For the first time, he allowed himself to see that these were not professional surfers but shining black harp seals looping around the waves.
Management changed hands frequently and with each new group a new look, a new name: The Westgate Support Lounge marquee sign was erected over the main building. As if a flashlight could heat a potato. Marketing pushed their drivel, too:
Westgate, a global lifestyle with an incredibly passionate and engaged community,
offering to create impactful, purpose-driven partnerships that connect people to the
world in authentic, meaningful ways.
At least the remodel worked. Gone were the exposed baseboard pipes lapping the session rooms. No more chessboard asbestos tiles and hungover laminate bookcases holding nothing but dust. Fresh blues and whites complimented the expanded windows that framed the morning sun over the water. Overstuffed linen bag chairs balanced nicely with clean slate invisible shelves and large but meaningless abstract paintings hung onto the high walls making for an air of class, comfort, correctness. Allover, the fresh appointments gave the place the perception of stability, that things were right and going to be all right.
New staff appeared, too. Salazar, kind but confused, and Mendez, blushing in a permanent state of embarrassment, worked the day shift. Lobotomized as children and now devoid of all insight, what they lacked in cognition they made up for in agreeability. The job hit the sweet spot for them as local restaurants were only in want of full-time wait staff and the job at Westgate required little in the way of expertise in, well, anything other than to
1) act as escorts to and from sessions and
2) always agree with the guests. The sociopath is always right was the mantra Salazar and Mendez heard when they first came on board and it seemed to work. But such a pejorative— was nutcase any better? — could only be spoken in the break room. Patients were guests and the guests were always right.
The label, of course, suggested a voluntary vacation from reality but everyone at Westgate knew. Orderlies, nurses, nurse practitioners, doctors, lawn crew, and receptionists. Even the guests played along nicely, with the deep knowledge of their own sad conditions somewhere hidden in the caves of their hippocampus.
Salazar peeked through the small door frame pane. “Every day, numbers.”
“Strings of ‘em. 7.5, 8.4, 8.2… All day long,” Mendez replied numbly.
Inside the room the fleshy middle-aged man bent over a small, edgeless table, chewing on his tongue, head down and quietly scribbling crayon on napkin like the nervous first child arrived early to Sunday school class. Every few minutes his neck sprang toward the water with an astronomer’s gaze, then right back down. 6.5, 6.8, 7.2…
Entering the room, the pair mimed weak smiles and flanked him on adjacent linen bag chairs. They struggled to keep upright.
Each morning, the two orderlies gave Joseph a gold star sticker. They’d learned this made him happier and “better than any other boy in the whole world.”
Anything to keep his temperature down.
Joseph was startled by the voice, thinking he heard the drone of an old vacuum. His back straightened, his panicked eyes shifting between the two men. But seeing the gold star and their smiles (or near smiles), he sprang to life.
“Hey! Glad you could join us. We’ve got an epic day on tap.” His own smile blinded them, teeth against cognac skin.
And welcome to everyone out there.”
“In here.”
“Ab-so-ute-ly.” He puffed out his chest to receive the award.
“Fabulous conditions lining up this morning, yeah boyz?” said Joseph, staring to the far side of the room. “Just look at those soft, white walls coming in from every direction. Clean lines on hand, for sure. It’s shaping up to be a day of magic. It reminds me of August 2019 at Lower…”
“That’s interesting, Joseph,” replied Salazar, trying to mimic a look of interest. “Let’s get ready for today’s session. First, how ‘bout we put those crayons back in their box.”
“The Box!” Joseph squealed. “Did you know that during the winter swell there in 2013…”
He proceeded to share names, dates, numbers, and strings of nonsensical phrasings that Dr. Rielly ascribed to fluent aphasia, the psychiatric term for disorganized neural patterns that manifest as incoherent speech patterns. Neither orderly noticed.
Salazar kindly grunted (possibly another type of aphasia) for Joseph to put away the crayons and he did. One was missing.
“Salzy. Mendezo. How’d I do? Just thinking about the way I dropped that last one in so late and snuck it right into the slot gives me chills!” Joseph wrung his hands until they were hot.
