It's Kind of a Funny Story (27 page)

forty-six

Six North doesn’t need a PA system, because of President Armelio, but it does have one, used regularly for the simple and rhythmic messages of “Lunch is served,” “Medication,” and “All smokers to the smoking lounge; smokers, get your smokes.” This afternoon it pipes up with a longer message, courtesy of Monica.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon our patient Craig Gilner, who is leaving tomorrow, is going to be drawing his artwork for everyone on the floor. If you’d like your own personal piece of Craig’s art, come to the end of the hallway by the dining room. End of the dining-room hallway, five minutes. Have fun!”

I sit down in the backmost chair, by the window that peers out over the avenue that crosses the street I live on, so close to my real life. I look over at my conference chair where I meet with my parents and Noelle. I have a second chair set up in front of me as an art desk, with stacks of board games on it and a chessboard on top. It’s a little flimsy, but it’ll do.

President Armelio is first to approach. He strides up, barrel-chested and sure of himself, like a torpedo.

“Hey, buddy, this is great! You gonna make me one of your heads with the maps inside?”

“That’s right.”

“Well let’s go, buddy. I ain’t got all day!”

Right. Armelio is going to have to be done fast because he
is
fast. I sketch the outline of his head and shoulders without a second thought and start in on his brain map. Highways, that’s what Armelio has in his head—six-lane highways running parallel, streaking through a city, with purpose and minimal on-ramps. He doesn’t have any quiet little streets or parks; it’s highways and a grid, and no rivers either. The highways hardly even connect because Armelio doesn’t mix up his thoughts; he has one and does it and then he moves on to the next. It’s a great way to live. Especially when the biggest thought is wanting to play cards. Cards have to be represented in Armelio’s brain somewhere. So I sketch some streets into an ace of spades right in the middle—it’s not a
great
ace of spades, but Armelio gets it.

“Spades! Buddy, I
crush
you in spades.”

I put my initials on it, big and bold, “CG” like “computer-generated. “

“I’m gonna keep this, for real,” Armelio says. “You a good guy, Craig.” He shakes my hand. “You want my number for when you go?”

“Sure.” I take out a piece of paper.

“It’s an adult home,” Armelio says. “You’re gonna have to ask for Spyros, which is my other name.” He gives me the number and moves aside, and there’s Ebony, with her cane and her velvet pants, smacking her lips.

“I
heard ..
. that you were making your brains for people,” she says.

“That’s right! And you know who the first person who said they were brains was?”

“Me!”

“Absolutely. Now, look” —I gesture at my stack of work on the floor—"now I’ve got all this.”

“So I get paid, right?” Ebony laughs.

“Not quite; I haven’t really made it yet. As an artist.”

“I know. It’s tough.”

“So you just get a brain map for yourself, okay?”

“Good!”

I trace her head freehand, looking at her, not the paper. I look down and it’s pretty good. Ebony’s brain … what’s in there? A lot of circles, for all the buttons she stole. She was a nut with those buttons. Didn’t mess around. Quite a schemer. And with all of her gambling skill, she needs to have a Strip, like Vegas. So I get a big boulevard in the middle and lots of traffic circles around it, with circular parks, circular malls, little circle lakes. It comes out looking less like a city and more like a necklace with a central band and tons of bunched-up jewels hanging off.

“It’s pretty!” she says.

“And you’re done.” I hand it to her.

“You like doing these, huh?”

“Yeah. It helps, you know . . . with my depression. I came in here with depression.”

“Imagine having depression when you were
eleven years old,”
Ebony says. “If all my children were in this hall, this hall would be full up, I tell you.”

“You have kids?” I ask, keeping my voice down.

“I had thirteen miscarriages,” she says. “Imagine that.” And she looks at me without any of the humor or attitude that she usually puts on, just with big wide eyes and empty questions.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“I know. I know you are. That’s the thing.”

Ebony shuffles away showing off her portrait ("That’s me! See? Me!"); she doesn’t leave a phone number. Humble is next.

“All right, man, what kinda scam you got going on here?”

“It’s nothing.” I start in on Humble’s bald head. Bald heads are easy. You know, if I had to right now, I think I could handle the lower tip of Manhattan. I look at Humble. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Make me look good, all right?”

I laugh. Inside Humble’s head is industrial chaos.

I don’t make any small blocks, just big ones—the kind of blocks where you’d find lumber shops and factories and bars where Humble would hang out at and work. I put the ocean in there, to represent his hometown, Bensonhurst, which borders the ocean, where he hooked up with all those girls way back when. Then I splash it with highways, erasing the streets and putting them over the top, throwing in crazy interchanges for no reason, making the whole thing look violent and random, but also powerful and true—the kind of mind that could come up with some great stuff if you harnessed it right. When I’m done, I look up.

“I guess it’s okay.” He shrugs.

I chuckle. “Thanks, Humble.”

“I want you to remember me,” he says. “No joke. When you’re a big-time artist or whatever, you gotta invite me to one of the parties.”

“It’s a deal,” I say. “But how am I going to be in touch?”

“Oh, right—I got a number!” Humble says. “I’m gonna be staying in Seaside Paradise; it’s the same home that Armelio is going to, but I’m going to be on a different floor.” He gives me the number; I put it on the same sheet as Armelio’s.

“You’re not gonna be in touch,” Humble says.

“I will,” I say.

“No you won’t; I can tell. But it’s okay. You have a lot going for you. Just don’t burn out again.”

We shake hands. Up next is Noelle.

“Hey, girl!”

“Don’t you dare start calling me that. This is very nice of you to do.”

“Least I could do. They’re all such cool people.”

