Supermarket(43)

There was a Christmas tree lit up in the corner, decorated with ornaments. White lights were strung around the perimeter of the room. The windows were frosted. Passing a calendar, I saw that it was mid-December. There was a TV playing lightly. A group was watching soap operas, and a circle of people on the other end were making homemade stockings. There was an area full of board games, and right there sat an old black man who resembled the guy from outside Muldoon’s. He was sitting alone by the window playing chess. Against himself, it would appear. His pieces were red, and his invisible opponent’s were white.

The place reminded me more of a rehab center or old people’s home than an insane asylum—but I guess that’s just because of how mainstream media depicts lunatics in film and TV. Like soulless raving madmen held captive in an asylum.

As I neared the cafeteria, I was met by a woman with a familiar face. It was Ann, the same woman who worked in the pharmacy. Just as she had done a million times before in the store, she gave me my daily dose of multivitamins.

“Hey there, sweetheart, don’t forget your pills!” she said, planting a bevy of pills in the palm of my hand. Only here and now, I realized they weren’t multivitamins at all. These were pills. Like hard-core psychiatric medication. All shapes, sizes, and colors. This freaked me the fuck out.

I pretended to consume them. After she left I quickly took them out from under my tongue and put them in the right pocket of my favorite brown jacket . . . which had an alarming amount of the pills already in it.

How long have I been here?

In the cafeteria, I saw so many familiar faces from the supermarket, including the doctor in the white coat. I made my way to where the food was being served and grabbed a tray. They were serving eggs with bacon and a side of toast. I got some orange juice, which was dispensed from a machine, the same as some hotels have. As I looked for a place to sit, I noticed it was pretty crowded, and everyone was kind of divided up into cliques like high school. Looking around, I noticed the black man and his chessboard sitting at a table for two, with no one accompanying him. I walked over and placed my tray in front of his chessboard. The pieces were worn. They had a life of their own.

“Where are you today, kid?”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“Here we go again,” he said.

“Pardon?” I replied.

“Have a seat.”

He definitely had a Morgan Freeman–vibe going on—midsixties, black with gray hair. He was tall, was calm, and had a distinguished-looking face. To be honest, he didn’t seem to have anything wrong with him at all.

As I looked around the place, everyone else seemed to have some kind of telling sign. A tic, if you will, that gave away the reason they should be in here.

But not this guy.

As I looked around, judging everyone by their flinching or stuttering, I stopped and wondered: What is my tic? If I even had one.

“So where are you today, kid?” the man said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” I said, stabbing the scrambled eggs on my plate with the silver fork in my right hand.

“Kid, look around. Where are you?”

“Uh, I’m in an asylum of some kind,” I told him.

“Okay, that’s more like it. You know, so many people don’t appreciate the moment. Appreciate where they are. Appreciate the here and now.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but I certainly don’t understand why I should appreciate being in a nuthouse.”

“No, boy,” the man said. “You are alive. And in this moment, you are well.”

“So,” I said to him. “What’s your name, old man?”

“You know my name, Flynn. You’ve known it for some time.”

I stared at him, trying to find my bearings. What the hell was this guy talking about?

And how did he know my name?

“The name’s Samson, William Redding Samson. But friends—like you—just call me Red. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Red said, extending his hand to be shaken.

“I’m, well . . . I guess you already know who I am,” I said, shaking his hand. “How do you know my name?”

“Well, it’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation. But, if I do say so myself, I’ve never seen you like this. You seem more present, cogent, and certain this time.”

“More certain of what?” I asked.

“Finishing it.” He took a sip of his coffee.

“Hello there,” said Olivia as she walked up to our table.

“Hello,” Red and I said in unison.

“I do hope you don’t mind, but may I borrow you for a moment, Flynn?” she asked, beginning to walk and motioning me to follow.

“Oh, of course not!” I rose to my feet. “See ya around, Red,” I said, walking a bit faster through the halls of the facility to catch up with Dr. Cross.

We didn’t say anything on the way to her office. And even though I had a million and one questions, I just enjoyed the walk. Outside the window, there was a faint snow on the ground—a snowfall that must have been a few weeks old.

“And here we are,” Dr. Cross said as she motioned me into her office.

As I sat down, before she even had a chance to make it behind her desk, the questions just poured out.