It’s 2016. I am suicidal. My therapist sends me to the mental hospital. I go to the classes and workshops you are expected to attend at the mental hospital. I don’t hear anything new. I don’t find a new concept to latch on to that will propel me towards healing. I make friends with three older women and an old man who tell dirty jokes. I sit with them and laugh. I don’t talk, I just listen. The old perverts are killing it and I don’t want to throw off the vibe.
I get in line to get my medication. A massive guy stands in line behind me.
“How tall are you?” I ask.
“6”6’” He says.
“My Dad was the same height.” I say.
I can feel the ice breaking.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Stan” He says.
I fall for a guy, named Stan, at the mental hospital.
“My father expected me to become the president of the United States after I scored 170 on an IQ test. Mental illness has robbed me of my potential.” I say.
“I understand that, My IQ is 160 and I have schizophrenia.” Stan says.
“Do you have any idea how rare it is for people like us to meet?” I say.
“Very rare” Stan says.
My infatuation with Stan increases. When I am not with him, I wish I could be with him. All I can think about is Stan, Stan, Stan. It was unhealthy as hell. But I felt great!
Stan and I hang out in the real world. I go to his house. He come to my apartment. We talk about astrophysics. We plan on starting a graphic novel together. I encourage him to paint. We play a card game called Munchkin. We start to talk about the worst things we ever did. We became a confessional booth for each other.
“One of my friends was a drug dealer. He owed money to the distributors. I told the distributors if they let my friend go; I would fix their transportation issues. I went to work for them. I was locked in a room. I was snorting a lot of cocaine. I used a weather balloon with a gps attached. I made a device that would release the payload at the desired destination. All they had to do was release it into the air stream at the right spot and time; track the location and release the package. They could put anything they wanted any where they wanted to put it.” Stan says.
“You had to do that to save your friend.” I say.
Stan and I continue to hang out. I make a new confession. Stan makes a new confession.
“A drug dealer held a gun to my friend’s head. I told my friend I would take care of it. I followed the drug dealer to his apartment. I spied on him and figured out his and his roommate’s schedule. I made a radiation emitting device. It looked like a glass ray gun. It was beautiful. I waited until the apartment was empty. I moved their couch away from the wall. I cut a hole in the wall and put my ray gun in there. I patched up the hole. It was perfect. You couldn’t even tell I made a hole in the wall. I waited and watched every day. He got cancer. His hair fell out. It was so funny. He died. ” Stan says.
“Did the roommate die?” I ask.
“He deserved it for hanging out with that asshole.” Stan says.
I’m revisiting this story because I have been experiencing hair loss and nausea. My radiation detector was lost when I moved. The last time I saw Stan he was pissed off at me. I didn’t do anything to him. I would like to think that he is not such a piece of shit he would kill me over our petty differences. But he did kill a guy’s roommate just for being in the way. If I end up getting cancer; it probably isn’t just my bad luck, it’s Stan.
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