause my mind’s bound like a geisha. Broca’s a link in Wernicke’s chain, melded into one superior brain. My patterns are mine, my comfort divine. If my brain hurts, the crisis will avert any chance of information transfer, any hope or semblance of satisfactory answers. The doctor’s hypothesize that my personality snapped, that the old William is now trapped in this new confused—”

William stopped short, his face wrenched in intense pain. He kept mumbling something, but Trixie could not understand what it was. He shuffled over to a small desk, grabbed a marker and a sticky note and scrawled something onto the paper. He slapped the sticky note on his forehead and returned. The note had one word written on it: S(hell).

“Chris, what’s happening? Is he okay?”

“Don’t worry, babe.” Christopher lightly massaged the small of her back. “This is normal. He’s just having one of his fits because he took too long trying to find a rhyme. Happens pretty frequently, a few times a day depending on how many conversations he’s involved in. He’ll come out of it in a second. Just got to let it run its course.”

William’s head convulsed to the right, multiple times, like it was trying to keep time with pinball machine bells. The sticky note came loose and fell to the floor.

“I’d hate to think what happens if someone ever asks him about oranges.” Trixie whispered this into Christopher’s ear so it wouldn’t upset William any further.

As if on cue, William shot his finger in the air. “But, I digress. I’ve been diagnosed as clinically depressed. Funny thing is, I’m generally content. It’s being a prisoner that gets me so bent. It’s the doctor’s opinion that counts, my words aren’t worth an ounce of respect, but what did I expect? No one really understands what triggers my mind to unwind. Once just a normal kid, now I’m the boy with the wayward id. The bottom line is that my mind’s mine.” He tapped his fingers against his head hard enough to make a thumping sound. “You might argue I’m crazy or perhaps just too lazy to come to grips that what leaves my lips is—”

He looked geared up to launch into another fit when Christopher shouted, “Tourette’s poetry!”

William put a finger to his nose and pointed aggressively at Christopher with his other hand. He cracked a smile that could only come from someone labeled mad, then began a series of scattered giggles, and the emotion infected Christopher who laughed as well.

“We’ve been through this more times than I can count,” Christopher said. “If we make it into a game, it’s less stressful for him.”

“Less stressful, less grim. But that’s more than enough of this trivial stuff,” William said. He turned to Trixie. “I’m aware why you’ve come. Do you assume that I’m dumb? No, I know better, because you wanted to see the letter from Dr. Kast regarding The Truth, even if, for him, it was uncharacteristically uncouth.”

Did he just say what I think he just said? Trixie thought. She could feel damp pebbles of nervous sweat beading at her temples. There’s no way. I’m just hearing things now.

William continued. “Of course, I don’t even have it anymore. It was confiscated after the cleanup crew found it on my floor. Took the letter straight to the shredder. I believe Dr. Kast stated he was elated. He hoped for quick decisions about desired incisions. Sorry Trixie-doll, but that’s all I recall.”

Christopher turned to her and whispered, “He talks about this Dr. Kast character all the time. I’m pretty sure there’s no doctor here with that name. It’s best just to play along.”

Trixie feigned ignorance and agreed. She asked William, “Have you had any recent contact from this man? Dr. Kast?”

William shook his head. “However, his flunkies have planted bugs in the glass. Sporadic, metallic. They’re listening to my dreams to determine what they mean. The Withering Wyldes are putting me on daily trial. Never finished translating their infomercial, so they keep coming by for further rehearsal. Using too many of my visitor hours, and they don’t even think to bring me flowers.”

Trixie feared the shroud of her secrets was about to be ripped away. She decided to take a risk and plunge into open conversation with William, playing along with his game, masquerading her reality as part of its rules.

“They’ve come to visit me, too,” she said. “Dr. Kast and the Withering Wyldes. What’s the connection?”

 “No offense, but I believe they seek imperfection.”

“William, come on. That’s rude,” Christopher said.

“Sorry, dude. Just got into the mood.”

Trixie did not find this comment insulting. She simply filed it away.

“And Dr. Kast loves to talk about you,” William said. “I’ve been waiting for his cue. He’s difficult to trust, but I comply because I must.” This last part was barely audible.

“Wait a goddamn second,” Christopher said. “I’m way confused now. What the hell is going on here?”

“Shush, hon. I’ll tell you later.” Trixie pouted her lips and scrunched her eyes in flirty distraction.

William shook his finger at him. “Listen to your lady, cuz. She’s a feisty alligator.”

“I mean, I realize I just walked into Cuckoo City,” Christopher said, “but this is beyond ridiculous. Should I leave you two alone?”

“No need. The seeds have already been sown.” William grabbed Trixie by the shoulder, cupped a hand over her ear and murmured, “I know all there is to know about you. I’ve always known. Your secret is safe with me. I’m no tattle tale, you’ll see.” He offered her an exaggerated wink.

Christopher intervened and gently separated them. “William, that’s enough.”

“Hey now, Chris. No need to get rough.” William brushed off the front of his shirt, clearly annoyed.

“You ready to go, Trix?”

Trixie nodded. She was nauseous. She needed air. She needed to be set free.

* * *

As they left the building, Christopher said to Trixie, “That was kind of wild. How did you know how to adapt so well to his game?”

“I guess I’m just a natural?”

“Nah. He seemed to, like, vibe with you in a way I’ve never seen before. I’ve seen him behave aggressively a couple of times, but nothing like that.”

“I dunno. Maybe he’s just girl crazy. I mean, can you blame him?” She playfully framed her face with her hands and stuck her tongue out.

“Maybe. So what did William whisper to you anyway? You seemed kinda spooked.”

Trixie was careful choosing her next words. Something cute and humorous that would continue distracting him from the path to The Truth. She needed to state them with such conviction that Christopher had to believe.

“I think he was trying to ask me out or something.” She giggled. “He said, ‘If Christopher is ever stupid enough to dump you, you just give me a call.’ Or something like that. I didn’t memorize his rhyme. Then he told me when visitor hours were.”

“Oh yeah? Geez. My cousin, the failed Casanova. You worked really well with him, though. Brought something out of him I don’t think I ever will. You ever consider psychiatry as a career?”

“It’d sure as hell be better than some of the jobs I’ve had.”

As they drove away, Trixie pulled down the sun visor and flipped open the mirror to check her makeup. In the reflection, she could see the decrepit building behind her and hoped the cracks in the stucco were not large enough to allow her secrets to leak out.

They drove back to Sweetville proper, leaving the Happy Hotel behind. The thick foliage did its job, swallowing the path and covering it with a surplus of verdant tongues.