The two orderlies met eyes.
“8.6?” Mendez offered with a synchronized shoulder shrug.
“That score bumps me into the excellent range. All right!” Joesph leaned back into his chair, almost tipping back.
Salazar reached for Joseph’s arm to get him moving.
But unexpected change typically alarms many patients with cognitive impairment and the potential change of scenery certainly alarmed Joseph. He was most comfortable in that chair, watching the action in the water, recording his numbers. The idea of moving to the session room caused the centipede scars across his temporal lobes to redden. Thinking for a moment, Joseph brightened.
“I guess we could,” he started cautiously, “if that’s the call for this morning.” He ramped up the speed of this reply until managing a happy sprint between words. “Conditions could be firing in the session room. Let’s go!” His teeth again blinded the room.
The session was typical for a Monday. An overstuffed linen chair faced Dr. Rielly’s. A medium-sized cooler of snacks was placed beside Joseph’s chair. Behind, floor-to-ceiling glass gave sight to a full sky and blue water. Salazar and Mendes stood close enough to constrain the guest (but not too close as to spill any errant drool.)
The doctor walked in. His smart loafers, cashmere blazer, and heavy round glasses put him in category with a gay Swiss architect, which he enjoyed. He sat in his chair, pretzeling his legs, leaning into Joseph.
“Good morning, Joseph,” Dr. Rielly opened, placing a light squeeze to his knees.
Joseph smiled. “Great to have you in the booth, Reillzy. Today’s going to be off the charts!”
“You sound nasally,” the doctor inquired slowly, thoughtfully. Are you hiding a crayon in your nostril again?”
“No.”
“Joseph?”
“Yes. But the Midnight Blue gives me my voice, my flair. I’m Special.” He started to rock in his seat. Did you see I got an award?” Joseph swung his chest around like a show girl.
After a few seconds the gyrations stopped as Joseph’s mind wandered out the window. “Can I have my napkin?” The action’s epic in the water right now. Still waiting for scores to drop. Still waiting for the scores, for the scores,” he repeated in sync with a back-and-forth rocking.
Dr. Rielly lowered his glasses to glance out the window then back. “Joseph, let’s just breathe for a moment. I want you to count to ten with me.”
“Ten? It’s not impossible with the wonky conditions we’re experiencing today but a tough order to fill. I bet you didn’t know that Pythagoras—no, wait, Parko— thought ten was the perfect number. For him numbers were matters of the soul. Did you know that in Haleiwa back in 543 BC…”
Dr. Rielly rubbed his temples. “Joseph, we are in need of a course correction here. I feel it’s time for you to hear the truth. Your scores came back from the test.”
“Fantastic. Let’s see those numbers light this heat up, Reill-o.”
The doctor slid his chair even closer to face Joseph directly and reattached his delicate hands to Joseph’s knees. It was supposed to be a non-verbal way of connecting with guests. Taking the expert’s lead, Joseph placed his own hands on the doctor’s knees. They stared intently at one another.
“As you remember, last week you took the PANNS psychiatric assessment. Results show a 9.66.”
Joseph punched the air with his fists, breaking free of their stare. “In-cred-i-ble! This is absolutely one for the record books.
Mendz? Salaz-o? What do the boyz think about what we just witnessed?”
Before either could respond, Dr. Reilly interjected.
“Actually, Joseph, these scores represent a person in considerable mental distress. A person who has lost grip on his reality in favor of one fabricated.”
Joseph went silent for a rare moment, cocking one eyebrow in confusion.
The doctor reached for the inside pocket of his blazer and extracted a manilla envelope. “Joseph, we’ve been in contact with your grandmother. She gave us some material that will shed light on your situation and you need to listen carefully.
“Gam-gam. Love her. Raised me. Did she send my report card? Got a B+ in fifth grade math. I’ve got a thing for numbers, averages.”
Yes,” Dr. Rielly acknowledged dryly. “A high-water mark, I’m sure.”
