"Who did?"
"Billy- I said already, Billy did!"
"Ah," he firmly grabbed his bottom lip between two fingers and pulled at it as his thick eyebrows knit together into a harsh line, "Poor guy. Poor soul. How did he... how did he do it?"
The dwarf-like man looked away from him and rested his thick cheek on his equally thick hand, leaning forward on the wobbling card-table. "Look, I don't know. How should I know? They were cleaning up a lot of blood... so I guess he musta cut himself up and bled to death."
The taller, wiry patient stared forward, his eyes empty and clouded. He started shaking, a tremor that entered through his fingertips and spread out through his entire frame. A rasping, hacking sob caught itself in the back of his throat and he hid his face in his wide hands.
"Shhhhhh-hhhhit," he muttered. The balding man said nothing, allow his colleague a moment to regain his composure. Well, whatever composure he may still retain in his condition.
"Iggy," he said finally as the wild-haired man wiped his face with a sweaty palm, "Iggy, we're gonna be okay, got it? We're gonna be fine. Soon were gonna be outta this fucking hellhole and back in the city. Do you- do you hear me, Iggy?" He snapped his fingers in front of Jim's face, trying to keep his attention as the reverend started fazing out, "We're gonna get outta here and we're gonna live it up! Booze, women... food that doesn't look and taste like hacked-up shit. Your own bedroom, Jim. Your own- private- bathroom."
Jim nodded but didn't look up from his lap.
"We just gotta do real well, Iggy- real fuckin' well- these next few weeks. And then we're free, buddy! 'Rehabilitated'," he rolled the word around on his tongue, savouring it. Jim looked at him.
"Do you really think so, Louie?" Reverend Jim Ignatowski said quietly. Louie De Palma nodded quickly, confidently.
"I mean, I got my... 'violent, sociopathic, and self-destructive tendencies' under control, right? And you..." He squinted at the gently-swaying recovering addict sitting across from him, "Well, you're sure a helluva lot better, right? Yeah, the next assessment will be a cinch."
Iggy cracked a smile, "You, you're right, boss. You're always right."
Medication time.
"Oop. Here goes," Louie slid off the metal chair to the slick tiled floor of the recreation room. Jim was already in line, as always, his empty hand outstretched, waiting to be gifted with pills and that little paper cup of water. Louie sighed as he waddled over to join the line of patients, all clad in the standard white robes. He watched Jim hungrily gulp down the little white and red capsules before lowering his eyes to the floor.
"A lot better..." He mumbled to himself.
Louie De Palma tightened his grip on the handle of his suitcase. He could feel the building hovering ominously behind him, casting him in shadow. He let out a breath and reached for his cigarettes, his trembling fingers fumbling with the lighter as it sputtered and held its flame. He jammed it back in his pocket and took a deep, desperate breath of nicotine.
"Fuck," he muttered before he took his first step away from the doors of the Manhattan Psychiatric Center.
He hailed a cab and sat silently in the back, his old clothes hanging slightly looser on him than they used to. He got out, complained half-heartedly about the increase in fare-charge before paying the cabbie and entering his apartment building.
The stairwell was a different colour. It used to be blue, now it was a light yellowish. Sunny and cheerful. It made him want to retch. The stairs seemed to go on for longer than he remembered. Four flights. Down the hall. Third door on the right. His door opened with a creak, unleashing a cloud of dust from the room within. But he was too tired to care. He stepped inside his old room and locked the door behind him, throwing the leather case on the couch carelessly. He didn't look at his apartment- the rooms that he had dreamed of being back it from day one in the institution. The rooms that were now covered entirely with a thin layer of dust.
He collapsed on his bed face-first.
Tomorrow he would call Rieger and tell him what had happened. But as for tonight...
He sat up, picked up the phone, reached into his pocket, pulled a scrap of paper from his wallet, and dialed. It rang. Someone picked up.
"Hello? Yeah, De Palma here. Y—yeah, I'm a regular. Yeah. Yes, that's still my address. Look, could you send someone? I don't know, how about Cindy—does she still work for you? No? Sharon? She—oh, great. Yeah. Cash, of course. Great. I'll be waiting."
He hung up.
He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
Everything's dark...
His eyes snapped open. He grabbed the phone and redialed.
