FADE TO...

Mort Phipps Cohen

My time as an undergrad at the University was almost over, and I had to decide whether or not to continue on the road to medicine as a career. My advisors were encouraging and my grades were okay, but not good enough for a big scholarship anywhere, much less at any of the high-dollar research schools. Johns Hopkins was right out, and I knew it. Looming largest was the lingering doubt in my mind that I was up to the task of facing disease and disfigurement on a daily basis for the rest of my life. But the economic times being what they were, and with only my undergraduate degree, I figured I could look forward to a long, fruitless, dead-end future behind a bar in Bourbon Street or wearing a paper hat and leaning from a window intoning "You want fries with that?" like a McRobot. I decided to find a paid internship for the summer and maybe the fall, and defer a decision until I - or my parents - just couldn't stand it any longer.

The internship ended up being a gofer-like job in a medical administrative office in the basement of a strip mall - hot, boring, and absolutely nothing to do with medicine. Entire days spent running around making copies and filling out and filing Medicare forms, sometimes literally running out for Starbuck's.

"Better get used to it," said Betty behind the main desk, reaching for her lip balm for the twentieth time today. "If you get to be a big-shot doctor the insurance and government paperwork will make this look like nothing, honey." I knew I'd never be a big-shot doctor of any kind, but that if I did maybe I'd have some cute receptionist to handle all the paperwork. Still, Betty (not cute) had a point. Even a routine practice would no doubt be as much about paperwork as it would be about helping my patients. I stuck with it as the summer of drudgery melted into a soft gulf-coast autumn, but I felt ready to bail. Then, university budget cuts suddenly closed the administrative office one morning and they called me in, temporarily jobless no matter what I wanted.

"You did fine all summer, and we've got another position for you if you want it, but it's kinda weird," said the man. "Same work, though, pretty much."

"Jeez... don't you have anything where I might actually get to work with patients? I mean... it's gonna be hard to decide whether or not I want to do this the rest of my life if all I do is fill out forms."

"Yeah, I hear ya. I was a music major and look at me. Pathetic," he said.

"How weird can making copies and running around like a gofer be?" I asked.

"Well, not at all, under normal circumstances, I guess," he said. "But this is at Pendulum Hill."

"I don't understand... what's Pendulum Hill?"

"Mental institution out in the boondocks... well, not really the boondocks, but a lot further from the Quarter than you have been. You won't be able to walk to get yourself a hurricane when your shift's over, and you probably wouldn't want to walk too far in that neighborhood anyway. Interested?"

"Mental institution, huh? Well... you say the work isn't any different than what I've been doing. Is this place creepier than any other mental institution?"

"I guess not. How creepy are they as a rule? I've only been in a couple. Never as a patient," he added.

My wallet was far too empty, even after the job all summer. I didn't have crippling credit card debt or a car payment, but I had gone off my rocker and bought a scooter, so there was a monthly bill that needed to be paid. And my apartment was too close to the Quarter and way too expensive, but my sense of entitlement got the better of me and now I couldn't get out of the lease for another few months. "Alright, yeah. I'll check it out, at least. Do I have to commit before I see it?"

"No, of course not. I think we'd understand if you didn't want to work there, all the nut-jobs and so forth." The man drew me a quick, not very good map and handed it to me, along with a form my new supervisor had to sign when I got there, if I decided to stay. "Good luck," he said, "and watch out for Norman Bates."

"Yeah. Right," I said.

It was out in the boondocks, so far from the Quarter as to be out-of-town in all but name. I went through all the crappy, low-lying areas that were still moldy from the floods, and skirted the edge of the refinery zone where the air stank like rotten eggs and the fumes from melting plastic. Maybe it was the stench, or that I'd lived in southern Louisiana all my life and had never even heard of this neighborhood, much less been here, but I was getting into a weird, foul mood. It's easy to let your mind work in cockeyed ways, and by the time I puttered up to Pendulum Hill on the scooter I'd worked it into being a great gothic stone pile with rotting, vacant towers where blank-eyed, white-sheeted ghosts moaned in the mildewed wind and the iron-barred cells of the inmates echoed with the toothless howls of the insane... in other words, no place I'd ever want to work.

It was nothing like that. First of all, there probably wasn't a respectable hill within a hundred miles of downtown New Orleans, so "Pendulum Hill" was a flat-roofed, one-story, prefab-looking building sitting on the flattest of parking lots in a moldering semi-industrial district. A bit run-down, yes, but by the standards of the neighborhood - mostly scrap yards selling the dismembered remains of defunct refineries and rusting mobile-home courts - a pretty decent-looking joint for a loony bin. The windows all seemed intact and were remarkably unbarred, and even the paint seemed fresher than it had a right to be given the latent moisture in the salt air. There wasn't anything creepier about it than any typical inner city DMV. It was a damn long commute from the Quarter, but the scooter didn't use much gas, so I parked, locked the bike to a vapor lamp post, and walked in.

Again I had to reproach my prejudices, as the place was clean and quiet, and didn't smell like human waste or awful assembly-line food like so many hospitals or nursing homes. Relaxing, I approached the receptionist (cute) and introduced myself.

"Oh, great!" she said. "We've been waiting for you! What's-his-name... you know, the failed composer... called and said you were on your way over."

"Oh, yeah..." I said, almost surprised that the Intern's Office had bothered to call, given my hesitation. "Well... here I am, I guess."

"I'll call Dr. Thompson right away," she said, reaching for the phone. "He's eager to meet you."

"Hey, I'm really glad you're here," said Dr. Thompson, a perfectly respectable-looking man, probably forty. He was dirty blonde, brown-eyed, and sharp of jaw. He looked exactly like a doctor on a TV show, probably good-looking enough to date the receptionist, especially when you figured in his probable income. "I know they told you you'd be doing paperwork and office-type stuff, but you're pre-med, right?" I confirmed that I was, and he said, "Not one but two of our orderlies quit today, and neither one of them could give us a straight answer about why. Oddest thing that's happened around here in a while, short of the patient's behavior, but there it is. Maybe some sort of gang business... they always did seem pretty rough, those two. Oh well, no time to sort it out just now. We need help, and fast. Are you certified?"

