“I was born on a sinking ship,” said James, smearing red paint on a clown’s nose that floated in the middle of a deep blue lake. To his right, Nicolas was putting the finishing touches on his stormy rendition of The Starry Night. Across from him, René’s canvas remained a blank, untouched white.
When the noon bell rang and the loudspeaker announced lunch, everyone stood up, cleaning and organizing the brushes and paints into the shared art box. Nicolas grumbled about the likelihood of chicken and rice being on the menu, while Ryan, a former Yellowstone ranger, insisted that Tuesdays were pizza day. Rhonda, the fine arts volunteer leading the art class, complimented Nicolas on his work. He smiled, agreeing it was a pretty good rendition. She then asked René if he thought he could do better next time, to which he replied, “The masterpiece is in my head, dear Rhonda.” Finally, she turned to James, teasingly asking if he was the clown submerged beneath the nose. He replied, “I spent my life bailing water.”
At lunch, James, Nicolas, and René sat together as they always did, joined this time by Ryan, the bald, paranoid giant who had been institutionalized after nearly beating two hikers to death in Yellowstone National Park during his time as a ranger. Since then, he had been a patient in what James liked to call the “Blue Skies for Genius Con-Madmen,” otherwise known as the Blue Skies Mental Health Institute. Also at the table was Harold, a skinny, toothless elderly man with thick glasses, who never spoke a word but would giggle spontaneously and then become silently absorbed again.
“This is the best chicken I’ve ever eaten in my life,” said James, adding, “and that’s saying something, considering I eat more chicken than any man ever seen.” Nicolas let out a nervous laugh which caused him to choke. “Pass me... *cough* *cough*... the... *cough* the…” he said while spitting out rice, his face turning red. “You mean the Coke, right?” asked Ryan. “Just give it to him, damn it!” yelled René. Ryan slid the glass bottle to the center of the table, and Nicolas tipped it straight into his mouth. “You guys know they put something in the Coke to make sure we don’t want to leave this place, right?” Ryan remarked. As James was saying, “There’s no need,” Nicolas drowned out his voice with a belch that echoed throughout the dining hall.
“Don’t you have an appointment with Mr. Green?” Nicolas asked. James sensed the imperative in Nicolas's question, asked René for a cigarette, and left the table.
James's Interview with Mr. Green
- How have you been, Mark?
- Well, very okay, I guess. Today we painted.
- Back to a clown, or something different?
- A clown, Mr. Green. I still don’t do them perfectly; you’ll see.
- Little by little. And you still think you’re James Douglas Morrison.
- You can call me Mark. I can’t do anything to change your mind.
- It's been two months since you started taking Risperidone.
- Yes, doc.
- Any uncomfortable side effects you want to tell me about?
- It’s been... about the same as always, I think. I do have a little trouble sleeping.
- I’ll tell the nurse to prepare a booster. Anything else you’d like to tell me?
- How about you?
- Me? Hmmm... what can I tell you, Mark. After finishing today’s interviews, I have a golf game with the mayor.
- Aaah... That’s why the pants.
- That’s right. Call Jacob for me, will you?
- Okay, Doc.
- See you next week, Mark.
- All right then, Doc.
René and Nicolas were sitting outside on the white metallic chairs by the only tree in the walled garden. James joined them and lit the cigarette he had borrowed from René.
“Listen, Jim, we can’t trust that bald lunatic. He’s too freaked out; he might put the pieces together if you give him too much rope,” Nicolas said. With a gesture of disbelief, James pointed at Harold, who was standing by the white metallic staff entrance with an eye on the peephole. “Harold’s not a problem. He’s been with René and me since we got here. That bald-headed giant, you have to be careful what you say around him. We don’t want to mess up the magnum opium because of a stupid joke, agreed?” James lowered his head to hide his regret. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. By the way, Mr. Green wants to see you.”
Nicolas's Interview with Mr. Green
- Doctor, what brings you here?
- Haha, how have you been, Jacob?
- Oh, very well, very well, little doctor. Did you bring the novel I asked for?
- Of course, my friend. Look, the latest in the series: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicolas Flamel. That’s you, right?
- Of course, little doctor. You know how it is, right? The crazy ones are the ones who aren’t crazy.
- Absolutely, Jacob. Absolutely. How has the medication been treating you?
- Just like always.
- Do you want to try something new?
- What are the special offers?
- Intramuscular Risperidone.
- Oh no, no, not that. You know I don’t mess with needles.
- I can get you the latest edition of the published works of Nicolas Flamel.
- Oh, I don’t care about that, li'l doc. They’re all on the soul shelf. Shoot Ryan with the stuff. That big head could use a little calming down.
- What happened in there?
- The nutcase keeps saying the Coke is poisoned and he's got everyone freaked out.
- I’ll talk to him.
- Thanks, li'l doc.
- Call Ethan for me.
- I’ll call him now.
Back outside, Nicolas found James and René chatting under the afternoon sun.
“René, Green wants to see you next. Make sure he gives you some more. You, Jim, have you gotten a booster?”
“I asked for it. I estimate we have enough and then some.”
“Perfect,” said Nicolas, gently scratching his left eye with the index finger of his left hand, which René and James also did. From a distance, Harold's giggle filled the garden.
René's Interview with Mr. Green
- Doctor, I was told you were looking for me.
- Yes, Ethan, please sit down.
- Tell me, Doctor, how can I help you?
- How many years have you been a patient at the Blue Skies Mental Health Institute?
- About four.
- What’s today’s date?
- January 24, 2006.
- What’s your name?
- René Descartes.
- Do you speak French?
- Je parle un petit.
- Ethan, René Descartes died on February 11, 1650.
- Probabilistics, Doctor.
- How have you been sleeping? Last week you told me you were having nightmares.
- I’m still having nightmares.
- Do you want a booster?
- Please.
- All right.
- Can you bring me Harold, please?
- Yes, Doc.