It isn't until I roll over, find my smokes and get one going... that I finally realize the blanket's gone. And the sheet is... different. Smoother.
The light clicks on. No TV - no window -
"Huh?"
"Stu! Howdy-do."
That phrase - and that voice.
I don't see anybody else in the room. But there's something familiar -
And I shiver, really hard. Not quite remembering, and not sure I want to. A recurring bad dream.
"Who's there?"
"You know."
No. But of course. What did I expect, really? Way too late, I remember a reason I stayed away from my hometown, all these years...
I sit up. The voice is coming from alongside the bed - way up in the air - and I don't see a speaker or anything. "What's the deal?"
"I've been waiting for this day for so long. You came back!"
That worries me. Coming from an old girlfriend, okay. But the voice is a guy's, and I snuck into town without telling anybody I was here. "What?"
"You left me behind. I'm gonna get you for that." Singsong voice. Way too happy.
I lean over the edge of the bed. Where the hell is that voice coming from? "This isn't funny."
The voice sighs. "Aw. Stu. You remembered."
"What are you talking a-"
My foot is picked up.
I look at it. Hands are around my ankles -
But I don't see them. Pulling my leg back... isn't working. The hands won't let go.
"This isn't... funny. You actually said that. To me."
Fingers run down the sole of my foot.
I jump, and make a weird barking noise. Flopping hard, now.
"Well. You wanna know what's funny?"
The fingers start tickling...
And rev it up.
I can only yell a couple times, because then I need to laugh too damn much. Twisting all around, bouncing -
I kick with my free foot - and it gets caught too. Shit. Oh, no.
The fingers... really get moving.
Tickling the shit out of me, and I can't get loose. Not a damn thing I can do about it.
Now that it's happening again, I do remember. This isn't the first time. Or the tenth.
Chuckling harder, squealing, cackling, bawling crude laughs - louder, hooting, yelping...
Whooping.
Roaring.
Howling.
Something... narrower is tightening around my ankles.
White rope.
My feet are up there, stuck together. I can't reach up that far.
They're making me crazy, the fingers, impressive, chilling, making me laugh. Tyrants.
The tickling continues for a very long time.
"Now this is funny," the voice says.
All I can do is gasp for air.
Hands pick me up... and carry me over to a chair. Somewhere along the way, my shorts and t-shirt are pulled off.
I look, and see a heavy wooden chair with a pillow on the seat. No matter how much I squirm, the hands sit me down. Pull my arms behind me...
Tie 'em tight.
Catch my ankles, and anchor them to the crossbar.
Kick, pull, slam around. Nothing works. I'm tied up. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna lose my mind -
"Don't deny it," the voice says, with a chuckle. "This is funny. Almost too funny."
"Help," I wail.
"Almost, but not quite. Too funny, and you'll pass out. That's not going to happen."
"Haaaallllp!"
"I know what I'm doing. That's why I moved you. We're at the old Baker place. You remember?"
"Oh... shit," I pant. This is definitely not my motel room.
Wait. There was an old farmhouse. Oh, no -
Tickled. All night. More than once. I'd persuaded myself, since... that I must've been drunk. Imagining the whole thing.
"No one will hear you. Don't worry. We're going to have a long reunion. Just you and me."
The fingers return.
"Hey. You know what else is funny? Attacking your..."
No, no - not there. Both sides. No.
"...armpits!"
Blitz.
"John Thomas Nelson..."
"Oh, fuck."
"What was your favorite comic book?"
"Please, please, don't start. Not again."
"I won't, if you tell me the right answer. What I want to know. You were there, John - same as I was. Now answer the question."
"No -"
"Tell me. Now."
"I don't know! I didn't read anything. Superman. Whatever. I don't know. Because I'm not the right John Nelson. I keep telling you. Dammit!"
"That's another wrong answer."
"Yeah. Of course -"
"You had lots of comics. Your favorite of them all was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Number 3. We read it over and over together."
"That wasn't me! No. Wait - oh, no, no. Don't do it to me again! Please..."
"You will remember your childhood, John. And me. Because I'm going to keep motivating you, until you remember it all."
"You can't, aw please, I'm not the John you want, you gotta know that by now - all these days, please don't start in on me again, please -"
"I don't know how you could block out all those years so completely. It doesn't matter now. I've come all this way to find you, and I'm not going to give up."
"Wrong guy, you got the wrong fuckin' guy!"