"No, just a pre-med graduate," I said.

"Well, you can't bathe them or see them naked or anything, but you can still help out, wheeling them around and feeding the folks who can't feed themselves and so forth. Sound good?"

"I think so, well, I guess. Beats the hell out of paperwork, and it might help me decide whether I want to go through with years of med school...."

"Well, you'll still end up doing some paperwork, but isn't that the way of the world? Alright, the job's yours. It'll pay a tiny bit more than the normal internship rate, which I'm sure you won't mind. I know this is odd, but can you start right now? Literally, right now? We've got three new intakes sitting in the common room and there's nobody to deal with them unless we can get you going...." Somewhat bewildered, I nodded, and he said, "Great. Nobody expects you to work a whole shift or be perfect on your first day, so don't worry. And we can go through all the new-employee paperwork and all that tomorrow. For now, follow me, and I'll get you started." He lifted his I.D. card from his pocket and swiped it on the magnetic lock, an LED flickered from red to green, the door clicked open, and I followed him into the facility.

Pendulum Hill's interior was no more unusual or unsettling than the exterior. Long white-painted halls, scrubbed admirably clean. Rows of locked doors to either side, with tiny windows reinforced with wire. I didn't have time to look into the rooms beyond, but quiet nurses and janitors walked the halls on their duties, and Dr. Thompson nodded to them, smiling, and they nodded in return, most respectful and professional. No vomit, no offal, no raving screams of the mad.

"Mental institutions have a reputation, of course," said Dr. Thompson as we walked. "I don't think you'll find too many of those stereotypes here. Obviously there might be an emergency of some sort, where you might have to restrain someone trying to hurt themselves or something like that. We'll teach you how to do that kind of thing. But most days here are calm to the point of being a little boring, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be a welcome change after a whole summer of gofer work," I said. "Sir."

"No doubt," he replied, smiling. "You see, we don't get the truly violent here. The legal system sends violent or criminal offenders to another facility in the state. We're not equipped to handle that sort of behavior. You'll be dealing with the kind of folks who are more-or-less confused to the point of not being able to differentiate their fantasies from reality. Old men who think they're the President, or old ladies who can't tell their teddy bears from their children... that type of thing. Ah, here we are."

We turned out of the corridor into an unlocked room (there wasn't a door at all) where ten or twelve people sat around on plastic couches and chairs, staring out the windows, or staring at a television (which was inside a wire cage) or simply staring into the void. Two nurses circled the room, watching, offering help where it seemed needed. "This is Annie Lovato," said Dr. Thompson, presenting me to a (semi-cute) Latina nurse.

"Welcome to Pendulum Hill... Dr. Thompson told me someone might be coming," she said, smiling. "I've got everything you need to get started."

"Thanks, I appreciate your confidence, given that I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Oh, everything's great. I know you're new, but you look capable. You'll do fine," she said, and got cuter.

"Unless you've got any questions, I'll be off. Not only are my normal rounds staring me in the face but I've got to deal with those two quitters, too," said Dr. Thompson. "The paperwork never seems to end."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Annie. "We've got it all under control." Dr. Thompson left us, and Annie handed me a clipboard with several thick forms on it, and a pen. "Here you go. I'll introduce you to the new patients. Two came in yesterday afternoon but we haven't gotten them 'filed' yet if you know what I mean. One just came in from the hospital this morning and he doesn't even have a room of his own yet. You just ask them the questions on these forms, and write down their answers. If they don't answer at all, just leave it blank, and if they answer with some weird incomprehensible stuff, just do your best to paraphrase. That's all there is to it."

"Seems like I should be able to handle that," I said. She smiled her nice smile again and touched my shoulder, guiding me towards my first patient.

"I'll be right here if you need me," she said. "Just speak to them quietly and slowly, and it'll all work out."

My first two patients were easy. It hardly seemed like they needed to be in Pendulum Hill. Beatrice was just old and dotty, and I wondered if perhaps she should be in a nursing home capable of dealing with advanced Alzheimer's rather than a full-blown institution, until she started talking straight-faced about the flying trees. The flying trees were everywhere; everyone had seen them and it was all going to be wonderful! The flying trees! Ah ha. Got it. My second patient was Frank, and he hardly said anything at all past grunting his name, just stared out the window like most of the others. Annie whispered to me that his son had been killed in a car wreck just a week after his wife died of cancer, and he had seldom spoken since. Ah ha. Got it. That left George.

George was the one that had been brought in that morning, having o'd on sleeping pills, and he sat alone in the corner in his wheelchair surrounded by three ancient tweed suitcases like you'd find in an antique mall. His left ankle was bound up tight in bandages, and his left foot appeared to be gone. They'd pumped his stomach at the emergency room. Suicide attempt, but not the pills. He'd cut his own foot off. I'd never heard of anybody attempting suicide by chopping off their foot. Seemed pretty weird, but... whatever.

"Hey there, George, how ya doing today?" I asked in greeting.

"Oh great, just fine!" he said, smiling. He stuck out his hand, and I shook it.

"Well, I'm here to ask you a few questions, if that's okay with you."

"Sure, I'd be delighted," he said, and sounded like he meant it.

"Let's see... your full name is George Lucius Foster, is that right?"

"Yep, sure is," he said. "My mother was way into ancient Rome, so that's where the 'Lucius' came from."

"Oh, that's neat," I said. "And your home address is 437 Elm, off Esplanade in Foubourg-Marigny?"

"Yep, that's it," he said. "Nice place, really, but there's a lot of traffic noise. And kinda moldy. But ain't that like everywhere in this city? Especially after the big one, Katrina. Mold everywhere. Just can't keep it down. I actually grew up not six or eight blocks from here, and there was mold everywhere, even then. The whole neighborhood was called Pendulum Hill back in them days. Hey, listen, when can I get to sleep?"

"Well, I don't know, George. Dr. Thompson or nurse Annie will have to help you with that when we're finished, is that okay? I'm brand new here, too, and I'm just filling out your forms as a new patient."

