Random Acts Part 12

Alvin's looking into my eyes as if he's searching for something.

"You've crossed over big time."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're far from home."

"What?"

"You saw the multi-dimensional reality, didn't you?"

"I saw some drug-induced hallucinations."

"You saw reality."

Furious, I jump out of bed and confront him. "What the f.u.c.k are you trying to do, drive me crazy again?" This catches the attention of the orderlies, and they start moving in my direction.

"You're not crazy, you never have been," Alvin says. He pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out to me. It's a crystal of some sort. "Take it," he says.

"What is it?"

"A four-dimensional prism."

"Oh s.h.i.+t! No! No!" I knock it from his hands, send it flying. I'm about to swing again, this time for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head, but the orderlies grab me. "You sonofab.i.t.c.h!" I scream at him. "You're the one who started all this, aren't you? You're the one who got me to take the drugs!"

Dr. Wakefield arrives with a syringe. "I want you to leave," he tells Alvin. When Alvin hesitates, he says, "Leave or I'll have you thrown out!"

As the orderlies hold my arm still, Dr. Wakefield moves in with the needle. "No!" I cry out, pleading. "No more drugs! No more----" The needle goes into my arm, and it hurts.

I watch Alvin walking away. He turns, glancing back at me one more, and then is gone. I stare in shock as the orderlies hold me. Alvin had just disappeared! He walked right through the wall! Some of the other patience saw it, too, because there is a general murmur of excitement and a lot of pointing.

My legs give out and the orderlies put me to bed. "You talked to him," I say to Dr. Wakefield. "You told him to leave." My voice is full of drugged wonder.

"Yes. Who was he?"

"A hallucination." It's the last intelligible thing I say. The drug hits me on the head like a frying pan. My vision seems to flip upside-down and a black shadow pa.s.ses over everything, and I'm gone.

When I awake, it's the middle of the night. There's a light from way down a hall, and all the patients around me are asleep.

I get out of bed and make my way toward the bathroom, and with my bare foot I kick something cold and hard. It skids across the floor and goes "clink!" against one of the metal legs of the hospital beds. I bend down and pick it up. It's the prism.

In the bathroom, I turn on the light and look at the thing. It's like a big round crystal, about the size of a golf ball, and it's extremely heavy. Holding it up to my left eye, I look through it. It takes a moment for me to realize what I'm seeing, and I gasp. The multi-dimensional landscape! I nearly drop the thing, and now my hands are shaking.

Calm down, I tell myself. Be rational. If this thing is real, which it certainly seems to be, then that means I'm not crazy at all. That means that none of my memories are false, and my mind is not scrambled.

Indeed, it means I know a h.e.l.l of a lot more about what's really going on than everyone else.

What started out as something frightening now turns into something very comforting. I feel waves of calmness spread over me. I finish up in the bathroom and head back to my bed, carrying the crystal in my hand.

The rest of the night pa.s.ses in a peaceful sleep.

"I don't see any point in my staying longer." Dr. Wakefield doesn't look happy at my frank, flat statement, but I continue regardless. "I want you to release me today. Now."

"You know that's not possible. Your evaluation period is not over."

"I don't care. I want out."

"I can't let you simply walk out of here."

"There is nothing wrong with me."

"You are probably right. But it is my responsibility to make absolutely sure."

"Do you think I may be a danger to myself or others?"

"Possibly. You have had some very emotional outbursts within the last few days. Last night you became violent."

"Anyone would have become violent if they've gone though what I have."

"That's my point," he says. "Because of what you've gone through, I want you to remain here for the rest of your evaluation period."

"That's not acceptable."

"Look, I know you are a victim, and I know that you want to get back to your life. But you're going to have to be patient----"

"Let me out now or I sue."

"You're in no position to do that."

"I have the best lawyer in the bay area."

"You've been committed to a mental hospital for drug rehabilitation. You have no real say in the matter, I do. I have the sole responsibility for your welfare, and what I say, goes." He has a smug, satisfied smile on his face. "Making me angry at you is not going to help your position."

"Oh, yeah, you can just give me more drugs and say I'm crazy."

"I can, you're absolutely right. I can keep you here as long as I want. The rest of your life, if necessary. Or at least until your medical insurance runs out." He smiles, as if it's a joke. "But I'm only interested in making sure you're okay. I'm not your enemy."

