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“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”
G. Carlin
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HE SOON LEARNED THAT BY CRACKING
THE WINDOW AT EIGHT he could dim a little the unwanted light, while allowing a subtle
breeze in. At the Ward 3A, increasing the
opening of your window was a hard to earn privilege - an inch per month, for
good behavior. That was your prize - that and two brownie squares, but only if you were lucky at the dinner line competing with the elders who often behave erratically, for the lack of energy, not
will. Last week was his eight birthday. He knew beforehand that no one would come to greet him, no one will show up with presents; so
he planned ahead. One inch per month, he said to himself. And
so, for the amusement of everyone, he began being good.
He began taking baths regularly,
as it was expected at the ward, three times a week.
He even ate his daily vegetables and read the bible. The truth was that he used to hide folded
pages from the few comic books available at the library inside the holy book. In the end, no
one seemed to care that much. He was the
only one allowed to walk free through the ward; after all he was the
youngest. Nobody knew his real name, so
he just went by Boy 1904, perhaps with the sole intention of stating his gender
and his birth year. The only one who
knew him best was Eustace - the kid who refused to shower, but they all called him “stain”. He was the boy on the room next
to his. He got the nickname on the
same day “Boy” arrived. He was so
thrilled to see that he wouldn’t be alone anymore at the ward that he peed
himself and, considering that a shower was only allowed after three days, there
he was, somehow dignified, with his smelly and stained shorts. Soon after Boy arrived and it was his time, he agreed to take a cold shower, but not to change his
clothes. They became friends instantly
and most nights they stayed awake playing "pretend" against the wall, from room to room. An orphan since he was two, “Boy 1904” had no
one, so the ward took him in. He had
dreams to become a composer. There were
times when he walked the ward corridor up and down for hours with two plastic
spoons, one on each hand, pretending to be an orchestra director of some sort, whistling Bach or Debussy - he always had something to amuse us all.
The thing about Boy was that he
seemed to never grow old. He must have had some sort of sickness, some kind of condition that prevented him from growing. And so the years passed. Most of the elders passed away and new patients arrived. There were new nurses and doctors. Everybody was gone. Even Eustace, I mean, "stain". Everyone that was once there when Boy arrived was no longer there, just him.
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Nicholas Simmons was a patient at Ward 3A, and before that, a nurse.
He lost his son while swimming at Coney Island in 1904. He still refuses to reveal his son’s
name or the date of the accident, it all remains a mystery. There are no records that Nicholas Simmons had
a son or a wife. There are no family records of him. Not known family members or friends; no records
that he exists at all. His appearance
says about 90, but no one is certain. He
has spent about 80 years between asylums, but he always manages to return to the Ward 3A, and still does. Boy 1904 remains his only friend at the
hospital and, for seniority or just out of mercy, they keep the room next to him empty. At the door there's a sign that read: Eustace Simmons 1896 - 1904. The room remains empty, but “Boy” still have the daily conversations with whoever lurks in the room next to his. To this day, the doctors hasn't assigned anyone to the empty room, for little Eustace wouldn’t like to have a roommate.
