Alan Sincic

“You can call, a person can call to this place?”

“Yes. Sure. Certainly,” she says.

He: “Is there a person who answers when they call?”

“Yes.”

“They have a phone? The person here?”

“Yes.”

“The phone rings and they answer, right?”

Not a boy the boy. Bigger than a boy but not a man. Blocky the face, blocky the body but soft, like a brick of bread on the rise. Out the bottom of the hospital gown they dangle, the feet. One sock on. One sock off. Off and away, the sock. He sits with a tilt, the wedge of the bed in the up position.

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“The person who answers the phone. Are they here?”

“Not here on this floor. But they can transfer the call to us.”

“You mean you? To you?”

“Yes. At the desk there. Behind the counter there’s a phone.”

“So it rings. Then you answer the phone.”

“Yes.”

Think potato. Out the ground. Under the feet of the people potato grows. A nub. A knuckle. A fist. The people dig. Gotta be around here somewhere. Look-look: a lump. Dig with the fingers. Scallop away at the dirt. Lookee here. A leg. Potato leg. Potato belly. Arms. Legs. Toes. Piggy toes. Tater toes. Shh. Lookit – he stirs. Out the ground he crawls. Potato boy.

“This bed. Does this bed have wheels on it?”

“So we can move it around, yes.”

“How strong are the wheels?”

“They’re pretty strong.”

“It’s a heavy bed this bed. I’m pretty heavy.”

“It’s got heavy wheels.”

“Metal. Metal wheels.”

In the cool dim of the corridor a shine. Pocky like a teen the face. Potato face. Over yonder the counter where the clerk and the aid busy away. Little raft of light to ferry them on, out over the dark harbor of a night. On a chair beside the boy sits the nurse. Clipboard at the ready, a sheaf of paper on her lap, she scribbles and pokes at a form that’s – I can see when she lifts her hand to brush the hair from her eyes – freckled with little checks and tics and signatories. A cobble of boxes. Blurbs.

A blurber’s what she is. Curates a blurb.

Up the hall aways I sit. Another millimeter deeper, another second longer I settle. If she’s the guard then I’m the sentry. Out at the fringe. The three of us here in the hall. In the room behind the nurse and the boy that girl of mine stirs.

Clean the bed that carries her. An envelope yet to be licked. The orderly offers her a blanket, but she’s already asleep. On top of the sheets, barefoot, and in shorts and a tee. Broken the nails. Blasted the hair. Up the slim ankles and the scab at the knee, a wicker-work of bracken and thorn. Up the leg and the flank, red flesh of the furrow where she clawed herself awake. The sunburn a blaze. The purple bruise on the shoulder bare.

How orderly the orderly. The blanket a brick to build on, a velvety rectangle. To the foot of the bed he ferries it. Lays it to rest. Out of disorder an order. Behold.

The Psych Ward’s not – whatever a ward is -- a ward. It’s a floor with a hall the whole length of which run a row of anterooms, each with a bed, a window, and a partition of glass on the hall-ward side. Doorless. Floor-to-ceiling curtains you skitter open or closed to suit the mood.

Midnight of a Tuesday. Plenty of vacancies. When it’s cold or it’s rainy, the disordered shuffle up into the shelter of the drive, the overhang where the ambulance and the cops and the deliveries land, but when it’s warm? Outside’s where they sleep. Why? Simple. A snap-shot a kid crayons up onto a sheet of manilla paper, that’s the world the disordered live in – the moon a balloon, the body a box, a coat-hanger tangle of features, the face. The stackable square of the house and the chimney, blaze of the sun a blot of yellow overhead, grass a flurry of green. Vivid and simple, right? Clubby-thumb copy of the real.

Stands to reason, no? What you picture it to be. That’s what the real is. Serve the vision, listen to the voices, hearken to the herald of the burning bush. Shelter? Who in their right mind’s gonna bother with shelter when the gods come calling? Right. As if. As if you’d greet the Face of Glory with a parasol and a daub of sunblock.

Potato Boy on hold. Wide the eyes. Waits to see the shrink. Wide the eyes. They wander, but to the nurse alone he attends. Attends with the whole of him, as if the whole of him were – like the whole of a shrub or a sapling – an apparatus to gather the shape of the wind. To her he turns.

“So the needle. It’s a shot, right? Like a shot?”

“Sort of.”

“I got a shot before. In the shoulder I got a shot.”

“This’ll be – it’s in the arm. A sample. We take a sample.”

“Blood, right?”

“A little. Tiny bit. Blood sample.”

“But like a shot, right? Like with a needle.”

“Like a pinprick.”