"Oh, okay, I guess... I'm just really eager to get to sleep."

"I understand, just a few more questions, and I'll turn you over to nurse Annie and she'll help. Do you have any next of kin we can call if we need to?"

"Well, just my old Aunt Janie up in Delaware, if she's even still alive. I don't think I'd even know how to get in touch with her. Dover? Is that a town in Delaware?"

"I think so, George... maybe it's the capital. So... no kids, or a wife or anything?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I never married at all. Just ol' me. That's all. My mother died a long time ago. Off to ancient Rome, I guess," he chuckled. I liked him.

"Well, okay. No next of kin that we know of."

"Except Aunt Janie," he said.

"Yeah, except Aunt Janie, in Delaware. I've got her down right here," I said, tapping the clipboard. "George, do you know if you're allergic to anything? Like that mold in your house, or bee stings, or cats, or any kind of food or drug allergies?"

"Oh, no, perfectly healthy, I think," he said. "Certainly not allergic to sleeping pills. You think they'll give me any sleeping pills?" he asked, fidgeting.

"Uh, well, again I don't know, George. I'll be sure to tell nurse Annie that you're excited to get to bed. Do you wear pajamas or something when you go to bed?"

He stared at me like I was stupid. "Whatta you think I am, four years old?" he said, not unpleasantly. "No, just boxer shorts or something like that, you know... skivvies."

"Oh, okay," I stammered. "I'll write that down too, so nurse Annie will know when she tucks you in." I turned my head and winced, but he didn't seem to associate being tucked in with being four years old, so I continued. "You've got your own skivvies in your suitcases here? These are yours, aren't they?"

"Yeah, they're mine. All kinds of skivvies in there, and stuff to read, and toothbrush and whatnot," he said.

"Great. Have you ever been addicted to any substances, George? Like alcohol or pills or anything like that?"

"No... no pills, and not much booze, just a little. Just TV game shows, I guess. I watch them things all the time."

"Do you have any particular food preferences, George? Any favorites?"

"Well, I really like Wheel Of Fortune and I used to like The Price Is Right before they got that fat guy to host it and I guess..."

"No, no... favorite foods, George."

"Aw, yeah.... Yeah, single-malt Scotch!" he laughed, and I laughed with him. "No, not really, I'm just kidding ya. I guess they won't be serving much of that in here," he said. "Aw, you know, the usual I guess. Scrambled eggs for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch. Tater chips. I'm easy about that stuff. I usually go to bed before dinner."

"Great, glad to hear it. No problem, George."

"How is the food here, anyway? Oh, right... you're brand new."

"Yeah, I have no idea. I haven't eaten a single bite here."

"Alright, I guess I'll find out soon enough. After a nap. I'd really like to get to sleep now."

"I know, George, you must be tired after your adventures in the hospital last night. Just another question or two." I finished with the intake forms, and George was nothing but friendly the whole time. The last area of the forms was for an inventory of pre-existing injuries, so George's bandaged left ankle came up. "What happened there with your foot, George?"

"It's gone," he said, offering no more. He stared at me silently.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"Oh, no, not at all. It's great, really... just fine."

I hesitated. I wanted to ask him about cutting his own foot off, but it wasn't as if nobody'd noticed, so I just noted it on the forms like it was a hangnail. "So, that bandage has been there since you were brought in...." I called over nurse Annie. "He's had that bandage on his ankle since the emergency room, last night, I think. It doesn't look like there's any seepage or anything, but we might ought to check it, I guess."

"You're right," she said. "Interviews go okay?"

"Yeah, just... really strange.... You know."

"Yeah, I know," she laughed. "Well, George, let's take a look at that ankle of yours," she said. "I think we might need to change that bandage."

"Great," said George. "I told them in the emergency room there was no need for it," he said. He held out his leg, and Annie's practiced hands removed the bandage. Then things got a lot weirder than just running for coffee.

I'd never seen anything like it, and neither had Annie. George's ankle just stopped, as if there had never been a foot there. But his leg didn't just end, with skin over the gap where his foot should have been, nor did it look like the kind of wound one might expect from a suicide attempt. It was as if his foot had been cleanly sheared off, like looking at a CAT-scan cross-section of George's ankle, but in real life, in real time. It was almost like his foot was still there, but invisible, and we were seeing right through it. George didn't seem to be in any pain at all. There was no blood loss, no suppurating fluids, no damage to surrounding tissue or bone, and no impaired motor ability. There wasn't even any smell. Other than the congealed remains of the antiseptic the emergency room had applied, it was perfectly clean.

Annie reached out and touched the stump, hesitating, like it might burn her. George didn't flinch or act like he even noticed her touch. "George," she said. "How did you do this to yourself?"

"Oh, I didn't," he said. "It's gone. My foot's gone."

Annie looked at me, and I looked back. For a moment, neither of us said anything. "Why don't you take those forms to the office, and while you're at it, could you send Dr. Thompson this way?"

"No problem," I said, and headed for the door.

"Hey, wait a minute! You said you were gonna tell her I was excited to go to bed!" hollered George. "I want to get to sleep as soon as possible!"

"Calm down, George, we'll get you to bed as fast as we can," said Annie. "Hey, get Dr. Thom..."

Dr. Thompson hustled in the room, summoned by the raised voices. "What's going on here? Any trouble?" he asked, maintaining his cool.

"I just want to get to sleep! I want to get to sleep, that's all!" yelled George. Several of the patients turned and stared, and the woman waiting for the return of the flying trees opened her mouth and howled inarticulate cries of apparently shared agony. Annie's face was drawn, and she said nothing, but she caught Dr. Thompson's eye and glanced down at George's ankle.

"Alright, I don't see any reason why you can't get in a bed, George. No problem," said Dr. Thompson. "We've got your room all ready. I'm a little bothered by that ankle, though... you think I could take a look at it for a minute?"

"Yeah, I guess, but I keep telling everybody not to worry about it, it's all good."

"It doesn't look like it's hurting you, despite how awful the wound seems," said Dr. Thompson. Annie calmed down the flying tree lady.

