Insanity at the Bus Stop by Mark Tulin

Insanity at the Bus Stop by Mark Tulin

Angela held the clipboard with the attendance sheet. She helped me supervise the patients when we went off the unit on field trips. Every Tuesday morning, we escorted a half-dozen psychiatric patients from the Shining Sun Center for a trip into Center City.                           

“Damon, Joseph, Geno, Linda, and John are going,” Angela said.                                      

 “What about Ernesto?” I asked.                                                                               

 “Ernie’s restricted to the unit again because he hit the psychiatrist with a folding chair yesterday.”                                                

 “That’s a shame. Ernesto was making such progress.”                                                        

The group waited in the patient lounge while chain-smoking and drinking gallons of coffee to stay awake.                                                              

Strings of saliva fell from Damon’s lips onto his brown woolen sweater. Joseph, tall and rail thin, talked to himself about something no one understood. Geno, short and stocky, looked paranoid as usual, believing the mob was after him. Lynda, either extremely happy or crying miserably, was munching on a candy bar. And John, who had a body like a professional wrestler, wanted to punch someone in the face. Everyone was accounted for.                                    

When I got the group’s attention, I made the same announcement I did every Tuesday, reinforcing the rules that the patients rarely follow.                                                             

“We’re going to Barnes and Noble, and then we’ll have lunch at the J-C Diner. Make sure that you all have enough money for food or a book. We’ll have bathroom breaks before and after. Please, no going up to strangers asking for cigarettes, a light, or money. There’s no smoking on the bus, at the bookstore, or inside the diner. Be sure to act appropriately. No swearing, touching your privates, or putting your hands on others. Please stick together and keep your bus passes around your necks.”

“You forgot the most important one,” Angela said.

“Oops. And please stay in the group and do not wander off. We want the same number of people that go, come back.”

“I don’t want to go if I can’t have my smokes,” John complained.

“John, you’ll have plenty of time to smoke when we’re outside and waiting for the bus.”   

”That’s what you said last time, and I only had time for two ciggies.”       

“I’m sorry, John, but we must follow the rules. You can choose not to go—that’s your option.”                      

“No way. Anything’s better than staying on the unit.”

With a girlish giggle, Lynda said, “I hope I meet a cute guy.”                                 

“Yeah, one with a big you-know-what,” said John, who made an obscene gesture.

“Lynda,” do you remember the last time you went up to someone? He wanted to take you back to his place. We almost lost you at the Gallery.”                                     

“Oh, yeah,” she smiled. “He was really cute.”

“We can’t have that again, or we’ll ask you to stay back at the unit.”

“I promise, Dr.Steve. I won’t go up to any guys.”

“Who aren’t cute,” said John.

& & &

While waiting for the bus, the patients smoked cigarettes and nervously paced the sidewalk. Some were drooling, and others were talking to themselves, which was typical for this group. Medication can only do so much.

“Make sure all of you stamp out your cigarettes on the sidewalk when you’re done. I don’t want to see you throwing lit butts into trash cans or dried leaves.”                                         

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” chimed John. “You say that every time we go on a trip. We’re not babies, you know.”

“It’s my job to keep you guys safe,” I said.

John rolled his eyes.                                                                                                                

While waiting at the bus stop, Damon’s drool hung like weeping willows. Joseph continued to talk gibberish and laugh to himself between quick puffs of his generic cigarettes. Geno kept looking around, believing a hit man was following him. Lynda was very giggly, asking me if they have cheesesteaks at the diner and if she might want to get two of them—not a good idea for someone who is morbidly obese.                                                                 

“You just had breakfast, Lynda,” Angela said. “You can’t be that hungry.”                        

Lynda was obsessed with food. She got caught hoarding cookies and cakes under her bed and candy bars behind her pillow. She has a dietician working with her, but it hasn’t helped.

John kept pacing the sidewalk. “When’s the damn bus coming?” he repeated. I had to reassure him that the bus would be here soon and enjoy the pleasant weather we’re having.

Angela and I tried to distract the group by discussing the movie Saturday Night Fever, which played on Movie Night. “Isn’t John Travolta a great dancer?” I asked.

“No,” said Geno. “He’s in the mob.”

