One

I dropped the still-smoldering filter onto the ground and crushed it out with the toe of my sneaker. Back and forth, back and forth, the toe of my shoe went, grinding the filter and its dreg of tobacco into dust that was taken by the breeze. I watched it go. I loved to watch the dust swirl and move into the daylight. Life was calm and good, and they said things were looking up some.

That is when I first saw her, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Instant, bang, love at first sight. No doubt in my mind, no room in my heart for anything else; just like that I knew and knew well what my destiny was going to be. We would fall in love and it would be amazing and pure and romantic as pigs in shit.

Her hair streamed downwards and was caught by the same breeze that my dust had wandered off in, so that it flowed like the gentlest of rivers. Each tendon and ligament and other bits of her neck under her wonderfully smooth skin all strained hard, chording like piano wire. It pulsed and rippled as she fought against the leather band that crossed her forehead. Her fingers, the nails bright day-glo pink, made claw shapes that were still beautiful as they struggled against the bonds that restrained her wrists. The wide leather strap across her chest crossed her body just under her breasts, accentuating them enticingly under her white floral cotton gown.

I turned to her and waved, a happy wave, a hello wave, the kind of wave you give the love of your life right before you ask them to marry you. I had, secretly, practiced that wave in the mirror a lifetime ago. She turned and, glimpsing the motion of my hand out of the corner of her eye, spoke to me.

“You stupid motherfucker! Release me! Help me! Fuuuuck! Get me, ugh, out,” she strained and tensed, trying to rip the leather straps free, “what good are you, you piece of shit?” The orderlies shook their heads and Jim waved at me. It was a sad wave but it was also a hello wave. “Shitbag! Kill them, release me!” They pushed her through the doors, while discussing medication under the volume of her cries. The doors swung shut behind them, and I stood, giving a last glance in the direction my dust had traveled. I walked to the doors myself and put a hand on the bar. “Simon B. McGee” the glass door read. It wasn’t real glass. It looked like glass, but it was much, much stronger. They told us so once. The other door, the one I never used because it made me feel bad— didn’t like that door—read “Mental Health Facility” and completed the name. No one called it the Simon B. McGee Mental Health Facility, though, unless people in very nice suits were around. Otherwise we all, even the staff, called it “McGee’s” and left it at that.

I walked in and waved at Sally, who was working reception that day, and nodded briefly in Clyde’s direction. I didn’t like Clyde much. He worked security and he had helped a lot of us at one time or another, but something about him made me feel wet inside, like a sack of something not quite solid. Loose. I hurried on and went in my room to figure out how I would meet up with my dream girl again. Maybe she’d be in my group. Or maybe she enjoyed a rousing game of ping pong. I liked ping pong, because the ball was small; and yet also very white and it bounced. I also liked golf, but there was nowhere to play golf.

I paced and thought about it for a while. Ping pong balls and my mystery woman with no name, and bouncing and Clyde. They didn’t quite add up to anything useful, but I felt sure that they would some day.

I sat on my bed and lay down to think better. I think better lying down. I needed to request a change in medications, my current ones made my thoughts too hard for me to follow; I used to be so sharp witted. Of course I also used to believe that John Quincy Adams was out to kill me, so things can change for the better. These days I knew it was Abraham Lincoln who was going to kill me one day. Not today, he was waiting for the time to be right. That was how he worked. “Honest Abe” indeed. They couldn’t fool me with all the ping pong balls in the world.

Clock number three buzzed and that meant it was time for dinner. Clock number one told me to wake up; clock number two was for breakfast, three for dinner and four for bedtime. I took lunch when I got hungry.

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Crazy Little Thing is copyright Adam P. Knave.