"It's for your own good. Now, you've answered today's question wrong, and you know what that means. Time to get your rational mind out of the way again -"
"Noooooooooo -"
"Oh, yes. You'll try harder today. Won't you? To remember? Sure you will. I'm going to have to turn up the heat until you do. All those good times. Sooner or later, you'll come around. No doubt about it. Those memories are still in there."
"I'm not the right John Nelson. How many t-times - oh, you gotta believe me. No more, don't, I can't fuckin' stand it anymore -"
"Here goes."
"Nnnnaaaaahh! Hah hah hah hahllllnnnn nifff nnn-nneeeeeeeee heeeeee naw haw haaww-aaaaawww!"
"Aw, Johnny. I could never forget that laugh..."
The wheelchair rolls out of a quiet, windowless room and into the hallway. It shakes and creaks, because the man in it is moving listlessly. Rocking, trying to stand up.
The chair doesn't stop moving. Dull steel brackets keep the restraints from slipping.
After a few seconds, he tries one final lunge - and sits still. None of his prior escape attempts have worked. Several times a day, he's been rolled from one room to another.
This is the sixth week of his stay here.
All he offers now is token resistance. And he's learned to conserve his energy... A two-hour session, brunch, an hour of escalating massage, ninety minutes in the hydro tank with the soaps and scrub-brushes and oils.
It's time for the principal therapy of the day. Five and a half hours.
The schedule has been consistent since he arrived. Dinner will follow this session, and tranquilizers. Then he'll be wheeled into the TV room with the other patients until he nods off. Plenty of rest is important, because it restores his strength for each challenging day.
Ten doors lead off the hallway. Four of them are closed. Those rooms are occupied. A small red light shines above each of their doorknobs. No sounds can be heard.
When he's rolled past the first open room, he heaves a sigh.
Another patient is arriving tonight. Two others are being located.
And none of those presently here are scheduled to leave.
Most of them, like this man, have lacked structure in their lives. As a result of past mistakes, or an itinerant lifestyle, they need time to adjust to the therapy schedule. There is no rigid timetable here.
Particularly not for this man. He's of average intelligence, and despite the chronic substance abuse of a former roadie and carnival worker - from which his system has been detoxified - he refuses to acknowledge reality.
His denial is strong.
The wheelchair takes him past two more empty rooms...
He's been a cause of concern for too long now. The aimless older brother, drifting through life. Each of the patients has someone who cares deeply about them.
But those family members and former spouses do not have to worry anymore. Very old friends of theirs have come to the rescue.
Each patient gets one-on-one, continuous monitoring.
He needs that kind of attention. Stubbornly refusing to believe in simple facts - that has to change. The therapy will continue until it does.
Janie may be used to him dropping out of touch, but this will be the last time. Since she's been doing so well, her troubled brother can get the care he needs. Right here.
The chair turns to the right. He struggles, again, but only briefly.
All of the patients will be treated until their delusion is thoroughly eradicated. Janie's friend, and four others, have prepared for every possible contingency.
As he's rolled inside, a desk lamp turns on near the back wall, and the thickly padded door starts to close.
The swing is all ready. Several pigskin gloves rise up from the well-stocked carts.
Seeing them approach, he closes his eyes and groans. His voice is very weak...
"You're not real."
There is so much work yet to be done. One session at a time.
With the efficiency of long experience, the gloves unfasten the restraints.
"No friend of Janie's would do this to me. Over and over. No way."
They pick him up, and carry him to the swing.
He struggles passionately. "Let me... go. Whoever you are. Stop torturing me!"
Thick cuffs and straps wrap around him.
"You can't be her imaginary friend. It's a lie."
Cords loop over each of his big toes and pull them straight.
"You gotta let me go, she wouldn't put you up to this, never..."
The tickler locks the door.
"I don't believe this," he mumbles, pulling at his bonds. "I don't believe... you. Never."
The gloves retreat a little, for now, and eight quail feathers levitate up from each of the carts.
"No," he shouts wildly. "Don't... Please. This is not happening to me. Not the feathers again. No. You're not gonna do this, you're not even here. You don't exist. Get 'em away from me!"
How sad. The delusion is persistent.
It begins this session on his stomach, nipples, thighs - and the last two slide between his toes.
Bucking hard, he stops talking. The need to whoop and howl, even silently, makes speech impossible.
It mulls over the many options available for his next few hours. Thinking, as it always did, about Janie... and her smiling face.
He can't help the way he is, and all the worry he's caused. That's why it's going to continue to help him. Drastic steps must be taken, sometimes, to make way for the truth. But Janie will be so very pleased with the result.
Sir Gigglypaw keeps the feathers moving, poking, sweeping across his flushed skin.
29feb2004