CAFETERIA, ADMINISTRATION, EAST HOUSE .
“This is great,” I said.
“Haven’t you been down here before?” asked Georgina.
I asked the nurse, “Do these run under the whole hospital?”
“Yes,” she said. “You can get anywhere. It’s easy to get lost, though.”
“How about the signs?”
“There aren’t really enough of them.” She giggled; she was an okay nurse named Ruth. “This one says EAST HOUSE ”—she pointed up—“but then you come to a fork and there isn’t another sign.”
“What do you do?”
“You just have to know the way,” she said.
“Can I come down here alone?” I asked. I wasn’t surprised when Ruth said I couldn’t.
The tunnels became my obsession.
“Anybody free to take me into the tunnels?” I’d ask every day. About once a week, somebody would take me.
And then there they were, always hot and clean and yellow and full of promise, always throbbing with heating and water pipes that sang and whistled as they did their work. And everything interconnected, everything going on its own private pathway to wherever it went.
“It’s like being in a map—not reading a map but being inside a map,” I said to Ruth one day when she’d taken me down there. “Like the plan of something rather than the thing itself.” She didn’t say anything and I knew I ought to stop talking about it, but I couldn’t. “It’s like the essence of the hospital down here—you know what I mean?”
“Time’s up,” said Ruth. “I’m on checks in ten minutes.”
In February I asked Melvin, “You know those tunnels?”
“Could you tell me more about the tunnels?”
He didn’t know about them. If he’d known about them, he would have said, “Yes?”
“There are tunnels under this entire hospital. Everything is connected by tunnels. You could get in them and go anywhere. It’s warm and cozy and quiet.”
“A womb,” said Melvin.
“It’s not a womb,” I said.
“Yes.”
When Melvin said Yes without a questioning intonation, he meant No .
“It’s the opposite of a womb,” I said. “A womb doesn’t go anywhere.” I thought hard about how to explain the tunnels to Melvin. “The hospital is the womb, see. You can’t go anywhere, and it’s noisy, and you’re stuck. The tunnels are like a hospital without the bother.”
He said nothing and I said nothing. Then I had another idea.
“Remember the shadows on the wall of the cave?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t remember them. “Plato said everything in the world is just the shadow of some real thing we can’t see. And the real thing isn’t like the shadow, it’s a kind of essence-thing, like a—” I couldn’t think what, for a minute. “Like a super-table.”
“Could you say more about that?”
The super-table hadn’t been a good example. “It’s like a neurosis,” I said. I was making this up. “Like when you’re angry, and that’s the real thing, and what shows is you’re afraid of dogs biting you. Because really what you want is to bite everybody. You know?”
Now that I’d said this, I thought it was pretty convincing.
“Why are you angry?” Melvin asked.
He died young, of a stroke. I was his first analytic patient; I found that out after I quit analysis. A year after I got out of the hospital, I quit. I’d had it, finally, with all that messing about in the shadows.
Stigmatography
The hospital had an address, 115 Mill Street. This was to provide some cover if one of us were well enough to apply for a job while still incarcerated. It gave about as much protection as 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue would have.
“Let’s see, nineteen years old, living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—Hey! That’s the White House!”
This was the sort of look we got from prospective employers, except not pleased.
In Massachusetts, 115 Mill Street is a famous address. Applying for a job, leasing an apartment, getting a driver’s license: all problematic. The driver’s-license application even asked, Have
“This is great,” I said.
“Haven’t you been down here before?” asked Georgina.
I asked the nurse, “Do these run under the whole hospital?”
“Yes,” she said. “You can get anywhere. It’s easy to get lost, though.”
“How about the signs?”
“There aren’t really enough of them.” She giggled; she was an okay nurse named Ruth. “This one says EAST HOUSE ”—she pointed up—“but then you come to a fork and there isn’t another sign.”
“What do you do?”
“You just have to know the way,” she said.
“Can I come down here alone?” I asked. I wasn’t surprised when Ruth said I couldn’t.
The tunnels became my obsession.
“Anybody free to take me into the tunnels?” I’d ask every day. About once a week, somebody would take me.
And then there they were, always hot and clean and yellow and full of promise, always throbbing with heating and water pipes that sang and whistled as they did their work. And everything interconnected, everything going on its own private pathway to wherever it went.
“It’s like being in a map—not reading a map but being inside a map,” I said to Ruth one day when she’d taken me down there. “Like the plan of something rather than the thing itself.” She didn’t say anything and I knew I ought to stop talking about it, but I couldn’t. “It’s like the essence of the hospital down here—you know what I mean?”
“Time’s up,” said Ruth. “I’m on checks in ten minutes.”
In February I asked Melvin, “You know those tunnels?”
“Could you tell me more about the tunnels?”
He didn’t know about them. If he’d known about them, he would have said, “Yes?”
“There are tunnels under this entire hospital. Everything is connected by tunnels. You could get in them and go anywhere. It’s warm and cozy and quiet.”
“A womb,” said Melvin.
“It’s not a womb,” I said.
“Yes.”
When Melvin said Yes without a questioning intonation, he meant No .
“It’s the opposite of a womb,” I said. “A womb doesn’t go anywhere.” I thought hard about how to explain the tunnels to Melvin. “The hospital is the womb, see. You can’t go anywhere, and it’s noisy, and you’re stuck. The tunnels are like a hospital without the bother.”
He said nothing and I said nothing. Then I had another idea.
“Remember the shadows on the wall of the cave?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t remember them. “Plato said everything in the world is just the shadow of some real thing we can’t see. And the real thing isn’t like the shadow, it’s a kind of essence-thing, like a—” I couldn’t think what, for a minute. “Like a super-table.”
“Could you say more about that?”
The super-table hadn’t been a good example. “It’s like a neurosis,” I said. I was making this up. “Like when you’re angry, and that’s the real thing, and what shows is you’re afraid of dogs biting you. Because really what you want is to bite everybody. You know?”
Now that I’d said this, I thought it was pretty convincing.
“Why are you angry?” Melvin asked.
He died young, of a stroke. I was his first analytic patient; I found that out after I quit analysis. A year after I got out of the hospital, I quit. I’d had it, finally, with all that messing about in the shadows.
Stigmatography
The hospital had an address, 115 Mill Street. This was to provide some cover if one of us were well enough to apply for a job while still incarcerated. It gave about as much protection as 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue would have.
“Let’s see, nineteen years old, living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—Hey! That’s the White House!”
This was the sort of look we got from prospective employers, except not pleased.
In Massachusetts, 115 Mill Street is a famous address. Applying for a job, leasing an apartment, getting a driver’s license: all problematic. The driver’s-license application even asked, Have
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