Clan of the Broken Banner - Part 8

Six months have passed since my incident on the ferry. My shirt still has a hole in it, but the more I think about it, the more I believe that the hole has always been in my shirt.

I place the blame of this self-doubt squarely on my therapist.

Who also placed me in an institution…

After I was adamant that someone is trying to kill me.

The pills they have me on mess with my head and my bowel movements. Some are for depression, and some are for neuro-chemical rebalancing. I am in a small room with an uncomfortable bed, too soft a pillow and scratchy blankets. I am not trusted with writing implements, plastic water cups, or even to take a shower in private. My room is also equipped with my own personal webcam, straight to the nurses’ station. I try to entertain them occasionally with one-line out bursts of Shakespeare.

As revenge for this hostile environment, I don’t shower.

I’m not sure how they expect someone to get healthy in this type of environment. If you aren’t mentally deranged coming into the third floor psyche, you will be going out. If you get out, that is.

On a plus side, I have had three episodes. One with a dog running in a road and me, as a boy, running into the road to save the dog from getting hit by a texting teenage driver. The boy’s leg was run over, but the dog was ok.

The second episode was a suicide jumper on Deception Pass Bridge in the middle of the night. The teenage boy, perhaps thirteen, was a runaway after his twin brother was hit by a car. Getting hit by cars seemed to be a theme. In it, I “self-talked” him off the bridge and hitch-hiked his way home. He was picked up by a police officer, and the episode ended.

The last episode was the night before last. Dinner was being served by a dad, or father figure, to two kids. I was one of the kids. A girl this time. The dad had put a turkey casserole on the table but had forgotten utensils. He asked his kids to wait, but a brother, older, stuck his fingers into the casserole and took a big bite. He swallowed quickly, and the food got lodged in his throat. I, as the younger sister, performed the Heimlich maneuver, sending the turkey and spit across the dining room onto the other wall.

On all three occasion, the “episode of neurotic and schizophrenic behavior” was countered with a quick shot of sedation, followed up with new pills.

[][][]

I am having a one on one discussion with my therapist, and my mind has trailed off again to the ferry ride, to my first episodes as a child, eating cereal in my parent’s kitchen. Ten years ago, this all started, and I thought it ended. 

I know someone is trying to kill me, and that these episodes are real. I am helping people (or dogs in some cases) live their lives, saving them one episode at time.

“Are you listening to me Mr. Bargrey?” The therapist is trying to get my attention again. I snap my attention to her. “Do you still believe that someone is trying to kill you? Do you believe that these dreamlike episodes you are having are real?”

I pause and smile.

“I think the drugs are working, and these therapy sessions have really helped,” I say.

“You have had three episodes in the time you have been here. And your charts say that you are refusing to shower or socialize with the other patients. Re-entering society calls for at least some formality of hygiene and etiquette. Your behavior doesn’t show that you really believe what you are saying.”

I look at the door, and the closed camera, and smile.

“Have you ever spent time, a considerable amount of time, in this place?” I ask.

“No, I can’t say that I have,” she replies.

“I would love for you to stay here, for as long as I have, without a means of artistic expression, 

crayon or pencil, no media, no stimuli whatsoever save for the white colored walls and the acoustic ceiling panels, counting every crevice and dot over and over and over again, while nurses, women and men, watch you relieve your bowels, and wash yourself to ensure that you don’t commit suicide via swirly in the toilet, or hanging by shower curtain, while listening to Joanna, the next room over, who swears that there are cats under her bead ever hour of the night… and tell me… honest to God in Heaven tell me! that you wouldn’t go a little insane.”

She pauses and jots some notes down on my chart and then puts it down. She folds her hands and 

leans closer to me.

“Mr. Bargrey, do you honestly believe your life is in mortal danger? That these episodes you are having are real.”

“I do not believe my life is danger, or that the episodes I have are real. But I would love some to keep me from dealing with this place.”

She picks up my chart and makes a few more notations.

“I will have you discharged in the morning Mr. Bargrey,” she smiles. “Try not to let the cats keep you up all night.”