"That's what I told both of them, and the emergency room people. It's just fine. Fine," said George. Dr. Thompson made his examination, prodding the severed ankle just like Annie had done, and again George never moved or reacted in any way. He seemed perfectly comfortable and normal, except for his invisible left foot and his mumbling about getting to bed as soon as possible.

"Well, that's pretty odd," Dr. Thompson finally said. "I can honestly say I've never seen anything quite like that." He rubbed his chin, not wanting to look as confused as he was. "I'll tell you what, George: I'm going to have Annie put another bandage on your ankle, just to keep that wound clean, and then we'll get you a room and right to bed, I promise. Will you be okay for just a minute while I talk to her?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem," said George, "I just want to get to sleep."

"I hear you, George, we'll get you in bed just as soon as we can," said Dr. Thompson. "Give me just a second or two..." He turned to Annie. "Alright... any past history of drug abuse or chemical addictions that we know of?" I handed her the forms I'd just filled out and she glanced over them.

"No, doctor."

"And did they pump everything out? We're not going to add to the problem, are we?"

"His stomach is empty, as far as we know, doctor."

"Normally, I'd be hesitant to prescribe anything, since he just tried to overdose and since he hasn't had anything to eat, but he's so agitated that I think I'd like to get him down for a while. Maybe while he's out we can take a closer look at that ankle, but for the time being, just go ahead and get him to bed. Just give him one pill, but when he starts drifting off strap him down so that if he wakes up and we're not right there he won't hurt himself, intentionally or otherwise. Actually, make it just half a pill. Hopefully this'll calm him down and he'll fall asleep naturally, and we can deal with things a little more carefully later." Dr. Thompson turned to me. "How's your first day so far?" he asked, smiling.

"Pretty strange, and a long way from Starbuck's, I'd say."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say. You're doing fine. I'll take those forms to the office. You can help Annie get George to bed, and when you're done come find me and we'll figure out what to do with you next."

I awkwardly carried George's three suitcases while Annie wheeled George to his room, and halfway there I dropped the one under my arm and old stained clothes and smelly geriatric toiletries and yellowed papers flew everywhere. I scooped them up and threw them back in, and when I got to the room Annie had George in bed and showed me how to tie down the restraints so he wouldn't hurt himself when he woke up. I patted George on the shoulder and wished him sweet dreams, and I've never seen anybody ever look so happy as George did when he drifted away for the afternoon.

I finished out the rest of the shift pushing people in circles around the halls in their wheelchairs and rearranging a storeroom with gurneys and broken wheelchairs and portable bathtubs and all sorts of odd medical contraptions. Right before I got off there was a lull long enough for me to fill out all the correct employment and internship forms, and for the cute office girl to fingerprint me and make a copy of my driver's license, so I wouldn't have to do all that first thing in the morning. They issued me an ID card with a magnetic strip on it so I could unlock my own doors, and everyone congratulated me on a good first day. I got my scooter and headed back to the Quarter and a very tall, cold beer. Then a shot of Jim Beam, then another shot or two of... something.

I was still pretty blurry and stupid from it when I got up the next morning, reeling from the half-baked dreams one has when powerfully drunk, so I threw on the same pants from the day before and managed to find the very last clean shirt I had, and headed out. I figured it was the hangover, but I couldn't find the damn place to save my life. The neighborhoods were a blur, and all the refineries and trailer courts looked exactly the same. I was about to stop at a convenience store and borrow the phone book when I realized the map from the Intern's Office was still in the hip pocket of my day-old pants. Gunning the scooter like a Harley, there was exactly one minute to spare on the time clock when I punched in. My head was pounding from the booze and the wild ride to get there, so the uproar blindsided me. George's left leg was gone, up to the knee.

"We don't know what the hell is happening, and that's all I know to say," said Dr. Thompson. "I'm totally baffled. I almost said 'stumped' but that would be in bad taste, wouldn't it?"

"Uh, yes," said Annie.

"And he's acting fine now, even though his leg's gone?" I asked.

"Totally normal," said Annie. "He's offered no complaints, and until we freaked out when we saw him, he never said a word about his leg. Claims he didn't even notice. In fact, he seems delighted, almost blissful."

Dr. Thompson looked dazed and confused. "Sorry. It's just that this is so far beyond odd," he said at last. "This man is literally disappearing, and I haven't got the faintest idea what to do about it. I don't even know how to report it!"

"I think it ought to be out of our hands," said Annie. "Shouldn't we send him to University Hospital?"

"Yes, of course. I don't think there's any doubt about that, despite my fears about what questions the State Inspectors are going to ask, and how the hell we're going to answer them. Have the ambulance called, and we'll send him on in. Are you sure no one reported anything at all unusual about George last night?"

"No doctor, not a thing. He slept until about an hour after the shift change, ate his dinner in his room and seemed to like it, asked to go back to sleep. Nobody thought there was any reason to deny him, so they put him back to bed. Never gave him any downers or anything else, for that matter. They checked on him through the night, and since he seemed fine and his whole body but his head was covered by the sheet, nobody thought anything at all was wrong."

As they conferred I wandered down the hall and looked in George's room. The door was open, and he was sitting up in his wheelchair, staring at the wall. He wore a loose blue surgical scrub and had a blanket thrown over his lap, so I couldn't see his legs, but there was no form under the blanket on his left side. "Hey there, George," I said.

"Hey, how ya doing?" he said, smiling. "Get any sleep last night?"

"Well, George, I did. It was a little rough because I partied a little hard when I left here yesterday, but I finally drifted off sometime in the wee hours. And you?" I'd asked, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. The room smelled weird, something yeasty, as if beneath the olfactory background noise of institutional antiseptic somebody was baking bread. With a hint of cinnamon, but something else as well, like the baker was sweaty... something sour. Something that oozed.

"I slept great!" he said. "Just like a baby kitten!"

I chuckled despite myself. "No bad dreams?" I asked, in too deep to stop now.

"Oh, no... nothing but gentle, beautiful dreams," he said, contented. "And you?"

"I hardly ever dream, George, and when I do almost never remember what I dreamed about, only that I did."