"I understand that." I say this out of tact. If this quack is trying to convince me to trust him, he's failed. All he's done is make me hate him. I smile, deciding to go along with whatever he says. "I want out, though, and I want you to keep that in mind."

"I will. I'll let you out as soon as I feel confident you're ready."

"Then I'll cooperate and do anything I need to do to speed this up," I tell him.

"Don't be in such a hurry. Relax. That's what I want you to do."

"Okay."

"Very good." He stands up and goes on to his next patient.

The nurse hands me my little paper cup of happy pills and stands there while I take them. Satisfied, she goes on to the next patient. The pills are under my tongue, and when no one is looking, I spit them into my hand and throw them under my bed. I do it with a sense of satisfaction. f.u.c.k you Doctor Wakefield. I'm getting out of here right now.

The main barrier between the hospital and the outside world is not the fence, but the fact that I'm wearing light-green hospital pajamas.

If I was wearing real clothes, I could probably walk right out the front door without anyone noticing. I have no idea where my clothes are, or even if they're here at the hospital. If only I were in Berkeley, I think to myself. No one would look twice at a man walking down the street in green hospital pajamas.

Unnoticed by anyone but a few of the other patients, I wander outside and onto the grounds. The fence is high and there's no way to climb it. There's no trees next to it, either. It's very pleasant, and well tended, and the only way to become aware that you're in a prison is if you try to find a way out. I walk all the way around the perimeter and find one weakness: the back gate. It's wrought iron and has spikes at the top, but I remember climbing the like when I was a teenager. No problem. As I stand there, studying it, a jogger wearing shorts, a half tee-s.h.i.+rt and a headband goes running past. Watching him, I grin to myself. Then I look back toward the building. A few patients are watching me, but none of the staff. Then I see the video camera, and the urge to climb leaves me. No doubt I'm being watched closely, as this is the most obvious place for someone to try an escape.

I go back into the building, and bide my time until just before the s.h.i.+ft change. Then I disappear into the bathroom, occupy one of the stalls, and take off the hospital pajamas. I rip most of the pant legs off the pants --- making them into shorts --- then rip the s.h.i.+rt in half at mid-chest. Next goes the sleeves just above the elbows and then the collar. What's left, I put back on. For a finis.h.i.+ng touch, I take a strip of the cloth and tie it around my head as a headband. I emerge from the stall and toss the sc.r.a.ps in the trash, glance in the polished metal of the mirror, then go jogging out of the bathroom.

Ducking down, I slip past the nurses station and out into the corridors beyond. I pa.s.s right by a pair of orderlies, who just got off s.h.i.+ft and are standing together discussing auto parts, and they don't even glance up. I make it around a corner and down a flight of stairs to the garage. I wave at the guard at the door and he absently waves back, hardly looking up from the newspaper in front of him. Dr. Wakefield is getting into his Porshe as I pa.s.s him, heading for the exit, and he doesn't even see me. He's sweeping potato chip crumbs or something off the driver's seat before sitting down.

My bare feet slap the pavement as I jog up the ramp and past the mechanical gate at the exit of the parking garage. Then I'm on the sidewalk beyond, and I turn and head downhill. Golden Gate park is only a quarter mile away. Dr. Wakefield pa.s.ses me in his Porshe without a glance, speeding to where ever he goes after his s.h.i.+ft. I'm grinning like a fool, thinking I've gotten clean away, but then right in the middle of the street his brake lights flair and his tires squeal. d.a.m.n it! I think. He spotted me in his rear view mirror! I stop and begin to turn, my instincts telling me to run for it, but Dr. Wakefield is jumping out of his car and beating at his pants. It looks as though he's dropped a cigarette in his lap, and it's burning him. He glances furtively around to see if anyone has noticed, then jumps back into the sports car and zooms off.

Grinning once again, I continue on my way.

As it turns out, I'm not far away from Priscilla's house. Once in the park I drop the jogging routine, as I'm not really a jogger and what jogging I've already done has exhausted me. The path winds out of a thick grove of trees, across a meadow of gra.s.s filled with lovers on blankets and groups playing football, and back into another thicket. As I'm entering the trees once again a kid on a skateboard comes out of nowhere and slams right into me, knocking me flat on my back. It's a hard blow but it doesn't really hurt, and I sit up and look over at the kid. He's already on his feet, picking up his skateboard.

