Conversations With A Mad Man

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DeLuca/ Conversations with a Mad Man
Conversations with a Mad Man
By Thaddeus DeLuca
(A short story based on real events)
I had a Musician’s Union project gig on Saturday night, 5:30-7:30 PM at a nursing
home; we played outside. There was a tent set up with tables of stainless steel food
trays that had little cans of Sterno underneath; a small blue flame kept burning
beneath each tray. For once in my life I actually showed up a half hour early; to
unpack my station wagon full of gear, and get set up. A Celtic duo was singing Irish
songs; the singer/guitar player wore the full regalia of a true Scotsman; a green tam on
his head, he wore a green sweater with a coat of arms embroidered above his left
nipple, and a plaid kilt with a fur Sporran hanging above his crotch. His green hose
went almost up to his knees; there were golden flashes that held his stockings up, and
he wore black leather Pipers on his feet—Dress Ghillie Brogues. His partner played a
primitive tambourine and occasionally eked out a tune on a small lute. The only thing
missing were the bag pipes. They even played “Danny Boy,” (Begorrah!) there wasn’t
a dry eye in the house when it was over. I couldn’t wait for their portion of the event
to get over with, so I could play my gig and get the hell out of there. I promised to
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visit a friend of mine in Lowell, Massachusetts that was having mental problems; I
could hear him deteriorating over the course of three months of ten minute phone
conversations. I knew in my heart of hearts that my best friend was in deep, deep
trouble and was drowning in a lake of fire known as bi-polar depression. His name
was really Anthony, but I called him Tony; I knew him from kindergarten and he was
the Best Man at my wedding in 1990.
Just a little background information on Tony: he is a certified genius with an IQ of
190, he skipped 5th grade in elementary school and was still at the top of his class; he
also did four years of high school in three. College was a breeze and he did his
graduate work in computers at Oregon State, in Eugene. He was a whiz at science and
math; he worked at MIT in Cambridge, with the man who invented X Windows—a
machine language; he could stay locked in room with no windows and program all
day and night and be still be happy as a clam. Before that he worked for the DOD
(Dept. of Defense) on the guidance system for the Trident Nuclear Missiles that sit in
silos around the Midwest and are ready to roll in nuclear submarines—Boomers
they’re called. He also worked on an over the horizon radar system for the Aegis class
warship that can spot a bogie before it can even be seen on a conventional radar
screen; a missile could be on its way with the touch of a button after the Captain gave
the order, and the enemy vessel would be blown out of the water without ever
knowing a hostile vessel was in the area. Tony worked at both Silicon Valley west
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near San Jose for Hewlett Packard, and Silicon Valley east on 128; companies like
Mitre, Raytheon, and other high tech companies devoted to the NSA; developing new
weapons and surveillance satellites that could read your wrist watch from a computer
synchronized orbit. Eventually he went back to work for MIT at Draper Labs—a top
secret clearance facility that compartmentalized everyone’s job to avoid espionage.
Tony figured it all by himself that they were working on the guidance system for
drones that could be flown with a joy stick from an X Box in a room on an Army base
in the USA. These were the very same drones that the military uses to deliver a cruise
missile on time, and hand guided to its exact target—they are now being used in the
war in Afghanistan. I really like Tony and always thought of him as my brother;
although I consider myself a fairly decent chess player with plenty of game—Tony
could casually beat me while reading the Sunday New York Times magazine; un-
fucking believable. The only problem was that he was bi-polar and also had severe
depression. I promised him a visit over the telephone; he sounded desperately lonely
and I could tell if I didn’t get there soon it might be too late to even try to save him—
his mother suffered from the same bi-polar depression and committed suicide at age
42 by downing a month’s worth of Valium all in one chug. Sad but true. I wasn’t
about to let my friend go swirling down the toilet without a fight.