"That's terrible!" he said, sucking in his breath. "I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't dream."

"And what about your leg, George?" I had to ask.

"Oh, yes... they told me about it this morning. I didn't even notice, I felt so fine! It's all good."

"All good? Doesn't it hurt at all?"

"Oh, no. Just fine. It's all just fine," he said. He was silent a minute, lost in his own thoughts, and I nodded stupidly and was turning to get started with my chores when he asked: "Wanna see?"

"Sure, George, I'd be happy to take a look," I said. I lifted away the blanket, wincing at what I was about to see, but it was just like his ankle the day before. There was no blood, no gore, no sign of trauma of any kind. I could look into his knee joint just like one of those see-through models you put together in elementary science class when you're a kid. Like his whole lower leg was invisible. Gone. George might have tried to kill himself with the ankle wound, but he sure didn't do this. What the hell was going on?

There was nothing I could do, of course. I patted him on the hand. "Looks pretty good, I guess, bud. I've got to get to work now, but I'll check in on you during the day, okay?"

"Alright, buddy," he said. "See you later." Before I'd even left the room he was staring out the window and nodding.

An ambulance came and got him about an hour later, and between the new routines and the hangover, I only thought about him once or twice during the day. I was just winding down and thinking about what I needed to do when I got home (no booze tonight, I swore... just laundry, and a long shower) when they brought him back. I happened to be loitering by the door when they backed in, so I used my card to open it for them and offered to help.

"Welcome back, George! How'd your hospital visit go?" I asked with all the weary cheer I could muster.

"Great, no problem!" he said, smiling, and the driver nodded. Annie showed up to guide them to George's room.

"He did just fine," said the blue-suited EMT. "If it wasn't obvious that this man's lower leg was gone, I'd say he was in perfect health. In remarkably great shape for a fellow his age, actually."

"That's what we've found," said Annie, "but he keeps disappearing on us, one little bit at a time. Dr. Thompson says we're going to monitor him tonight."

"What's 'monitor' mean?" asked George, his expression clouding as we wheeled him through the double doors into the hall. "You aren't gonna be in my room with me, are you?"

"I thought I might move in and sleep on a cot," Annie joked.

"No, don't do that," said George. "No."

"I'm just teasing you, buddy," said Annie, patting him like a child. "We're just going to put a camera in there to make sure nobody's messing with you, that's all."

"No. I don't want that. Don't do that," said George. He gripped the gurney and his brow knitted into a scowl. "Don't do that!" he yelled in Annie's face.

"Whoa! Calm down there, dude," I said, trying to laugh it off. I touched his clenched knuckles, gripping the edge of the gurney like a claw.

"Don't tell me to calm down! Don't you tell me to God-damn calm down!" he screamed, and grabbed my hand so fast and hard that I nearly hit the floor.

"Oh, shit!" I hollered before I knew what I was saying, but before I could blurt anything more the EMT pried George's hand from mine and they hustled him down the hall to his room.

George was yelling "I ain't gotta be here! I ain't gotta be here!" at the top of his lungs.

"Tell Dr. Thompson to come on quick, and bring a sedative!" Annie hollered back at me, and I went to find the boss, shaking and rubbing my hand. Damn.

It took them nearly twenty minutes to put him down again, strapped to his bed like the night before. The last thing I did before I went home was to help "Cajun Randy" the maintenance-tech guy mount and plug in a video camera in the corner of George's room, way up by the ceiling where he couldn't get to it to mess with it, even if he managed to get out of his restraints. George was snoring away when we left him, and after briefly stopping in the main office to check the monitors to make sure the camera was working, I punched out and stumbled to the scooter and headed for home. I was a block away from Pendulum Hill when it occurred to me that I should really watch what I was doing so that I wouldn't get lost again and have to hustle so hard to get back to work in the morning.

Back in the Quarter, I managed to avoid the temptation to head to the bar, and normally I would have considered it bad luck that I didn't have any beer in my fridge. I threw in the laundry - pretty much everything I had - and sat down naked in front of the computer munching on stale pretzels and searched the internet for anything I could find that sounded like George's case. What the hell was I gonna Google? Spontaneous disintegration? All that got me was a bunch of stuff about nuclear physics. Before long my searches hit only thin, fan-based science-fiction sites, and I dissolved into my exhaustion. It occurred to me to try a search on Pendulum Hill itself, but I was so wasted my eyes were crossing. I didn't fix anything to eat but the pretzels, barely remembered to toss my clothes in the dryer, and fell into bed.

My sleep was fitful, but I dreamt. The dreams started with incoherent, vaporous, whispered warnings, but then I dreamt I was disappearing, just like George. It started at my feet, just like him, and crept up my legs to my crotch and up my belly to my armpits, and it hurt. Some weird colorlessness was taking me away, eating me, and there was nothing I could do about it. I whimpered, then panted, then yelled, which woke me up. I got up to pee, and fell into bed again, where it all started over. It was like that all night, and when I gave up and rolled out of bed and clambered to the shower, the bathroom mirror showed a sweaty shell of a man - greenish-black rings under my red eyes, hair all standing out sideways, the pallor of pearly-gray goosepimpled skin. Ugh. I might as well have gotten drunk again.

The hot shower helped a little, and when I left I took the time to stop at Croissant D'Or right around the corner from my place to get a decent breakfast sandwich. The girl at the counter stared at me like I was one of the all-night derelicts that call the Quarter home, but I didn't stink and had the money, so what was she gonna do? I didn't even try to eat the sandwich while on the scooter, but plopped in the window seat and watched the drunks wake up and the rising sun burn through the humidity as I ate. I felt halfway human when I split for work.

Damn if I didn't get lost again. This time I didn't have the map in my pocket, so I was truly confused. I scooted through what seemed like miles of rusty pipelines and moss-covered sheet-metal fences, and when my frustration got so hot that I started second-guessing the whole enterprise, and almost just headed home, I wasn't even sure I could find my way back. Finally I chanced on the same convenience store I'd nearly stopped at the day before, and backtracked to Pendulum Hill. I was late, but nobody cared. George was gone to the hips.