Yellow Jacket - Pt. 2

Rain. Precipitation from the sky in the form of water. In Seattle, it is known as Washington Sunshine, and there are multiple sub-genres of said precipitation. Such names include drizzle, showers, mist, down-pour, cats and dogs falling from the sky, usual Washington weather, each with various adjectives and modifiers.

On October 17, 2024, there was a heavy deluge in Seattle, and John Snyder was hunched in the Jungle. This jungle isn’t what you think. There are no trees in this jungle, no plants, no wildlife to be spoken of, though other civilized individuals and groups might not consider John Snyder to be civilized. No, the Jungle is a large homeless encampment, full of rapists, drug addicts, alcoholics, sex offenders, murderers, and other criminals who were let out and had no place to go. Some of the Jungle’s citizenry simply include druggies whose addiction took them to poverty on a golden thread.

Here, in this Jungle, John Snyder shivered while hunched over a burning barrel filled with garbage and heroin needles. There were dozens of other sharps around him, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixated on the dancing green and red flames. One thought ran through his mind over and over.

Money.

He needed money to get another hit. He also needed money for food. He hadn’t eaten in three days. The last few hits had screwed with his perception of time. It was 36 hours of perpetual bliss. He couldn’t recall if it was Thursday, or Sunday. Sunday was when someone usually brought chicken that the Union Gospel Mission was giving out. That seemed so recent to him.

The rain was lessening, and that meant he might be able to pan handle a few bucks for another hit. His muscles twitched uncontrollably as he was coming down. He was thinking in minutes now, minutes to his next hit, minutes to enough money, minutes to talking to his dealer, minutes to that un-explainable bliss.

“You strung out man?” someone said next to him. He didn’t see the man, walk up next to him and the burning barrel. He spoke with a deep, muffled voice. He wore two sweaters, a winter rain coat, jeans, old Sketcher boots, and a red beanie.

“Why, you sellin’?” John asked. “I don’t have money, but I can get some… soon too… I think.”

“Nah, I ain’t sellin’,” the man replied. “I got something new though, I could give you a taste and see what you think.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an orange prescription pill bottle. He unscrewed the cap and tapped out the last pill. It had a plastic coating, half yellow and half black.

“What is it?” John asked.

“It is your favorite ride but cheaper. Ten bucks a pill. Just open it up, pour out the powder, and I think you can figure out the rest.”

“I thought you said you aint sellin’?”

“I’m not. This one’s free.”

John, frantic, desperate for the ecstasy he was coming out of took the pill out of the man’s hand.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He turned back to his tent next to one of the pillars. He had his materials there. There wasn’t enough powder to cook for an injectable dose. Instead, he laid it out on a piece of paper into a thin line and snorted it.

Within seconds, John was back in his restful high, staggering around the jungle as if he were half asleep.

Within minutes, he was lying next to a garbage can. A dried foam covered his mouth and chin. 

His eyes were glazed over with the grey sheen of death. 

Yellow Jacket - Pt. 1

There are two types of people you shouldn’t trust in this world (three if you include lawyers). Never trust an actor because they are a habitual and professionally trained liar. They be anyone at any time. 

And never, ever, on any account, trust an author… as they are the ones who feed the actors the lie.

The author is the master craftsmen of story, of motive, of opportunity, of the human psyche. The author can make you reflect on your own life in ways you don’t understand, and cry about it later and talk about it with your book club friends over a glass of wine and tissues.

It is in this mood, I posit the following. The most dangerous item known throughout the history of man is the blank canvas. It has liberated the captive, slain the oppressor, divided the unified, and unified the divided. The ink truly commands the sword, the bullet, the target, the lie. 

And we fall for it.

Never has such a cacophony been heard from both groups, the actors and the authors, been in collusion to delude the intellect, and capture the mind in an every spinning and sticky web of conspiracy and fandom.

Using this canvass and ink, relying on the divisiveness of the deliberating lawyer, and leaning on the stage and command of the actor...

I got away with becoming King.