My gig was sweet, I played my G&L electric bass; reading a book of old jazz
standards arranged by Johnny Warrington—they were a little square but with talent to
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burn, the whole band played beautifully and in the tradition they were written. On a
ballad our tenor sax player could make you cry. Our alto player could easily rip
through a solo at warp 7—playing any barn burner on his music stand was as easy as
falling of a log. And our keyboard player used the old tried and true “Stride piano”
style—made famous by Jellyroll Morton and Fats Waller. The audience enjoyed
hearing the music as much as we enjoyed playing it. After my gig I packed up my
gear, drove home; unloaded my gear and got out of my standard black and white
gigging clothes, then I packed for a death run to just above Boston. I had planned on
leaving earlier, but as life would have it things got busy in a hurry and I didn’t leave
until 12:30. I left with a bag of weed that would knock your face off. And in one
pocket was a shit load of Speed and in my other pocket was some Xanax, so I could
get some sleep. My wife questioned the idea of driving all night; from the Thruway in
New York, to the penultimate exit on the Mass Pike; all cranked-up on Speed and
politely asked if I could I please take it easy and drive safely.
She asked me, “Why are you doing this? Why don’t you get some sleep and leave
fresh in the morning?”
“Because I told Tony I was coming, and if I don’t leave tonight and wait till
morning…I’ll say fuck-it, and never go at all,” I explained, “plus, I want to see if the
Old Dog still has it, when I was 22 I ‘d make a death run to New York City at
midnight with my Puerto Rican friend Raul; just to pick up an 8-Ball of Coke and a
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few bindles of Heroin, and think nothing of it…I just want to know if I’ve got one
death run left in me.”
“Hey, if you feel you have to go that badly, then just go…drive safely and call me
when you get there,” I hugged my wife and I gave her a kiss, I made it a good one
because I wasn’t sure if it was going to be our last kiss.
My mission was clear; I spoke with Tony’s younger brother; he asked me to drive
to Lowell and gather up all of Tony’s assorted guitars, amps, keyboard, and a foot
pedals; bring them home to my house and sell them for a fair market price, because I
told him over the phone that if I took everything to a Pawn Shop or music store in
Boston we would get raped for 10 cents on the dollar—fuck that shit.
Both of my uncles on my mother’s side of the family were Marines; my oldest
Uncle made it to Lieutenant and did three tours of duty in Vietnam. On his last tour,
he had to shoot a ten year old boy with his Colt .45 officer’s side arm; he asked the
boy to stop running at him, but the little gook had a hand grenade hidden in his
bamboo hat. It was kill or be killed so he shot the little fucker dead, right in the middle
of his tiny little head. It really tore my Uncle up shortly after he had to shoot a ten
year old boy dead; he finished his last tour helping run the LBJ stockade in Long Bin.
I remember him telling me that whenever a hard case came in all tough and ready to
tear the place up, he would calmly handcuff the crazy fucker to a chain link fence and
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let him dangle with his feet just about two off the ground; he’d leave him there
hanging by his wrists all day in the hot Southeast Asian Sun.
After a while he’d give him a sip or two of water and ask, “You done bein’ a hard
case yet? ‘Cause if not, we can do this all week until you get your mind right…am I
communicating with you son? Do you understand I don’t really give a fuck about
assholes like you and would just assume shoot your ass, but then I’d be in this shithole
for shooting an enlisted man…we wouldn’t want that now would we?”
By Friday his hard case prisoner was a sobbing mess, crying to be let down and
promising he’d be good; my Uncle let him down and shoved a .45 up his nose and
said, “Pull this shit on me again and I’ll just shoot yer ass…in the report I’ll claim self
defense and write it up as the prisoner was shot while trying to escape...do you speak
English? Am I making myself clear? Then nod your head, grunt or make some kind of
noise so I know we are in agreement. I run this hell-hole so nobody is gonna’ ask any
questions…you’re in Vietnam son, not the good old US of A., you don’t have any
rights here…just the right to obey my orders.”
“Uh-huh,” the prisoner said, and shuffled off in shackles to his barracks.