There was pandemonium in his room, and I stood in his doorway just long enough to see that for all the chaos, things were apparently coming under control. I headed for the main office, and the video monitor. There on the screen was George's room, with everybody hovering over him and trying to figure out what the hell was going on, just as I'd left them. I rewound the tape from the night before, and played it back at quadruple speed. It started just as I'd expected, with Cajun Randy and I staring up into the lens from our ladders, fiddling with screwdrivers as we finished installing the camera. We left the room and shut the door, and George slept on undisturbed until about six o'clock when an orderly brought in a dinner tray. He woke George, who blew him off and immediately went back to sleep. I could clearly see the outline of George's half-left leg and full remaining right leg under his thin covers. The next interruption was around eleven-thirty when another orderly came in, quietly checked on him, and removed the uneaten tray of food. George slept on, hardly stirring. Then, at three in the morning, something happened. I slowed the playback to normal, and watched.

At first I thought maybe George's window had blown open. The curtains fluttered lightly, then heavily. I could see his hair and covers blowing, too. Then the gust of - whatever - blew over one of George's old suitcases, and it popped open and his undershirts and socks and the old papers scuttled around the room just like there was a mini-tornado in there. Even the bed drifted away from the wall, but George still slept. Then the weirdest thing happened: it was as if some invisible hand reached up to the camera and smeared the lens with some translucent goo. Everything became fuzzy, diluted in a prismatic fog, shifting like the walls had turned to rubber and the floor to some viscous asphalt-like sludge, and I truly thought that the camera had malfunctioned or the weird interior wind had somehow scrambled its cables. Then there was what appeared to be a split-second of darkness, and all appeared normal again, except that the time code read 5:02 and George was gone from the hips down. He had lost two hours, and clearly, there was nothing under his sheets below his belly. I stopped the tape and sat back and took a deep breath.

"Did they take him away again?" I asked when I stumbled back to his room.

"Yeah, back to University Hospital where they can really keep an eye on him," said the orderly. "This is some weird shit, man, even for this place."

"Yeah, I'd have to agree with ya," I said. "Hey, do you know where Annie is today?"

"She came in first thing, but then headed home sick," he said.

"What was wrong with her?"

"Nausea. Funny, I've never known her to have a weak stomach, but George kinda messed her up, I think. That or this funny-ass smell in this room. You smell that?" I stood there like an idiot, nothing to say, worrying about Annie and staring at George's wind-trashed room and his empty bed. "You think you could clean up in here?" the orderly said. "I still got lots of folks to get to this morning and since Annie ain't here..."

"Yeah, no problem," I said, "though I don't quite know where to start."

"You know where the janitor's closet is, don't ya?"

"Yeah," I said, going to the window to make sure it was shut tight, which it was. Not only locked, but sealed. Permanently.

"I reckon I'd start there," he said, grinning. Then he left for his morning rounds, as if a man hadn't half-disappeared almost right before his eyes.

"Yeah, I guess," I said to the emptiness, fingering the casement. Undamaged. Never been opened since it was installed. There were even spiderwebs on it, as if there had never been a nasty, whipping wind blowing through the room. I looked up at the camera, which seemed to be functioning normally: lens clear of ghost goo, and the little red light on indicating the power supply was uninterrupted. I could smell the oozing yeasty odor, like the sweaty phantom bread-baker was still at his work. Nothing made a lick of sense.

I made the bed and neatly folded the restraining straps on top of the covers, and pushed it into place up against the wall. I gathered up George's socks and underwear from the broken suitcase and threw them back in, then picked up all the old papers. When I'd spilled them on my first day I hadn't given them a second look, but they were more than just yellowed with age. I was surprised dust didn't fly from them. They were almost as wrinkled and crepey as I imagined the Constitution to be, and had that same mildewy, documentary smell as old newspapers stored in a basement for years, but more so, like they'd been hidden from the light in a hewn-stone subterranean desert chamber for eons and had only recently been unearthed by some bespectacled archeologist. As I arranged them they crinkled in my hands like they were fragile enough to crumble, and I thought I might find a place to hide and read them when Dr. Thompson came in.

"Well, you've had an exciting introduction to our facility," he said, sighing. "You still want to work here?"

"I'm not totally sure," I said.

"I understand," he said. "You don't happen to have a commercial driver's license, do you?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't."

"Alright. I was thinking of sending you to the hospital in case they sent George back, but one: I don't think they'll send him back at this point, and two: they've got their ambulances for that, anyway. Oh well." We both stood silently, nothing more to say. "I'm at a loss," he said. "Carry on."

I gently folded the papers and looked out into the hall. Everything normal, nobody around but a few folks in wheelchairs or staring out the windows. Like a kid who's just stolen a comic book from the local drugstore, I self-consiously held the papers at my side and walked right out the front door to where my scooter was chained, and locked them in the helmet box. Nobody caught me. Nobody seemed to even notice.

The day passed, in agony. It was one of those days when time never moves. You play games with yourself, trying to guess how many minutes have passed and resisting the urge to look at the clock. When you finally cave in, thinking at least forty-five minutes have gone, you're always disappointed that it's only been fifteen, and there's that much more of the day left to endure. I straightened up George's room but didn't find anything else that seemed odd. No amount of pine-scented bleach would get rid of the sour, yeasty smell; it was always there like an undercurrent, no matter how much I scrubbed. Right at the end of my lunch break it occurred to me that I could have found a computer somewhere and read up on this place while I ate, but too late. Back to work. I did manage to sneak Annie's home number from her personnel file, so I could call and check on her. I pushed the folks around the halls and played "Bingo" with them and changed the TV channels for them, and nobody cared one bit, as they were all out of their minds. I thought I might be joining them, then punch-out time arrived like a surprise, like I might have been an inmate and it would have never come. But it did, and I've never scooted away from Pendulum Hill any faster. I've also never seen it again.