“You’re like a celebrity now. Everyone wants to know if I’m your girlfriend.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“’No!’And then I walk away.”

“Good call.”

“So what are you trying to pull? You already made one of these for me. You just said it wasn’t finished.”

I pull out the one I made for her, with the guy and girl connected by the bridge, and write my phone number on the back of it.

“Oh my
gosh.”

“Now
it’s done.” I smile, standing up. I lean in and whisper: “It took me like twice as long as any of the others. And I’ll make you an ever better one when I get out—”

She pushes me away. “Yeah, like I want your stupid art.”

“You
do.”
I lean back. “I saw how you looked at it before.”

“I’ll keep it to make you feel good,” she says. “That’s
it.”

“Fine.”

She leans in and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, for real.”

“You’re welcome. Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

“Well … I thought I’d be hanging out in the psych hospital. What about you?”

“I’ve got big plans,” I say. “We’ve got a movie coming in—”

“Right, I’m not seeing that stupid movie.”

“I know.” I drop to a whisper. “But when it’s halfway done, do you want to meet in my room?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Seriously.”

“Your roommate will be there! He’s always there!”

“Trust me. Come to the room.”

“Are you going to try and make out with me?”

“If you must know? Yes.”

“I appreciate your honesty. We’ll see.”

I give her a hug; she holds the brain map with her hands wrapped around me. “And I already have your number,” I say.

“You don’t get any second chances if you lose it,” she says. “I don’t give that number out twice.”

I take a quick wanting look at her as we pull away from each other and she moves off to the side.

Bobby is next.

“Who’s that behind you?”

“Huh, who do you think?” Johnny answers.

“Come on up together, guys. I’ll do you both at once.”

“Cool,” Bobby says, standing off to the side. Johnny stands next to him and I start drawing them, their shaggy hair and baggy clothing making for great outlines.

“So he’s
drawin’
us?” Johnny asks Bobby.

“Be quiet, all right?”

“Where did you guys hang out?” I ask Bobby, not looking up from the paper. “Back when you were garbage-heads?”

“What? You’re gonna draw that?”

“No.” I look up. “I’m just curious. What neighborhood?”

“It was the Lower East Side, but don’t draw the Lower East Side,” says Bobby. “I don’t want to go back there.”

“All right, fair enough. Where do you want to live?”

“On the Upper East Side, with all the rich people,” Bobby answers.

“Huh, me too,” says Johnny.

“Wait, no, you’re getting a guitar,” I say.

“Oh, cool.”

I start on Bobby’s and Johnny’s brains. With Johnny, it’s fun to do a guitar in a street grid—some diagonal streets meeting for the body and then a big wide boulevard for the neck, a park for the head. Then I turn to Bobby. I know the Upper East Side pretty well; it’s in Manhattan and the big thing that it has is Central Park, so I draw that on the inside left of his head. Then I put in the stately grid of rich streets. I know the Guggenheim Museum is somewhere up there; I mark that with an arrow And then I put an “X” right next to it, on a corner where an apartment probably costs $20 million, and write
Bobby’
s
pad.

“Bobby’s pad! That’s right! That’s where I’m headed.” He raises his arms. “Movin’on up.”

“Enjoy.” I hand them the piece.

“Who gets what?” Johnny asks. “You want us to rip it apart?”

“No, man, we’re supposed to keep it together because we’re
friends,”
says Bobby. “I’ll make a photocopy.”

“Where’s the photocopy machine in here?”

“There isn’t one! I’ll do it when I get out.”

“Where’s that gonna leave me?”

“With a copy!”

“I don’t want a copy!”

“Would you listen to this guy? Nothing’s good enough for him—”

“Hey, Bobby,” I interrupt. “Any way I can get yours and Johnny’s phone numbers to talk to you after you leave?”

Johnny starts to say something, but Bobby leans in and stops him: “It’s not a good idea, Craig.”

“What? Why?”

He sighs. “I’ve been in and out of this place a lot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“There are good things about this place; I mean, the food is the best around; there are good people here . . . but it’s still not a place to meet people.”

“Why not? I met you guys and you’re really cool!”

“Yeah, well, all the worse, then, when you try to call me or Johnny up and find out that we’ve OD’ed, or been shot, or come back here even worse, or just disappeared.”

“That’s a pretty negative view.”

“I’ve seen it before. You just remember us, okay? We meet in the outside world, it just ruins it. You’ll be embarrassed of me and I . . .” He smiles. “… I might be embarrassed of me, too. And I might be embarrassed of
you,
if you don’t keep your stuff together.”

“Thanks. You sure no numbers?”

Bobby shakes my hand. “If we need to, we’ll meet.”

Johnny shakes my hand. “What he said.”

The last guy in line is Jimmy.

“I tell you, what’d I say? You play those numbers—”

“It’ll come to ya!” I answer.

“It the truth!”
He grins.

Ah, Jimmy. What’s in Jimmy’s brain? Chaos. I do up his nearly bald head and shoulders and then start putting the most complicated, unnecessary, wild highways through him from ear to ear. I connect them in intricate spaghetti ramps. In one nexus, five highways meet; I have to erase and redraw the ramps a few times. Then I put in the grid—a grid laid out by a hyperactive designer, with blocks going in all different directions. When Jimmy’s brain map is done it might look the best—a catalog of a schizophrenic mind, but one that works somehow.

“Here you go,” I tell him. He’s sitting in a seat that he took next to me to watch me work.

“It’ll come to ya!” he says, and takes the map. I want him to finally open up, to call me Craig, to tell me that we came in together, but he’s still Jimmy— his vocabulary is still limited.