After his last tour of Vietnam was over, my Uncle put his papers in and retired—20
in 20 out. But he was never quite the same man after having to shoot that little boy
running at him with a hand grenade, even if it was in his own self defense; but he
made sure that I understood the Marine motto: Semper Fidelis (Semper Fi; Always
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Faithful); honor, duty, country and above all, “No man left behind.” His younger
brother was a Jarhead too, but only did four years of active duty; but his commitment
to God, country and his fellow marines was paramount; and he made sure I
understood that these were not just words spoken in an oath; they really meant
something on the battlefield and in civilian life. I was resolute to always remain
faithful to my friend Tony and not leave this man behind. But I had to get home.
I drove all night, cranked up, Speeding my nuts off to get to Tony’s by daybreak. I
arrived at about 7:30 Sunday morning in Lowell, Mass. Tony was glad to see me, but
he was convinced it was Monday morning and demanded I take him to the Men’s
homeless shelter to he could check-in with his case worker, and then go to the bank
and take some money out.
“But Tony, it’s Sunday not Monday…the banks are all closed,” but I couldn’t
convince him otherwise.
Just to placate his fears and anxiety I drove him to the Homeless shelter, which was
closed on Sundays; then we went to his bank. At 8:30 in the morning he was pounding
on the glass doors of his bank demanding to get in. A Spanish guy walking down the
street said, “Man, what are you doing? It’s Sunday, all the banks are closed.”
Reality somehow made its way through the vaporous ether of Mental Illness and
Tony finally said, “Sunday, yeah, yeah…it’s Sunday.”

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We went home and relaxed; or at least I tried to relax. Tony was on the move and
was constantly looking for things in his house; a spider’s web of random pictures,
maps, and articles from newspapers were tacked to the walls. To me it looked like
total chaos with no discernable pattern I could recognize. But to Tony it all made
perfect sense and he pretty much knew where everything was within a few feet of its
location.
It was while Tony was lost and confused in his own house; looking for minutia and
mumbling in a repetitive monotone about his frustrations at not finding exactly what
he was looking for, that I realized my best friend had completely lost his mind.
The double sided coin of genius has brilliance and a beautiful mind on one side; the
flip side is insanity. Somehow, I don’t know how, but the coin got flipped and it
landed on tails—insanity. Tony was in LaLaLand. His mind was moving so fast,
changing topics and pronouns so quickly I had to repeatedly ask him who the new
“he” was? I was stunned to see my friend in such bad shape; it hurt so badly, it cut me
to the bone. I had unknowingly walked into a mental mine field; Tony had already
stepped of a couple of mines and they blew his mind right out of his head. I snorted
another mirror full of crank just to keep pace with Tony’s rambling conversations.
That night I prayed for him and cried myself to sleep.

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The next morning we went to the IHOP for breakfast; we sat in a booth. Tony
needed to use the bathroom so he excused himself and went to the Men’s Room.
About a half hour later our waitress came to talk to me.
“You might want to go check on your friend, he’s been in the bathroom for over
half an hour,” she said.
“I’ll go see what this is all about,” I told her and went to check on Tony.
I was surprised to see him struggling with the latch on the stall door of the toilet;
his pants were on the floor and rose to just above his ankles.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get your pants on and let’s get out of here, come on,
here let me help you,” I unlatched the stall door and let him out, he pulled up his pants
and buttoned them and I had to remind him to zip up his zipper. We left the bathroom
and went back to our booth to pay the bill; I left our waitress a heavy tip for her
troubles.
We went back to his house and we both took a short nap. When awoke I went
through the pockets of a pair of jeans on the floor over in a corner of my guest room.
In the right pocket I found his car keys, house keys and every other key he might have
owned. In the left pocket I found his wallet with $36 dollars in it. I came downstairs
and told him I found his keys and wallet that he had been searching for; Tony was
delighted. He thought this little prick of a Junkie from his neighborhood stole them,
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and then after a pang of guilt broke back into his house and replaced his keys and
wallet.
“Well even if you think he did that…why would there still be $36 dollars in your
wallet…that 36 bucks would have gone right into his arm, in a heartbeat,” I still
couldn’t convince him that he was so confused he might have just put them
somewhere and lost them. No dice—that little scumbag of a Junkie did this, no doubt
about it; Tony wouldn’t let up on it or forget about it and just be happy that I found his
keys and wallet. That’s when I decided Tony needed to be hospitalized for his own
good.