Since I got lost yet again, it was nearly dark when I got home. I left my scooter unchained and ran upstairs and tore off my clothes, stinking of pine bleach and greasy, sweaty yeast, and hurled them into the washer. Then I took them out again, already wet, and threw them away. Then I went downstairs in my underwear and threw the garbage bag into the dumpster. I didn't care who saw me, or who might've thought I was crazy. I got in the shower, just as hot as I could stand it, and tried to scald the smell off my skin. I scrubbed myself with a scouring pad from the kitchen, but when I got out I couldn't tell if I could still smell the yeast or if I was just imagining it. I called Annie, and her husband answered the phone, immediately suspicious. I explained that I worked with her and was just calling to check on her, and he curtly told me she'd been throwing up all day, and had a weird smell about her that seemed to follow her around and wouldn't wash off. I figured if I asked for any more details he'd tell me it was none of my business, which it really wasn't, so I let it go and hung up and went for George's old papers.

On closer inspection, they really seemed like something he'd stolen from a museum, or at least paid a lot of money for in an exclusive antiques shop. They were parchment, or maybe even vellum, and covered with markings so strange they almost seemed to wiggle a bit when you looked away, then would dart back into place under a direct gaze. There were black borders faded to gray, and weird little black spots connected by dotted lines that might have been flyspecks but looked oddly like star-maps of constellations they print on the endpapers of grade-school science books, but they didn't look like any constellations I recognized. Then there were panels and fields marked off by secondary borders, painted a dull reddish brown. I suppressed the idea that they might have once been blood-red. On one or two pages there were gold foil seals, wrinkled but unmarked, and the rest every page was covered all or in part by what could only have been bizarre writing. I'd never seen any script like it. I'd been pre-med, not linguistics, so I didn't fool myself that I had any real knowledge, but still... everybody knows what Greek and Latin and Hebrew look like, and Cyrillic is familiar from old propaganda posters and cheap vodka bottles. Japanese and Chinese kanji is everywhere, from movie posters to shower curtains. This didn't look like any of it, and I knew I'd never read a word of it by myself. maybe George could help.... I set the thought aside along with the documents, and threw on some clothes and forced myself to eat a sandwich. I eyed the liquor cabinet with the idea of washing it down with some Jack, but thought better of it. I reached for the computer.

Searches for Pendulum Hill yielded tons of hits, and beyond avoiding the real-estate ads I didn't know where to start. I didn't really even know what I was looking for. The Pendulum Hill Mental Institution website was thin on background, only saying that there had been some sort of facility in the neighborhood since the 1880's, blabbing a while about their "...long history of care..." then proceeding with the hard sell for helping to resolve "your family's more difficult decisions." That seemed harsh, but what are ya gonna do, I guess? The Historical Society's website gave the whole area a passing mention, claiming that in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries it had been some of the highest ground around - only five or six feet above sea level, but still - but that a mysterious sinking had occurred and for decades the place had been a labyrinthine, uninhabitable swamp. Pirates and outlaws had loved it as a hideout, and apparently many a lawman had met his end in the brackish waters. But you could say that about almost anywhere in the whole delta, so who knew? I sorted through a zillion hits where the search engines found random addresses for all the second-rate refineries and scrap-metal yards, and then I started to hit the really weird stuff.

There were quite a few environmental links, with some interesting maps showing currents up the river from the gulf, and projected dispersal of pollutants from marine industry like international shipping and deep continental shelf drilling. Then there were four or five sites that connected to links about the paranormal, mostly run-of-the-mill gray aliens and sasquatchi and the like, with a few vague but interesting direct connections between Pendulum Hill and swamp cryptozoology. Of course, they admitted, the whole area had been paved over and densely settled since the late 1800s, but... but... but....

No one had any concrete conclusions, and frustrated, I slapped shut the laptop's lid. There was only enough there to plant vaguely creepy ideas in my head, and nothing to either confirm or refute them. I didn't really think it through, but found myself tying on my high-tops and grabbing my keys and the old documents. I didn't know anybody who could answer my questions but George.

"George? How ya doing, buddy?" I asked as I knocked on his doorframe.

"Hey yourself, buddy!" he said, and for some reason I found myself surprised he was awake.

"How are ya feeling, my friend?" I said, coming into the room, and he shrugged.

"Pretty good, I think. I'm kind of wondering why they have me in this joint." I had tried not to think about how I might find him, and even though circumstances should have prepared me, I was horrified to see that George was essentially reduced to his chest, arms, and head. Even worse, what little remained of his body was completely exposed, uncovered for closer observation, I assumed. I could see right into him, all the pumping, throbbing organs and viscera open for anyone's perusal. There were IV lines into his arms, heart and respiratory monitors bleeping and blinking, and he was on oxygen.

"Well George, you're disappearing on us, and we're all just trying to help," I said lamely, gagging a bit and momentarily looking away.

"Yeah, I don't know about that," he mumbled, and I managed to approach him and pat him on the back of his hand. "Everything seems okay to me," he said. We waited there like that a minute until I worked up the guts to go on.

"George, I was wondering if you could help us understand... we're very confused by what's happening to you."

"Yeah, what about?" he said, almost defensive.

"I'll say it again, George: you're disappearing right before our eyes, yet you don't seem to care or even notice. Can you even see what's happening? Does it... feel funny?" I felt like an idiot. He was silent a long time.

"Look, you've got to keep it a secret," he finally whispered. "Can you keep it a secret?"

"Of course, George, whatever you say."

"Promise?"

I thought about it a second. "Yes, George, I promise."

"It's the Dream People. They're taking me away. I'm going to Dreamland! It's gonna be so great!"

I've been around lots of folks in my life. Big southern gregarious family and all that. Old, young, half-senile aunts and uncles, little kids playing fantasy games, grandparents and whatnot, and I have to say this: it's not just everyday that somebody tells you with a straight fact that they're going away to Dreamland. I'd hazard a guess that it's even rarer that somebody who says that is actually disappearing.

"George..." I started, but was speechless. He looked up at me, utterly delighted, a broad, deep smile on his placid face. "Okay, George," I managed. "Dreamland. I hear you, buddy. Can you tell me what it's like?"

"Beautiful. Just beautiful. I can hardly wait!" he giggled.

