Am I Crazy?

02 Am I Crazy second edit 2/29 9 AM

As I shuffled slowly along Broad Street, I was admiring the classic cars lined up in every parking place. There was some real junk here. Cars from the 40s complete with dents and rust. Maybe they're rat rod projects? But some were totally awesome and few had very expensive restorations and looked like brand new cars. My '56 Thunderbird was pretty nice and it won a lot of trophies, but it had its flaws common to older restorations. Cracked lacquer paint was common. A '57 Ford Fairlane sedan I was passing was flawless. But why would anyone restore something like that? It costs about as much to restore a plain Jane car as it does a real classic, like a Fairlane 500 convertible. What a waste of money. But it sure was beautiful. It looked like it just rolled off the showroom floor.

Well, there's no accounting for taste, my dad always said. He was a smart guy. The smartest guy I ever knew.

My thoughts turned to my dad. When he turned 70, he wasn't doing much. He was slowing down, just like I am now. He didn't travel much anymore. He couldn't even rent a car in his beloved Ireland because of his age. He couldn't play softball anymore either. He was sitting. If you sit, you rust.

I had been an antique and classic car buff for years. Since he was a great shade tree mechanic in his day, back when a guy could actually work on his car, I suggested that he buy an antique or classic automobile.

“Oh no,” he said. “I would never waste money on something like that.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Play on the floor with your stocks and bonds?”

The next thing I knew, he had this '56 Thunderbird. I didn't care much for the color. It was called Fiesta Red, but they should have named it Tomato Soup Red. But otherwise, it sure was beautiful. Except for the cracked paint, it looked like new.

“It's gorgeous, Dad,” I said.

“Do you remember my '56 Ford?” asked Dad.

“Sure. The blue and white Fairlane.”

“What I really wanted was a Thunderbird,” said Dad. “I bought the Fairlane instead. Do you know why?”

“I dunno Dad. Why?”

“Because the Thunderbird didn't have a back seat, and Ma and I had you,” he answered.

My Dad was such a kidder. But I remember the back seat of the Fairlane well. I couldn't see over it. It even had a bar to hang a blanket on in case it was cold back there.

This '57 Ford sure was pretty, even though it wasn't a Thunderbird. It was a plain four door sedan. It didn't even have whitewall tires. And it had hubcaps instead of full wheel covers. This is nothing I ever saw at any car show.

The driver was in the car. He saw me looking at his car with interest.

“Hi,” he said as he got out.

“Hi,” I answered. Now to say something nice about his car. What? “Uh... your Ford is like brand new.”

“I would hope so,” said the driver.

“'57?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said the driver. And then he walked away.

Well, that was that. I couldn't very well ask why he pissed away his money on restoring something like that. None of my business. My dad also said that there was no accounting for taste. A fool and his money. I shook my head. We had a saying in the car business. There's an ass for every seat.

I made my way slowly up the small hill towards the church. As I got close to the old IGA, it was... there! And open! I could have sworn it was a bakery now. The Dessert Tray, I think. How did I confuse that? Didn't the IGA go out of business years ago? What? I understood not to trust my memory anymore.

I stood in front of the store windows. The lights were on and people were inside. The one register had a small line. Outside, in front of the store was a concrete landing, which was level and served to hold the small shopping carts. That landing was needed because the IGA was on an incline. I looked at the front of the store, and there was IGA in big lit letters.

I was confused. Did I have a stroke? Am I hallucinating? I hallucinated once before because of medications I was taking, but this seemed so real. I just stood there like a cigar store Indian. Ha. I'll bet a kid today wouldn't know what a cigar store Indian was. Come to think of it, I'd never seen one myself. Only photos. I don't think the ginney store had an Indian.

I stood, staring in the windows.

“Look out mister!” someone yelled!

I looked to my left and a kid on a bicycle was flying down the sidewalk. As quick as I was able, I moved to the side.

“Get off the sidewalk with that bike, kid!” I hollered after him, shaking my cane. He didn't answer. Damn fool kid is gonna kill someone.

Bicycles aren't allowed on sidewalks. When I was a kid, when we rode our bikes to the village, we rode on the sidewalks. But that was different. Broad Street was a busy place then. We were safer on the sidewalk. I don't recall almost running anyone over. And one time, Bob Van and I rode our bikes to Cohoes. We rode in the street with traffic. I was following behind Bob. A lady had parked her car and flung open her driver's side door into the traffic lane just as Bob got there. Bob hit the door, sending him flying over his handlebars as he smashed into it. Bob laid in the street, but then got up and picked up his bike. No one was hurt, but I told them it was an accident and they had to tell the police. They did while I waited by the post office. In front, on the sidewalk, was an Uncle Sam poster. I Want You it said. Uncle Sam was a guy from Troy, next to Waterford. He looked mad. I wonder why?