I took Tony to the Men’s Homeless shelter to meet with the woman who runs the
downstairs where the TV, refrigerator and couches are located. Her name was
Yolanda; she was a beautiful strong black woman who didn’t rattle easy. She sits in an
office with her secretary in a secure environment. I asked to speak to her in private
with Tony. She had taken Tony under her wing and said to please wait 10 minutes,
and that she would meet with both of us when her meeting was over. Fine, we’ll wait.
I sat down and read the Boston Globe. Tony paced like a caged tiger. When her
meeting was over, Yolanda waved us in from behind a thick window of Plexiglas.
“Tony you sit down over here and your friend can have a seat in front of my desk,”
Tony got confused and belligerent; he wanted to sit where Yolanda told me to sit.
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“Tony, if you don’t follow my orders and sit down over here right now, this
meeting is over…now sit down in this chair and be quiet,” she spoke in an imperative
with a forceful vocative tone.
I told Yolanda I had driven all the way from upstate New York to Lowell just to
check on Tony and maybe bring him home with me for a couple of weeks before the
Labor Day weekend. I explained the confusion Tony was having, and the fact he
didn’t know I arrived on Sunday morning. I described how we physically had to come
down here to convince Tony you were closed and then took him to the bank; where he
pounded on the glass door before he finally realized if wasn’t Monday after all, it was
really Sunday. Yolanda was saddened to see Tony’s sharp decline into madness.
“I’ve never seen him this bad before, he’s really out of it,” Yolanda looked sad, I
could tell she had a lot of empathy for Tony.
In the middle of our interview, some A-hole with a raggedy baseball hat and a
mustache opened the door and broke into our conversation. Yolanda immediately took
control of the situation, stepped out from behind her desk and got between the
interloper and me. She quickly distracted him, then quickly shut the door and locked
it, but I had her back just in case there was any possibility of a physical confrontation.
“If he showed up for an ass kickin’…he’s right on time, I’ll take care of his
appointment right quick,” I proudly displayed a chivalrous concern for Yolanda’s
safety.”
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“Uh, that won’t be necessary, we have a security guard…but I do appreciate your
concern for my physical safety, thank you but I think I can handle him. If I need your
help, I’ll ask,” Yolanda spoke in a soft reassuring voice that soothed my conscience.
“Well, if need be…I I’ve got a can of Whip-Ass in my back pocket, and I’d just
love to open it up on him…the freaking jerk,” I spoke with fire and bravado in my
voice.
“I like that, a can of Whip-Ass, never heard that one before, but thanks for watching
my back,” I had bonded with Yolanda and we both agreed that Tony needed to be
hospitalized for his own good.
Yolanda made a quick phone call to her friend who worked at a Mental Health
Center that evaluated patients and then referred them to the proper facility. After
Yolanda got off the phone I drove Tony down there and we got right in; when does
that ever happen? Yolanda pulled a rabbit out of a hat for Tony.
I found the front desk and was referred to the crisis evaluation team; a guy named
Mike asked me to wait a minute while he went and got Marcy, the LSCW who would
be doing Tony’s evaluation. Marcy showed up in tight silver dress pants, a silk shirt,
low black heels and glasses. She was a slight woman, perhaps 25 years old; she took
us to the evaluation office and we spoke briefly. Yolanda had already filled her in on
Tony’s condition, so she asked if we could both be interviewed separately. Sure, fine
—where am I going? After about a half hour sitting in the waiting room Marcy came
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and got me, she asked Tony if it was alright for us to speak freely about his condition
together in front of him. Tony said, “Yes.”
We began talking about me finding Tony’s keys and wallet with $36 bucks in it, but
Tony was still convinced some scumbag Junkie from his neighborhood took them, and
then replaced them. We talked about how Tony didn’t know what day it was, didn’t
know what month it was, how he can’t read his wrist watch, and a calendar has no
meaning whatsoever; that’s why he misses all of his appointments.
