[Continuing the journal of Diane McMurphy, a patient in Bad Shepherd mental hospital, “The Asylum”]
The pleasant little bell rings over the PA system and we all salivate. Those of us trusted to move our own legs trudge to the dining hall, which adjoins the day room and provides dining so elegant that those here who’ve been in the Army weep with reminiscence and tell the others long stories about liver-day, SOS, and Tuesday’s coffee (that’s the day cook tops up the grounds).
We stand in line, hold out trays, get trays filled, sit down around the large round table, my usual crowd.
Some of our table talk is so vapid we don’t even know who’s saying what. Example:
“What’s this shit?”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“Then you must believe I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Say that.”
“Say what?”
A minute of silence pretending or portending deep thought, or perhaps some new outburst to be recorded in our psychiatric records.
“What’s this shit?”, round two.
“Supposed to be cornbread.”
“Oh.”
“Didn’t I see that in some movie?”
No one answers.
“There’s a beg-a-thon going on for the hospital, to raise money.”
“So I hear.”
“It’s pledge week.”
“We pledged for this place? Some fraternity!”
[to be continued …]
<END>
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Memorable Fancies 
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