I looked back in the IGA. It looked warmer inside, so I walked in. The first thing I saw was a big red tube tester on the right. It was a machine that you plugged your tube into and a gauge told you if the tube was good or not. There was a cabinet under the gauge that held replacement tubes.

I remember coming here with my dad to test tubes out of our TV if it was on the blink, which it seemed to do with regularity. My dad took great pride in fixing things himself. If the TV went on the fritz, he'd pull it away from the wall, open the back, yank out some tubes and run to the IGA to test them. The needle gauge on the front showed if the tube was good or not, or maybe weak. Why was this machine even still here? Certainly no one tests tubes anymore. There aren't any tubes. TVs are now all solid state flat screens. Maybe they kept it as a curiosity piece?

“Good morning,” someone said in a loud voice. I looked. It was the cashier. He looked a lot like the young guy that worked here when I was a kid. Tall, thin, brown hair. White shirt and cap. They still have to wear caps?

“Hi,” I replied.

“Can I help you find anything?” he asked.

“Naw. I just came in to get warm. I can't believe you still have this tube tester,” I answered.

“Sure do. Why wouldn't we?” the young guy asked.

“I dunno... never mind.”

After my accident, I tended not to talk as much.

I looked around a bit. There, on the left, were the comic books! Still there, same place! I used to buy most of my comics here. Instead of a dime, you could buy them with the top of the front cover torn off for a nickel. That's twice as many comics! That would be five for a quarter!

I was flipping through the rack. Casper the Friendly Ghost. Red Ryder. Lulu and Tubby. They still print these old comics?

“How much are the comics?” I hollered over to the kid.

“A nickel,” he answered.

A nickel? Still? I put the comics back. Next to them were a stack of Troy Record newspapers. I picked one up. An article said that four railroads in Troy were looking to replace crossing watchmen with flashing lights at six crossings, with electrically operated gates. I looked at the date on the paper. April 1957.

I looked at magazines. All April 1957. Life magazine. Twenty cents. Motor Life. Twenty-five cents. Motor Trend, featuring a 180 MPH Mercedes SLR. Twenty-five cents.

What's happening? Did I have a stroke? Hallucinations? Something I ate at Don & Paul's? Is the IGA now an antique store? I didn't know what to think. I turned and walked past the tube tester and out the door, onto the sidewalk. I headed right, up the hill. There was Shulusky's Diner. No sign shop around. It was Shulusky's.

Instead of walking up the hill to the church, I decided to take the bike path that ran along the old Champlain Canal. I had walked it before. It was nice, and no traffic. It was not bike path. It was black cinders. It was like the old tow path when I was a kid, long ago used by mules to pull canal boats.

After a block, I came to Division Street. Uh oh. This was a mistake. This part of the hill up to Sixth Street is very steep.

I took it slow. One step at a time. I was tired and I looked down at my feet as I hobbled along. Geez, don't fall here. I finally made it to the top, by the church hall. I walked past the hall and sat again on O'Connor's stone wall. Man, I'm tired. Too tired. Just relax, I told myself. Catch your breath.

What is going on here. I must be cracking up. Again. I had an episode a year ago that put me in the hospital. I woke up one morning and I was paralyzed from the chest down. I could not walk, or sit up. I rolled out of bed and onto the floor. I pulled myself across it to the phone. I pulled on the cord and knocked it down. I called 911.

“911 operator. What is your emergency?”

“I think I may have had a stroke,” I answered.

“Where are you?”

I gave the operator my address.

“What is your name?”

I gave it.

“Don't hang up. Help is on the way. Stay on the line with me until the ambulance gets there,” she said. “Is the front door unlocked?”

“No. But I can get it.” I pulled myself along the floor and reached up to the doorknob and cracked open the door. I belly crawled back to the phone. “It's open.”

“OK. Good. Just relax. Help is on the way.”

“OK, thank you.”

“Do you think you might hurt others or hurt yourself?” she asked.

“Well, I certainly wouldn't hurt anyone. But if I had a bottle of pills, I'd take them.”