“Your grandmother wrote of an incident that might shed light on your condition, Joseph. She shared that when in eighth grade you were denied entrance to a junior surfing competition, open division.”
“True, only because I can’t surf. But they asked me to be the host of the whole event! Imagine that? The voice of surfing. I’m special, I guess.” Joseph looked down at his gold star. “That’s where it all started. That day, I became the voice of professional surfing. Owe it all to Gam-gam,” he beamed as his leg started pumping like a piston.
“On the contrary, Joseph, your grandmother said that you cried behind the competitor’s tent, eating wax balls as you spied on the other surfers.”
“Gam-gam! That witch! I’ll stick a knife in her ribs…” His arms swung wildly as he jumped from his seat.
Mendez and Salazar muscled him down into the chair.
“Calm down. Count to ten,” Salazar implored.
“I can only go to eight,” Mendez yelled through his drool.
“No, Joseph,” Mitch said as he pushed a small paper cup to Josph’s lips.
Seeing the cup, Joseph immediately calmed. “Brew Break time!”
“It’s clonopine.”
“Fan-tas-tic.”
Within a minute, Joseph sat undone.
The next morning the sun lifted to show a bright blue sky lost over perfect glass. Joseph sat scribbling his numbers on napkins observing the actors in the water. Dr. Riely stood silently beside him and picked up from where they had left.
“Joseph, your fantasy has run aground,” the doctor said, still looking toward the water. “To get better, you need to face reality.” His voice was soft. “Let me take you down there so you can get a good look for yourself. You need to see the truth.”
Sitting up, Joseph turned to the doctor defiantly. “Let’s go, Rielly. Then I can show you the action up close. Everyone in their suits, ripping. They all know me. Love me. I’m the voice of surfing. They’ll tell you,” Joseph responded, his lips pursing.
Dr. Rielly walked to the door, opened it, and swung his arm down the hall to let Joseph lead the way.
“Hold on, Riellzy. You can never have enough skin protection from the big orange in the sky, am I right?” Joesph said as he liberally applied apple sauce taken from the cooler.
“Did you know that the first sunscreen was…”
“Let’s just go.” And with that, the two headed down to the shoreline.
Once planted on the sand, they watched the actors sliding in and out of waves.
“What do you see, Joseph?”
Joseph started pointing rapid-fire to the surfers. “There’s Pottz. That’s Ross over there. And Kalani. He’s my best friend. And Fletch…”
Dr. Rielly, his training exhausted (and loafers damp), turned and struck him across the face, a cross-cutting blow that whipped Joseph’s neck around. He whimpered.
“Look! These are not surfers. You are not the voice of anything!” The doctor screamed into Joseph’s face clearing it of all apple sauce.
And for the first time in twenty-six years, he allowed himself to see that these were in fact not professional surfers but shining black harp seals looping around the waves. And for the first time, his heart went as cold and silent as an atheist’s.
Dr. Rielly allowed Joseph to process his reality. After several long minutes, an empty-faced Joseph whispered to the doctor. It was earnest and solemn.
“I’d like another Brew Break now, please.”
Joseph dipped his head and shuffled his feet back to Westgate, leaving crayon and napkin in the sand.
The next morning, Salazar and Mendes went to retrieve Joseph from his room for the daily session with the doctor. But when they entered there was no trace of the guest, just a napkin on the table and an open window. Mendez picked up the napkin and sounded out the letters. Eventually, it read:
Boyz,
It’s finals day and I’m combo-ed. I’ve decided to leave Westgate in search for a new
chapter, a new life. Where I’ll go, you’ll never find. I don’t need any supporting cast.
You’ll never see me again.
Love,
Joseph
P.S. – I’ve taken the gold stars and sunscreen.
P.P.S. – Give my best to the doc and Slatz in room 53.
They rushed over to the window and looked down. There, seven stories below, was Joseph, lying bloodied next to a buckled aluminum ladder.
“Boyz?” he looked up.
In quiet admiration, both men leaned out of the window to show Joseph the palms of their hands then they slowly extended every separated finger they had toward the sky.
Tens.