“A needle, though – right?”

“Tiny. Little. Little sliver of a needle.”

“Like a straw, right? Like a little straw.”

“Sort of.”

“But then what?”

“Then you can have a sandwich. We got sandwiches. And soda. Chips. You like chips?”

“But the blood. What do you do with the blood?”

“We look at it. You know. Stir it up. Look to see – you know – the ingredients. To see how healthy you are.”

“You look? Are you the one who looks?”

“No. We give it to, they take it to the lab. The lab –”

“Like a laboratory?”

“Right. Laboratory. With the machines. They put the blood, they spin it around –”

“Here? Is the laboratory here? In the building?”

“Part of the hospital, sure.”

“It’s a big hospital.”

“The biggest.”

“But how far?”

“What?”

“The lab. How far the lab?”

“On the other floor.”

“What floor?”

“The fourth. Fourth floor.”

“So they take it, you take it –”

“The orderly – down the hall there, the guy, see him? The orderly takes it.”

“Down the stairs, or –”

“Elevator. The elevator.”

“But how long?”

“Maybe an hour or so. Depends on how busy –”

“And then they bring it back, right?”

“What?”

“The blood.”

Potato Boy rocks. Forward and back he rocks. Alert is what he is. Inside of that skin of his, sits. Of no consequence to him the clamor of flesh in the city below, the trawlers out to sea, the blast of the comet out the belly of the sun. Without a pedigree is the way I picture it. Picture him. Served up out the heart of the earth.

“I like the plain.”

“Plain what?”

“Chips.”

The nurse nods. Studies the clipboard. Clicks the clicker of the Bic. Click.

“From the machine,” he says. “You got a machine with a – from the window. All the different chips.”

“By the elevator. Right.”

“I saw it. I saw the machine.”

Click.

His voice brightens. “You put the money in the machine.”

“If you’re hungry. Sure.”

“Anybody with money. They put the money –”

“But you don’t – no need for that. We got the snacks. Down the hall. Would you like a snack?”

“Chips, right? Chips.”

“Right. And sandwiches. Soda. Juice.”

“Plain.”

“Plain what?”

“Chips.”

My daughter screams. Screams and then babbles. Silence. Screams again. Potato Boy pauses, not so much a break in the rhythm as a syncopation, a stutter-step round a face in a crowd. It’s all the same to him. He hears but he hears the way you hear -- in the heat of a tryst -- the squirrel on the sill, the wind in the pine, the far cry of the siren.

If Potato Boy had the power to heal I would, above all others, above myself even, favor Potato Boy. Second the nomination. Sing the praises. And who’s to say? If he was to unlimber them clubby hands of his, and rise, and cross to the bedside of that girl of mine, and ever so lightly rest that sweaty palm of his upon her brow, who is to say? A marvel, no? That a simple touch, a pat on the head, has the power to countermand the chaos?

Potato Boy swivels. Shades his eyes. Peers into the window-wall behind him.

“The girl -- ” this to the nurse, as if she, as if the whole of her being, were there to listen to him “-- she’s sleepy, right?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s why she’s in a bed.”

“Something like that.”

“I’m not sleepy. I’m in a bed.”

“But you can rest, right?”

“That’s why the bed is soft, right? So I can rest.”

“You can lie down if you want.”

“You could turn the knob –”

“I could lower the bed if you want.”

“To make it flat. Flat like a bed. But then I couldn’t see.”

“Mm.”

“I like to see.”

I believe in Potato Boy. Potato Boy knows. Potato Boy sees. Through the eyes of Potato Boy the God of the Nebulae peers. The Doc – does he know? No. Do I know? No. The nurse? The aide? No. What do we know? Nothing. Does nobody know? No. Nobody knows. Maybe a dog. A dog knows, sure. But a dog don’t speak. Potato Boy speaks. Speaks but no – Potato Boy don’t. He don’t tell. Do tell, Potato Boy. What say? Potato Boy don’t say.

“She has a room. Why does she have a room?”

“Lots of people have rooms.”

“But her. Why does she have a room?”

“Is that what you want? Do you want a room?”

“I like it here. Here is better. I like to see.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Up onto the glass he cups a hand, then the other, then the face, like you fit the flesh up onto the frame of the View-Master, so’s to capture the magic within.

The nurse gathers the clipboard, pockets the pen, pads off to join the orderly up the hall aways. The cosmos beckons.

What does God say? Potato Boy. Potato Boy is what He says.

Turns to me. “Why does she have a bed?”

“So she can rest.”

“Where does she come from?”

“She’s with me.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“At home. Yes.”

“What about her? At home. Does she have a bed?”

