Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,11
vodka; sometimes I need pills. I wake up before dawn, just lie awake thinking about things that keep running through my mind. Tired all the time. No appetite. No energy. Used to jog to my classes; now I just cut them and lie about the apartment. Haven’t been able to study in weeks.” Carnell spoke slowly, and Marlowe sensed tears.
“When did all this begin?”
“This spring. I’m in journalism at State, trying to complete work on my doctorate before the funds all dry up. My wife said she’d had enough of floating around the secretarial pool to pay the bills while I played the eternal student. She’s shacked up with her old boss from central accounting, and the divorce is pending. I haven’t been able to adjust to that. My performance has been on the skids—I’m supposed to teach a class during summer session, but I’ve missed so many my students don’t bother either. I’ve been called on the carpet by the department twice. I’m broke, in debt, and now my fellowship has been canceled. It’s just that no matter how hard I try, it just keeps getting worse.”
Marlowe waited while Carnell worked to control his voice. “Mr Carnell, I certainly understand that you have good reason to be undergoing a great deal of anxiety and depression. However, since this appears directly related to your present life situation, I feel confident that this disturbance is a transient one. This is a painful crisis in your life, and I appreciate the profound distress you are experiencing. Under the circumstances, I definitely agree that you need professional counseling; however, I believe you would far better benefit from outpatient counseling rather than hospitalization at this time.”
Carnell fumbled with his flight bag. “Am I to understand that you are refusing me psychiatric care?”
“Not at all!” Marlowe had seen patients produce knives and an occasional handgun from unscreened personal belongings, but he doubted that Carnell was likely to turn violent. “I very strongly urge you to accept professional counseling. In my opinion you will derive considerably greater benefits through outpatient therapy than as a hospitalized patient here at Graceland.”
“In other words, in your opinion I’m better off seeing a shrink on the outside than I’d be if I entered Graceland State as a patient.” There was a certain triumph in Carnell’s voice. “Well, it happens that I’m broke. I can’t afford to be psychoanalyzed by some hundred-bucks-an-hour private shrink.”
“That isn’t necessary, Mr Carnell. If you wish, I can make an appointment for you to be seen on a priority basis this Monday at your community mental health clinic in Franklin; Dr Liebman there is an excellent therapist. Or if you prefer, I can make an appointment for you at the medical school to be seen by the psychiatric outpatient service.”
“I’m a tax-paying citizen of this state, Dr Marlowe. Why are you refusing me treatment in a state facility?”
“I’m not refusing you treatment, Mr Carnell. I frankly do not believe that hospitalization would be beneficial to you. If you would prefer to receive treatment at Graceland rather than in your local community, I will gladly make an appointment for you to be seen Monday in our outpatient clinic.”
“Suppose I don’t care to wait until Monday for medical attention.”
“Mr Carnell, you must understand that our facilities here are limited. Our primary task is to care for the severely disabled patient, the chronically ill. Patients whose problems can best be dealt with without hospitalization are directed toward more appropriate community programs.”
“Dr Marlowe, I can’t wait until next week for you to shuffle me off to some community agency. I can’t keep going on like I have these last weeks. If I don’t get help now I’m afraid...”
He paused to make certain Marlowe was giving his undivided attention.
“Well, I have quite a collection of sleeping pills. Tonight I feel like taking them all.”
“I have some papers you’ll need to sign,” Marlowe said.
After 2 am Marlowe let himself into the employees’ snack bar. It was nothing more than a cinder-block room, walled with vending machines, furnished with plastic tables and chairs about the color of tomato soup that’s been left too long to cool. It differed from the patients’ snack bar in that the plastic tables and chairs were not bolted to the tiled floor, spectators did not gape at the machines in slack-jawed hopefulness, and the drugs that changed hands were of better quality. There was also a microwave oven.
The oven was Marlowe’s solace during hungry nights on call. Underhill