Occupying Time

Most of the Sugar Loaf Residents belonged to the silent majority, those whose fixations kept them out of the mainstream but didn't require undo attention. For the most part, they were the ones who kept the Health Center low-maintenance. And once you accustomed yourself to complete individualization, these people were a joy. God knows they offered the ultimate lesson in the saying that variety is the spice of life.

My notes remind me of a young lady who stayed at the facility only six months, but so memorable was she that she occupied an entire page in my Journal. Arlene. Who could forget Arlene even if he out-lived Mathusala? When put in a corner in a sound-proof room, Arlene was not only in heaven but allowed everyone else the chance to experience the ethereal realm too. But put her in contact with anyone else and everyone's life became a living Hell. Arlene was the ultimate case of a person who never outgrew the only-person-in-the-universe phase we all go through before we realize there are other life forms in the world. She was a lot like Lane in this respect only more exaggerated. In her mind, she was ALWAYS supposed to get ALL the attention from EVERYONE. She never developed the ability to accept even one person in her presence. The first time the psychiatrist put a mirror in front of her, she reacted as she always did in the presence of another: she screamed so loud that half the glasses in the county broke. But then a strange thing happened: once she recognized the

image as her own, she enjoyed it. It was the only single person or object she could tolerate. So Arlene spent her days in silence, quietly smiling at her own image in the corner of a sound-proof room. Sound-proof in case she ever vocalized and her shrieks awoke the dead or did the reverse to the living.

Visitors at Sugar Loaf spent happy moments at the facility, especially the volunteers who ran the weekly Bingo games. These elderly ladies had the patience of Job, and they'd gained a degree of toleration that could rival any Himalayan saint. Fully accepting each Resident as an individual, these blue-white-haired ladies reveled in administering to the players. I think it was the only day of the week they were so animated: they seemed to be like human popcorn, jumping from player to player, pointing out the numbers, sliding plastic windows open and shut, all the time squeaking happily. To a person, each acted like Mrs. Santa Claus when they handed the Resident a dime or cupie doll or baseball hat as a prize. While some people flinch at the mere thought of dealing with the mentally ill, these women bubbled joy and heart-felt camaraderie. They seemed supremely thankful that they had been given the opportunity to be alive themselves, since many were in their eighty's. The world should applaud the elderly for taking such tender care of others.

One account of Hitler's last minutes in his bunker was that he talked about the ideal city, Berlin, oblivious of the Americans bombing and invading just outside the door. In a different time and different place, the frustrated painter might have experienced a successful stay at Sugar Loaf Health Center. That is, if he never had henchmen and perverts to carry out his aberrant fantasies. I remember a man who was equally out of touch with what was going on the outside. Graham McDonald. And yes, they did nickname him Cracker. Graham thought he was the world's best

pool player. If you believed his words, in five minutes you were convinced he was Minnesota Fat's own teacher. And though he never called himself Fast Eddie, you knew he saw himself as Paul Newman, for he hustled everyone in the facility. The more sentient, long-term Residents are always wary of challengers. They've been burned and humiliated too many times ever to want to deal with the Grahams of the world. The hustler knew this and used it to his advantage. In other words, he beat ninety-fife percent of his opponents before touching a cue. And, of course, because they didn't take up his challenge, he was obviously the victor and, therefore, the best.

I had no fear of being beat so I accepted his invitation to play during Juice Break. That's when I found the Hitler Connection, the fantasy amidst the real. It turned out that Graham was a good player. In fact, he consistently led me by two or three balls. But EVERY game he used the same, self-destructive tactic: he scratched on that last, black, game-winning/losing 8-ball. It meant that he never won a single game. I suspect a pool-playing psychiatrist would analyze the tactic as the Resident's way of saying I really AM the greatest: see, you never beat me, I beat myself. It's too bad he played with this mental twist, because he really had a decent shot and was a worthy opponent. I smiled when, after every game he strutted around the halls loudly proclaiming he was the world's best pool shark with, "Even Stewart can't beat me!"