“Yes and no. She doesn’t live at home. She could if she wanted to, but she doesn’t.”

“But you have a bed. At home you have a bed.”

“Yes.”

“A bed for her. But she doesn’t want it.”

“No. Not… no.”

Potato Boy turns back to the window-wall. Both hands he flattens up onto the glass. Follows with his face. Blooms. Up onto the icy surface a breath. From somewhere inside him a stir. From side to side he – rocks? Too strong a word. A slo-mo oscillation, like a skiff in a sway at the end of a tether. Primed is what he is. Ready for the rise of the tide. He calls back over his shoulder.

“If she doesn’t want the bed, can I have the bed, the bed at your home?”

“Not really, no. You wouldn’t fit.”

“I’m bigger than she is. I need a bigger bed. Bigger than her.”

“Sort of. Right. Yes.”

“The bed at your house. The bed is for her. The bed fits. Why doesn’t she want it?”

“She doesn’t know what she wants.”

If I were to gather the wallet and the ring, the phone and the keys and the lighter I carry, the belt and the shoes and the suit I wear, heap them onto a pyre and set them ablaze, would it be enough? Would the gods applaud?

With his finger he draws a circle. With the heel of the hand, wipes it away. Licks the hand. Potato Boy. Potato flavor.

“I have a name,” he says. “Does she have a name?”

“Everybody has a name.”

He sits back. Takes it in. This piece of information.

“Do they give her a shot? Is that what they do?”

“Maybe. Medicine maybe.”

“What kind of medicine?”

“Maybe like you. To help her think.”

“Maybe. I like to think. All the time, I think.”

“That’s good. If it makes you happy.”

“I like to think. Do you like to think?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“Chips. I think about chips.”

If I were to serve up this skull of mine, smack it with a ball-pean hammer, into a billion little chiplets of porcelain shatter the casement and, out onto the sidewalk, spill the click-spring and the ratchet, the lug and the chime and the pallet, the wheel-cock and the roller pin and the pendulum – all the minikin fittery that powers the machinery of thought -- would it matter? Would it serve?

Potato Boy swivels. Thickens the fingers into a fist. One fist, two fist. One potato, two potato. Stiffens. Into the batting, the knuckles, they sink. Feet-first he scoots to the edge of the bed. Teeters there, his feet a few inches above the floor.

He looks back over his shoulder, through the glass wall and the dark of the room and over the sill to the sky. “I can see the window,” he says. The glint of the moon. The stars in a bramble. “The window’s in the air. Up in the air.”

I nod.

“Up high,” he says. “That’s what we are. Up high.”

“That’s true.”

“Up. Up in the air.”

I shift – sandbag of the body – forward in the chair. Elbows on the knees. Palms up. There you go I say with a flex of the fingers. Open. Close. What can I say?

“The floor is in the air,” he says. “But the floor is strong, right?”

I nod. With the barefoot toe he taps – one tap, two taps – the floor. With little shifts and hesitations, like a dry-lander steps into a dinghy, he settles. First one foot, then the other. The floor holds.

Then he – not a hop, no, but with a heft in a upward direction, up onto the balls of his feet he bobs, up and then, onto the heels the whole of his weight – down. Up. Down. Up.

The floor holds. Again a glance at the window.

“Chips. They have chips.”

He takes a step in my direction, but then stops. Drops to one knee. Lays the palm of a hand flat on the floor. Straightens the arm. Up over the palm he leans. Down he presses. The shoulder quivers, but the floor – here up high above the earth -- holds.

He gives the floor a pat – one pat, two pats, like you pat a dog.

“Good floor,” he says, like you say to a dog he says. “Good. Good.”

Easy now. With great care, like you lift a stack of breakables, he rises.

Still as a beast I sit. Elbows on the knees. Face to the floor. This head of mine I hold, here in the hands I hold it.

“They have chips,” he says. “I like chips.”

To the chair that harbored the nurse he turns. Gives it a pat. There on the seat. Good – he mouths the words – good chair. He sets out again, down the hall.

As he passes me I smell the earth. The mulch, the peat, the loam. The scat, the salt, the hint of mildew and char. If I could go with him I would. Into the earth we would go. Together tumble round and round the sun. I close my eyes. An honor it would be to – on the Day of Judgement – stand, totter, bobble. A bob in the pot, a potato. To be simple again, no?

In the fullness of the moment I, in accord with the ways of the flesh I (waiting is an act, no?) wait. Wait for it. Behold. One pat. Two pats. The pat of the hand, pat of the palm, flat of the palm on the top of the head as onward it moves, and away, the hand, the hand of God.