The group was unresponsive to the conversation and grew more anxious by the minute, so I decided to remind them about bus etiquette.                                                                            

“For many of you, getting on the bus can be confusing. It’s best if you sit together so we all can get off at the same stop and none of you get left behind.”           

“I want a window seat,” said Geno, “so I know who’s following me.”                                

“You won’t have to worry about that, Geno—we’re safe. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”  

 “How do I know if you’re not working for Tony Soprano?”                                               

“That’s right. How do we know that you ain’t in the Mafia?” chimed John, trying to cause trouble.                                                                                                                                    

Angela approached Geno and tried to distract him from his paranoid rant, showing him pictures of her baby. The patients grew more agitated as the bus didn’t show up for ten, twenty, and thirty minutes. Damon’s drooled, and snot bubbled out of his nose. Angela quickly gave Damon a pack of Kleenex, helping him clean up.                                 

“Make sure you say excuse me when you’re getting up from your seat,” I continued with the bus etiquette. “We want to display good social skills.”                              

I signaled Angela with my eyes to intervene with John. He was talking to a man sitting on the bus stop bench. He bummed a cigarette and then asked the guy where he could buy some cheap marijuana.                                                                                         

“John, did I show you my son’s baby pictures?” said Angela. “Here, he’s riding the hobbyhorse. And he’s trying to walk in this one.”

“I don’t care about you’re a baby momma crap. The guy called SEPTA, and they said the bus broke down, and they’re sending a new one.”                                                                      

“Oh, thank you, John. I’ll let everyone know.”                                            

“Yeah, you better thank me, Angela. The staff are clueless.”

& & &

Our most cooperative patient, Damon, drool and all, decided to lie down in the middle of the street on the yellow lines and refused to get up despite promising him another pack of cigarettes. He was deadweight when Angela and I tried to lift him. After he held up traffic for ten minutes, the police arrived and dragged him back to the curb, where he proceeded to lay down on the sidewalk as if he were a plank of wood.                                                               

If the patients are not structured, they tend to wander. The group absorbs each other’s anxiety, creating a Domino Effect. Joseph increased the volume of his garbled chatter, which reached a point of incomprehensible screams about various topics, from dirty undershorts to the price of cantaloupe. These were things that Joseph normally mumbled quietly to himself. Lynda cried and stick her fingers in her ears.                                                 

“Did I do anything to cause it?” Lynda asked.

“No, Lynda,” I said. “It’s just his way of coping when he gets upset.”                     

“I can’t take it anymore! Will you please make him stop!”                                                  

While this happened, Geno broke from the group and ran down the street. I immediately called the unit and told them to bring the van and a couple of psychiatric aides.              

Angela sprinted after Geno. Unfortunately, she twisted an ankle and stopped chasing, helplessly watching Geno disappear into the distance.                                             

John hovered over me, shaking his head. “Geno saw a Mercedes and thought the Godfather was in the backseat. He got scared and bolted.”                                                              

“Thanks for telling me, John.”                                                                                               

“I told Geno the black car wasn’t a Mercedes. It was a Ford but he didn’t believe me. I also said an old lady was driving the car.”                                                                

After I realized things were out of hand and I lost one of my patients, I decided to call off the trip. The van couldn’t come quick enough. Ivan, the burly aide, got out of the van and restored order. He helped the patients to their seats, including a stiff-as-a-board Damon.

“Sorry, guys,” I announced. “Due to the bus breaking down, we had to cancel the trip.”

 “What about Geno?” cried Lynda.                                                                

 “The police will track him down.”                                                               

“I hope they don’t find him,” said John jokingly. “One of us needs to escape this looney bin.”   

For the first time, I could feel the patient’s plight. I was their therapist, but sometimes I felt like a warden.

Once we gave our orders at McDonald’s, I turned to Ivan.

“ Do you have an extra cigarette?”

“I didn’t think you smoked, Dr. Steve. You seemed so anti-smoking.”

“You’re right. I don’t smoke, but I’ve been watching the patients enjoying themselves these past few years, and I want to try it.”

After I took a couple of puffs, John said, “Sombody needs to teach you how to smoke.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Mark Tulin 2024