"George, when they brought you to the hospital here, I was the one who cleaned up your room, and I was just wondering if maybe...." I brought out the old documents from my pocket. "Could you explain these? Could you help me with these?"

George's eyes grew wide when he saw what I held, and he flailed and grabbed and reached for the yellowed papers, and I jumped back. "No! NO!" he yelled. "You're not supposed to see! You can't see that! You can't see! You can't see!"

"George, George... it's okay, buddy," I tried.

"NO! Not okay! Only I can have those! Only me! GIVE THEM BACK!"

It sounded like a bird hit his window, but with George yelling it was hard to tell. There was some kind of 'bonk' outside, but given his tantrum and the closed curtains I paid it little mind. "George, it's okay, really!" I pled. "Don't get upset, they're all yours, I don't care where you got them... here, have them back." I handed them to him and he snatched them out of my hands so fast that one of them ripped in half.

"Oh, Gods... oh Gods... do they know?" he said. "Do they know you saw? Do they? DO THEY!?" he yelled. There was another 'bonk' outside the window then a low, creaking, unnatural moan, not unlike some of the structural stresses I've heard inside buildings during hurricanes, but the night had been perfectly calm and clear on my ride to the hospital. "Do they know!? Oh Gods! They must! They MUST!" There was a loud blow on the window, then another. George screamed, and I ran for it. The door slammed closed behind me.

"George... uh, Mr. Foster... he's in trouble!" I panted to the nurse, who leapt from her seat and followed me down the hall at a run. I tore open George's door and nothing - not even all the weirdness I'd already seen since starting work at Pendulum Hill - could have prepared me for what I witnessed in that hospital room, if it was, in fact, a hospital room anymore.

The room was gone, and in its place was a shrieking psychic storm, an insane void that howled and wailed like all the beasts of every imaginary hell that's even been dreamt in the blackest nightmares of abused children, colors never before seen by human eyes dancing like some delirious, seething aurora. Planets and stars orbited by, and entire miasmal cloudlike cosmic constructions wheeled through the emptiness. Standing in that doorway was like standing at the brink of the edge of space and time and sanity itself: the walls were gone, the windows were gone, the curtains were gone, the furniture was gone, and staring nearly hypnotized into it, there was not even any sensation of up or down. I almost stepped right into that empty nothingness, but grabbed the door frame just in time to brace myself against the loathsome suction that might have yanked me into who-knows-where. I squatted down to more firmly anchor myself against the onslaught, but the running nurse plowed into me from behind and tumbled over my shoulders into the emptiness. She gave one quick yelp, more surprised than frightened, and was gone. Only the void, and George, remained.

"Oh, Gods! Oh, Gods!" he was screaming. "You said it wouldn't hurt! You promised! You promised!" He was hanging on with one hand to some unseen tiny shred of the earthly plane, and gripped the documents in his other straining fist. "You lied! You lied!" he screamed. I could only watch in terror. Winds were gathering at my back, and I could hear others running to investigate, hear supply carts and the hall furniture scraping down the linoleum, slowly sliding toward the dark maw before me. My fingers ached, and in desperation I jammed my feet against the doorframe. "Oh, Gods!" George screamed again. "No! You said it wouldn't hurt! You said it would be beautiful!" He let go the documents, which instantly vanished into the maelstrom. He looked at me, pleading, and I watched as what was left of his torso slowly disappeared, then his right arm, then his neck. There was a slowly building, low roar from the void, a voice from the pit, a guttural sound more horrible and threatening that anything I've ever heard, a sound so grotesque that it almost took physical form, and it yelled at George and he screamed back: "N'YODKACW! P'VAGHN SEYMCT! KARDULOSGTH! Oh Gods! OH GODS! OH GO..." and he was gone.

Straining with everything I had left, I found the doorknob in the moaning fury and pushed backwards with my feet, slamming the door shut.

I fell to the floor, and the storm stopped instantly. Like nothing had ever happened. I lay panting, unaware of the passage of time, until someone behind me asked, "Are you alright?"

I turned, and there were four or five bewildered orderlies and nurses standing in the hall. They'd come running, but seen nothing. The furniture was scattered at random, and paperwork from the nurse's station was strewn everywhere. "Are you okay?" someone asked again. I stood, shaking, and looked at them but said nothing. I stumbled a step or two away from the door, and a nurse reached for the knob.

"No!" I yelled, and lunged for her, but she'd already opened the door.

George's room was just as it had always been, bed in place, curtains still. It was utterly unchanged, but for the absence of its patient. The nurse and the orderlies went in, and I turned and ran. In the parking garage and jumped on the scooter and left a six-foot strip of rubber on the concrete when I left. I didn't even know the scooter would go that fast. I blew right by the parking attendant, and when I hit the open air the night was still and quiet, uncloudy and calm, and the stars were shining. I couldn't look up for fear of what waited beyond them.

So I ended up behind the bar after all. No medical school for me. I was drunk for days and days, I don't know how long. Worried calls from my parents went unanswered, and bills went unpaid until I was thrown out of my apartment. I may have even become one of those derelicts that the better drinking establishments won't serve, the kind that accost tourists with wild voodoo tales and demands for spare change, but I came out of it. My memory of the days after George's final disappearance are a little unfocused, I'm afraid. One day I caught a newspaper blowing down Canal Street and read an obituary notice for someone named "Ann M. Lovato" but then a few days later I thought I saw Annie walking through Jackson Square towards the levee, her face bruised and drawn and her expression brooding, but I never caught up with her, so I don't know. The smell of baking bread with just slightly too much yeast can set me off on a bender for a week. Needless to say, I've never even tried to find the Pendulum Hill neighborhood again, but between its reputation for labyrinthine complexity and my own semi-permanant sense of alcoholic dislocation, not to mention my deep and abiding fears of what might be waiting for me there, I doubt I'll ever make the attempt. And why would I want to?

But come down to the Quarter and look me up, and I'll serve you a drink any time you want it, day or night, and I'll drink one with you. The better to forget about George and those weird three days I spent at Pendulum Hill, and the better to keep the dreams away.

Copyright 2010 by R.E.C. Thompson, Mort Phipps Cohen

All Rights Reserved