As I stand up, I get this odd twisting feeling in my spine, not painful but very unpleasant, and for a moment everything goes blurry.

"Uh-oh," I mutter out loud. The skateboard-riding kid has vanished. He's disappeared like a ghost.

A moment later I hear the scratching sound of skateboard wheels against the paved path and I step back, just in time. The kid on the skateboard comes streaking past, almost hitting me. He continues on his way without looking back. I stare at him, my heart racing.

I saw it happen! I was actually conscious of it. I slipped from one plane to another, from a universe where the kid collides with me to a universe where he'd been delayed 15 seconds and the collision never happened. Bubbling with excitement, I wave at the kid --- though the kid isn't looking --- and turn and hurry on my way toward Priscilla's house.

If I've crossed over again, then in this universe Pris and I might still be together. Wild hope floods through me, pus.h.i.+ng me onwards.

I emerge out of the park and walk up the hill to her apartment house. The house looks the same, it's still the same color. I ring the doorbell and hear footsteps inside. In the seconds before the door opens, I do my best to compose myself lest she thinks I'm an raving loon.

The door opens. Felix's face is revealed, his expression one of surprise. "Hey, what did you do, escape?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," I tell him, my voice neutral. What in the h.e.l.l is he doing here? "Where's Pris?" I ask, pus.h.i.+ng past him and into the apartment.

"She's at work," Felix says. "What's going on? Why the zippy clothes?"

"I was out, uh, jogging."

"You ran away from the hospital, didn't you!"

"Yeah. So, what are you doing here?"

"I live here!" He says it in an exasperated tone, as if its ridiculous I even asked. "What are you doing here?"

"You live here?"

"Yes. You know I do."

"With Pris?"

"Yes. Of course."

I stare at him and feel a surge of overwhelming disappointment. The raging pain hits me like a wall. "I'm lost, Felix. I'm so f.u.c.king lost."

"What's wrong, guy?"

"I'm lost."

"You're high, aren't you?" He peers into my eyes, checking the dilation. "You're having a flashback?"

"I need some money. I've got to get back to Berkeley."

"Maybe you should go back to the hospital."

"No, that wouldn't do any good. Can I borrow a few dollars?"

"Well, uh . . ." He shuffles off into Priscilla's room. I follow him in, and feel another wave of pain and disorientation. Most of the room is cluttered with his stuff, his furniture, his clothes strewn all over the floor. He digs through the clothes, searching pockets, until he finds some money. He hands me three dollars, just enough to get me home.

"Thanks," I say in a totally defeated voice. "I appreciate it."

"That's a loan," he says. "I'll need it back in a few days."

"Don't worry."

"Okay."

I turn and leave. I feel like I've got lead in my feet as I trudge up the hill to catch the Muni train. I feel so lost. I have to get home --- not just home, but to the place I was before. How? Where? I have no idea. I've got to find Alvin, I've got to talk to him again. He'll know.

Maybe.

The train comes by and I hop on and hand over the money. It's standing room only, so I stand by some short woman with orange hair and a red flower-print blouse, and she moves away from me like I'm a freak.

On board the train no one says a word, everyone rides in silence. It's like everyone's lost their souls.

I feel in my s.h.i.+rt pocket, pull out the heavy prism that Alvin Laurel brought me. Which Alvin Laurel was it? I wonder. I've slipped across again, I'm not in the same place. I've gone up or down a step. It seems not every Alvin Laurel is aware of his connection to me.

When the Muni train reaches downtown I transfer to BART and ride it through the tube to Berkeley. The Berkeley station is unfamiliar --- it's up two blocks further than it should be! --- and I have a sick feeling as I make my way up Hearst Avenue. The sidewalks are wider, newer, like they and the street have been recently rebuilt. The apartment is where it should be, but I get an unearthly chill as I read the street sign. It's no longer Euclid Avenue, it's called Escher Street. The apartment building is now called The Escher. I climb the steps and push the b.u.t.ton to ring my apartment, and pray Tom is home.

There's a buzz and I push the door open, pa.s.s through into unfamiliar black and white marble tile and a sharp, new checkered carpet. The banister is no longer wood --- it's polished stone!

When I reach my apartment I knock on the door, and Tom answers.

"Hey!" he says. "What are you doing here?"

"I was released."