Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,16
for then families liked to rid themselves of unwanted and incontinent organic old ladies, so they could enjoy Christmas or Easter without the pressure of an invalid. Graceland was cheaper than a rest home, and afterward, if conscience troubled, they could always take a drive and reclaim her. Best of all, on weekends they could drop a patient off and be miles away before the lone on-call physician had a chance to interview her. The worse the weather, the better Marlowe liked it: involuntary commitments might come in at any time, but it was unlikely that the family would decide to haul off Grandma when it looked like it might pour down all day.
By midnight Marlowe limped back to his office and collapsed on his couch. He had had fourteen admissions since morning, with more on the way. Most of the usual problems he had been able to deal with over the phone—too much medication, too little medication, extra-pyramidal reactions to the medications. Marlowe titrated and adjusted, switched from phenothiazines to Haldol or Navane or vice versa, dispensed Artane and Cogentin as required. Metal chains and straitjackets had required no such artistry, but the old-timers told Marlowe of how they used to scream and howl on nights of the full moon in the days before major tranquilizers, and Marlowe kept it quiet the nights he was on call.
Marlowe’s eyes stung. A Philippino resident had admitted a patient Thursday night and not noticed that he was a severe alcoholic; nor had the resident who inherited him in the morning and who transferred him to an open ward. When the patient went into DT’s with paranoid delusions, it took security two full cans of Mace to convince him to drop the table leg he was swinging like a club at anything, real or delusional, that came within reach. Marlowe had had to examine the patient once subdued, and Mace was still running like sweat off the man’s blistering skin.
The familiar coffee burn in his stomach reminded Marlowe that he hadn’t eaten anything except a candybar and a large tomato one of the nurses had carried in from her garden. Fast Fare had closed, even had Marlowe felt up to a short drive. Redeyed (“Remember—don’t rub your eyes,” security had warned him.), Marlowe pawed through his filing cabinet and uncovered a can of ravioli. He managed to open it without cutting himself, found a plastic spoon and fed himself cold ravioli from the can. He considered heating it on his hotplate, but lacked the time or ambition. He almost fell asleep while chewing, but his beeper reminded him who and where he was.
At 3 in the morning Willy Winslow on South Unit smashed the salt shaker he had stolen earlier and sawed at his wrists with the jagged glass. He was quite pleased when he flailed his bleeding wrists against the nurses’ station window, but neither the ward attendants nor Marlowe shared his amusement.
Winslow was a regular at Graceland, one of an undefined group of patients who enjoyed staying in state institutions, constantly admitted and readmitted, either voluntarily or involuntarily, and constantly discharged again. Winslow was well known to all the staff at Graceland; if he could not con a resident into a voluntary admission, he would gash his wrists and gain an involuntary commitment thereby. During this, his seventeenth admission to Graceland, a concerned resident from one of the better private medical schools had devoted three months toward helping Winslow re-enter the community. Bolstered by an extensive outreach program, Winslow was to be discharged next week.
Marlowe, selecting from the suture tray, gazed at the masses of scar tissue upon each wrist and shook his head. “Mr Winslow, you managed to do this without anesthetic, and I don’t see why I should waste any in sewing you back together.”
Winslow’s eyes glittered, but he didn’t reply. It was, perhaps, an old game.
“And how many times do I have to tell you,” said Marlowe, drawing the curved needle with difficulty through the layers of scar, “cut lengthwise down your wrist, just here below the thumb—not crosswise.”
Frank Carnell was still in seclusion when Marlowe made rounds through North Unit on Sunday evening, but the ward attendants reported that he had been quiet throughout the day, and he appeared to be ready to come out into the ward. Marlowe found him sitting up on the edge of his bed, staring dazedly at his hands.
“Good evening, Mr Carnell. How are you feeling today?”