I thought back to my friend Todd. He had developed a debilitating illness. Doctors could not determine the problem. Todd was in constant great pain, and he was withering away. Finally, a doctor told Todd they were sending him home. There was nothing they could do for him. The doctor handed Todd a bottle of pills.

“Take one of these every eight hours for pain,” said the doctor to Todd. “Do NOT take the whole bottle because you will die. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Todd.

“Are you sure? Because if you take the whole bottle, you'll die. You'll go to sleep and not wake up.”

“I understand,” said Todd. That night, Todd died.

There was no way in hell that I would be bedridden from a stroke. I meant it when I said that if I had a bottle of pills, I'd take them. I kept talking with the 911 operator. Everything after that is fuzzy. I don't remember the ambulance ride at all. I don't remember waking up in a hospital bed. I just... became aware that I was awake.

A doctor came in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I feel OK. Just groggy.”

“That's the drugs,” he answered.

“What happened to me?” I asked. “Did I have a stroke?”

“No.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“We ran some tests. You didn't have a stroke, but we don't know yet what brought this on,” the doctor said. “Can you move?”

“I can wiggle my feet a little,” I replied.

The doctor got up and left the room without saying a word.

Over the next couple of weeks, I was finally able to sit up in bed. I could not get up though. And then a nurse came into my room.

“We're transferring you to another facility,” he said. “We need this bed.”

“OK. Where?”

“Springbrook,” he answered.

I was fairly new to Florida and didn't know where that was. It didn't really matter to me anyway. After a bit, two men came in with a gurney. They transferred me from the bed. I couldn't do it myself. They both picked me up and moved me over. Once again, the ambulance ride was blurry. Did they give me more drugs? I had an IV and nurses were always shooting some kind of drugs into it.

The next thing I knew, I woke up in bed. I looked around the strange room. I had a roommate. He was looking at me.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“Hi. I guess so. I feel like I was hit by a truck. This is Springbrook?” I asked.

“Yep, sure is.”

A nurse came in and handed me pills. I asked what the pills were for. Depression and anxiety, she said. Depression?

“Why am I being treated for depression?” I asked.

“Didn't you say you wanted to kill yourself?”

“Well, I said that if I had a bottle of pills, I'd take them. I thought I might spend the rest of my life in bed.”

“That did it,” said the nurse. “You've been Baker Acted.”

“What is Baker Acted?” I asked.

“You will stay here in Springbrook until the doctor says you can go.”

“No, as soon as I can walk, I'm leaving,” I said firmly.

“No, you are not,” said the nurse. “You will stay here until the doctor says you can go. Not before. You cannot discharge yourself.”

“What? I never heard anything like that.”

“Sir, Springbrook is a mental hospital. You are a ward of the state. You will leave only if a doctor says you can.”

Everything after that is vague. They kept giving me pills. I only have flashes of lucidity, of being there. I recalled lining up several times a day to get my meds along with everyone else. If you didn't show up for your meds, the attendants would come to get you.

I remember the bars on the windows and doors. I remember being let outside once a day for an hour of sunshine. Outside was in a quad with only one door leading in, which was guarded. All of the windows and gates were barred. Funny, I remember eating with my fingers because they gave us no utensils.

I recall that one of the patients in the common room was the queen of the world. “I own the world and everything in it” she would announce to everyone. Other patients said nothing. Some were talking to imaginary people. One guy just paced, taking swings at invisible foes.

And then, one day, I realized I was not in Springbrook. I was now in a group home somewhere. Port Richey, I was told, with a few other guys with issues of some sort. Then the day arrived when the landlady came to me to tell me that I was no longer Baker Acted. I took a $180 cab ride to Tampa International Airport and flew to New York a few days later. And here I am. Where that is right now, I no longer know.

Am I crazy? That must be it. Am I still in the group home? But fer pete's sake, don't tell anyone. Don't even talk to anyone. You'll be right back in the loony bin, sure as hell.

A car pulled up to the curb. It was the same young man from earlier. He was in a different car though. A 55 Oldsmobile. It must be from the car show.

“You're still here,” he said. “Are you sure you're OK?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” I answered. “I went out to breakfast at Don & Paul's.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Shulusky's I meant,” I answered.

“You look tired. Are you sure you wouldn't like a lift?” he asked.

“No. I'm OK. Wait. Know what? Can you give me a ride to Swayze Acres?” I asked.

“Sure, glad to. Is that where you live?”

“Yeah,” I replied. In 1957, I muttered to myself.