It was obvious to Marcy that Tony was totally out of his mind and needed a bed;
the only problem was that under Massachusetts Law there are three criteria that must
be met before a patient can be admitted to a mental hospital: 1) Are you an imminent
threat to the public at large?—No! 2) Are you an imminent threat to yourself?—No!
3) Do you have ideation of suicide or do you have a plan to kill yourself?—No! After
that little disaster Marcy politely said, “Even if there was a bed available, and there
isn’t one…he doesn’t qualify for admittance.” “His psychiatrist claims that within 3 to
6 weeks in his facility, in a controlled environment, taking his meds on schedule…
he’ll be up and running like normal in no time at all.”
“Bullshit! You expect me to buy that sack of manure you’re selling as an excuse?
Well I’m not buying any of it. Just look at him; he doesn’t brush his teeth every day,
shave, change his underwear or put on clean clothes; daily. I know raccoons that live
better than he does, at least they wash their hands and food before they eat, and then
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wash their faces afterwards…he’s Looney Tunes, even I can see that. Maybe in 6
months to a year and a half and maybe he just might get better; maybe he will come
back to us, maybe he won’t. He has to want to get better, but 3 to 6 weeks? Who is
this shrink, a witch doctor? Where did he get his degree? Out of a Crackerjack box?
Come on, help this man,” I demanded, where’s your humanity.
Marcy paused, and then said in a calm clear voice, “Evidently, in the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts, it’s OK to be as crazy as you want to be as long as
you don’t hurt anyone else or yourself, and that’s the law. And legally no one can
force somebody to take medicine they don’t want to take. Plus there are no beds
available anywhere, but I’ll do a thorough search, so come back at 11:00 AM
tomorrow and we’ll see what can be done.” Fair enough.
OK, gotta’ wait until tomorrow; so I’ll have to stay an extra day just to get Tony
admitted. We went back to his house, I huffed up some more crank just to keep up
with Tony and we strolled down memory lane. At one point he became lucid for a few
moments and was smiling and laughing as we listened to Bob Marley, I could see my
old friend sitting next to me acting just like he used to; but then the Tony I grew up
with was gone as quickly as he arrived—back to LaLaLand. He started yelling that I
had stolen $400 dollars from him and he wanted it back right now.
“Tony? Could you do me a favor and open your right hand?” I asked in a calm
voice.
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“Why? So you can trick me or something?” Tony was getting highly agitated.
“I’ll stand across the room, in a corner if you like…just open your right hand for
me, will you please? I pleaded with him.
Tony looked down at his right hand and opened it; there were four one hundred
dollar bills folded up, sitting in the palm of his right hand, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—
this litany of, “I’m sorry went on for about a half hour before I stopped him.”
“How about we both go upstairs and take a nap, and then go out for Italian for
dinner?” I persuaded Tony to lie down and relax.
After a short nap we decided to go out for Italian food, I wanted to go into Boston
to eat, but Tony couldn’t handle it so I said, “Hey, this trip isn’t about me, it’s about
coming here to help you. Whatever makes you comfortable, that’s what are gonna’ do
pal.”
“Can I bring my radio (a boom box), is that alright?” Tony asked in a far away
voice.
“Sure, if it makes you feel secure and happy, bring two radios, I don’t give a shit
what other people think,” We both laughed; just let me brush my teeth, shave and put
on a clean shirt and we’ll go get some Italian food—OK?”
“Sure we’ll go out for Italian food,” Tony finally agreed with me.
And wouldn’t you know it, that sneaky bastard waited until he knew I was busy in
the bathroom before he got into his ’95 Crème Lexus and drove away. I walked
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downstairs ready to go to dinner and Tony was nowhere to be found; and his car was
gone from the garage.
At first I became angry because he bolted on me, but then as a recovering
Alcoholic I remembered a little prayer, “God help me to accept the things I cannot
change, change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference, Amen."
I was not about to let Tony upset my apple cart and cause me to go out on a bender
and get drunk. So I decided to drive to Boston and revisit some old haunts like Back
Bay, Newbury Street, Newbury Comics, and then south over the bridge on Mass Ave.
and re-visited the Berklee College of Music and the Mary Baker Eddy Church of
Christian Science complex. The whole place looked updated and completely different
than when I attended Berklee in 1980.
