Part 10 (1/2)
”How are you feeling this morning?” he asks.
”How do I feel?” I have to think about this. How do I feel? ”I feel like someone took my brain out of my head, dumped it into a blender and put it on puree. Then they poured it back into my head and here I sit.”
”As I understand it, you involuntarily ingested a rather large dose of a hallucinogenic drug.”
”Apparently so.”
”You seem to have recovered. Have you?”
”I don't know.”
”Are you still seeing hallucinations?”
”Are you real?”
Dr. Wakefield laughs. ”Yes, I a.s.sure you I'm quite real.”
”Then I think I've recovered.”
”Okay, that's good. I'm going to check you over, and then we're going to keep you here for a while to see how you do.”
”Sounds good, doctor.”
He gives me a quick check, taking my blood pressure, my temperature, flas.h.i.+ng a penlight in to my eyes, and finishes up by smacking me in the knee with a rubber hammer. ”Your blood pressure is a bit on the high side,” he tells me. ”Your eye dilation is slow and your reflexes are delayed. Your blood tests show a significant concentration of LSD, and unfortunately this drug tends to stay in your body.”
I nod. ”I'm a biologist, doctor. I understand.”
”Ah, yes. Good. You know, then, it's going to be in your fat cells, and when you exercise and burn off that fat there is a good chance it'll be released right back into your bloodstream. Are you familiar with the term 'flashback?'”
”Yes.”
”Okay. You may tend to have them from time to time. That's why we want to keep an eye on your for a while. People with this much LSD in their body often lose all track of reality. You, however, seem completely lucid. You should consider yourself lucky.”
”Lucky?”
”Yes, I'm serious. This could have been much worse. You could have become a permanent resident here.” The doctor writes something on his clipboard. ”Your friends who originally admitted you into the county hospital claimed they didn't know who it was who slipped you the drug. I was wondering if you happened to know.”
”Yes, I do.”
”Who was it?”
I come very close to telling him, but for some reason I hold back.
”I haven't decided if I want to turn him in or not.”
”This person nearly gives you a chemical lobotomy and you don't want to turn him in?”
”As I said, I haven't decided.”
”That's up to you. I'm going to warn you, though, that there will be some policemen here within the next few days, and they're going to want to know. If you don't cooperate with them, they just might decide that you took it yourself and charge you with drug abuse. So you should consider that, as well, when you make your decision. Is this person a friend of yours?”
”He used to be.”
Dr. Wakefield nods. ”Okay,” he says. ”I'm taking you off sedatives and letting you completely dry out. Please report any flashbacks or periods of disorientation to any of the staff immediately. We're here to help you, and I need you to help us do that. As a man of science, I expect you to see the logic in that.”
”Of course.”
”Good.” With one last nod, he stands up and walks away.
Television takes up the rest of the day and all of the night. I sit next to mostly catatonic patients around the one color set in the wing.
Several of them have drooling problems. As I find out later, I'm in the drug rehabilitation section of the Menderson Sanitarium, across the bay in San Francisco.
The television programming is totally unfamiliar. There are reruns of programs I've never even heard of, let alone seen. This isn't that disturbing, as I rarely if ever watch television anyway, but the news program comes on and I find there is a war in Panama that I'd never heard about, and a President of the United States named William Miller.
I don't even remember a governor by that name. He's young, handsome, and very aggressive. The news reports that there's allegations that he's used the CIA to a.s.sa.s.sinate foreign power figures, and when asked to comment on that, he outright tells the news media that what the CIA does is secret and it's none of their d.a.m.n business. To my horror, he gets a standing ovation for this remark.
The next day Tom comes and visits me. ”Hey there,” he says.
”Tom! Am I glad to see you!”
He smiles. ”You're definitely feeling better than the last time I saw you.”
”Yeah. A lot better. Where's your hat?”
”Hat?” he says.
”Never mind. How's Pris?”
”Priscilla's fine. She's worried about you.”
”Tell her I'm okay.”
”Sure.”
”I guess I really freaked out there, huh?”
Tom's grin fades. ”Yes. You were catatonic. I thought . . . I'm glad you're doing better.”
”Have you heard anything from Alvin Laurel?”
He stares at me with a blank look. ”Who?”
”Our b.u.m?”
”Our . . . b.u.m?”
”You don't know who Alvin Laurel is?”