I got lost on the way home from Cambridge Square, and by the time I got back to
Lowell, it was almost 3:00A.M., still no sign of Tony, so I went to bed and finally got
a good night’s sleep.
Tony finally showed up on Tuesday afternoon at about 1:30, I didn’t get upset with
him, I just said, “I’m glad to see you are alright, and in one piece. I called Marcy, and
we missed your 11:00 O’clock appointment…she said it was 50/50 on you showing
up anyway, plus she did a thorough search and there are still no beds available, so no
harm no foul.”
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Tony seemed relieved. I started searching his house for guitars, amps, a keyboard
and sundry pedals and patch chords. I found what I could find, everything he had was
not there, his Baby Taylor guitar was missing as so was a lot of other valuable shit
too. Tony even had two bass kick drums sitting in the living room; they went to a
drum set, but they had no skins on them, just the hardware. I put them in the shotgun
seat of my station wagon, and loaded my Subaru to the brim.
It was obvious to me that Tony didn’t want any help, he likes it in LaLaLand;
where his delusions and illusions of life merge into a comfortable abyss; a place
where he has no worldly concerns and has retreated from life deep into his own
tortured psyche.
Before I left I took inventory on his medicine cabinet in the kitchen. I found: two
full bottles of Lithium; 300 count bottle @ 300 mg tablets, with maybe six or eight
taken off the top; and another full bottle of Lithium; 300 count bottle @ 450 mg per
capsule; take two before bedtime for sleep. As I locked the windows before I left, I
found all these little purple pills sitting on the window sills next to small cups of
water. When I asked Tony what are these purple little pills? He answered, “I don’t
know, maybe my zoprenex?”
So with my station wagon all packed up I made one last effort to get him
hospitalized by asking him to meet me at the nearest hospital with a psychiatric unit.
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I parked up the street so I could follow him to the hospital, but he gave me the slip and
took off at 90 miles per hour; I wasn’t about to get into a high speed chase in the
middle of Lowell. I tried to drive home, but I got lost and was going the wrong way. I
saw a cop in patrol car parked in front of a fire station and asked him for directions
home. While we were talking I asked the young officer if he could look in on my
friend Tony, because I had to leave for New York State to take care of my own family
and Tony had once again bailed out on me as I was trying to help him get admitted.
I told the officer how I tried to get him committed but they wouldn’t accept him
because he didn’t meet the criteria. Then I mentioned, “He’s driving a ’95 Crème
Lexus, I don’t know the tag number but I’m sure you do…he doesn’t have a
registration sticker on his windshield. That should be enough to pull him over…just
ask him what day of the week it is, he doesn’t have a clue. Just put the cuffs on him
and drag him off to the nearest psychiatric hospital and tell them, “Here, now you deal
with him.”
The young officer banged his steering wheel with both hands and in exasperation
he almost broke the steering wheel, then he said, “The system is broken, it’s just plain
broken.”
“Well, I certainly agree with you, but I can’t fix it, I don’t even live in this state. I
live in New York State, and besides I’ve known Tony since kindergarten; he was the
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Best Man at my wedding. I believe in Semper Fi, and no man left behind, but I’ve got
to go back to my wife and two boys in Upstate New York, they need me.”
“Hey pal, you’ve done all you can do…if he doesn’t want your help you can’t give
it to him. And besides your duty now is to your wife and children…go home, your
hands are clean, you’ve done more than most people would do…your duty now is to
your wife and family, go home, drive safely and whatever happens; well then that’s
what happens. There is nothing more that you can do for him; you’ve done all you
can.”
I made my way back to the Mass Turnpike and drove home. I felt cleansed and
released from the sacred bond of friendship between two childhood friends that have
grown into manhood. I can’t save Tony, only Tony can save Tony; he has to want to
get better. The rest of the story lies on the doorstep of his family now. They can either
help him, or not help him. I can’t control the actions of anyone but myself; at times,
even that is a struggle.

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DeLuca/ Conversations with a Mad Man