"Hello? De Palma again. Look, sorry, but cancel the date. Yeah, you heard me. No, I don't give a shit, just cancel it, 'kay? Yeah, fuck you too, bitch."
He dropped the phone onto the receiver, threw the bed-side lamp at the far wall, and cried himself to sleep.
Mario's was uncharacteristically empty, at least as far as Louie De Palma was concerned. But then again it was a Tuesday night. Still, only a few unfamiliar figures sat, huddled in a corner, one sliding majestically off a barstool. Then there was Alex, sitting at their usual table, checking his watch and glancing around anxiously. Louie waved to him and the dark-haired man broke out into a wide grin , leaping from his seat, his arms spread wide.
"Louie!" He cried joyfully as he wrapped the small man a warm, enveloping hug. De Palma returned the hug hesitantly- stiffly. His mind was elsewhere. They sat down at the circular table and Alex ordered a round.
"My god... it's been months. How are you, Louie? You didn't say much on the phone..."
The side of Louie's mouth twitched and he avoided eye-contact. "Yeah, I'm doin' okay, I guess. How're things with you? How's Elaine? Sunshine Cabs?"
"Oh, fine, fine. Elaine wanted to come tonight, but since you said on the phone you didn't want to see anyone else right now... well, she went out with some girlfriends from the gallery. She's been doing pretty well. We've been doing well. And, let me say, running our branch of cabs is not as easy as you made it look, Lou. But I'm better at it now. It's been good. Latka and Tony send their love."
"Good. Great."
There was an awkward silence. One of the strange drunks shifted to a different stool at the bar.
"You know," Alex started hesitantly, "The gang and I tried to visit a few times after... well, in the beginning. But we were always turned away- they kicked us out. We were getting worried about you two."
"Yeah," Louie's face was expressionless. Alex leaned back a bit and crossed his arms.
"So when's Jim coming?"
Louie's mouth opened slightly. "What?"
"Jim? Is he coming? Where's he staying?"
Louie stared at Alex blankly. "Iggy's not comin', Rieger," he said quietly. He looked down at his beer. The foam was sticking to the sides of the glass and thinning in the middle. "He didn't pass the evaluation," he pressed his fingers into the folds of his forehead, "He didn't fucking pass."
Alex paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. He lowered it back down to the table slowly. "I see..." He said, "Jesus. I'm sorry about that. But he'll have other chances, right?"
Louie didn't try to restrain himself and laughed bitterly. "Ha! Like that drugged-up bastard will be able to hold his own without me. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing half the time! The only reason he's still... he's still... functional... is because I've been there. Holding his fucking hand. Keepin' him off the bad shit. And now... well, he's screwed."
Alex looked at Louie carefully. "Well, Jim probably helped you out too, right?"
The small man didn't move or respond. He simply stared at the flickering "Budweiser" sign in the window.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Rieger."
The taller man bit his tongue. "Right. Sure, Louie. Whatever you say. I won't press anything."
De Palma said nothing.
"What is it you wanted to see me about, anyway?"
De Palma glanced at him.
"I need a job, Alex," he said. "I need to try to get enough money so's I can try to get Iggy outta that hellhole."
"A-a job?" Alex blinked, a half-smile twisted the side of his mouth, "You... asking... me? For a job? At Sunshine Cabs?"
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Rieger."
Alex didn't laugh, he merely grinned and wrapped an arm over the smaller man's wide shoulders. "Of course, Louie! Of course I can give you a job! Don't you worry about a thing- I'll take care of everything!"
Louie snorted but smiled also, "Yeah, I can't wait to see how you've wrecked the place, Alex."
They laughed.
The strange drunk at the bar finally succumbed to the force of gravity and fell off his stool.
"Ignatowski?"
"Ignatowski?"
"Ignatowski...?"
"Ignatowski!"
"Hmm?"
"The recreational center is being locked up for the night. Get to your room. Aide Williams will escort you."
Jim glanced around the dark, barren room. Empty chairs and tables cast eerie shadows on the pristine white floor, sliding their way up onto the walls. A window was open- the sharp scent of fresh grass and cool air sliced through the dulled odor of chemicals and cleaner that had so long embedded itself in the ward. He took a deep breath of this new, yet old, familiar air and turned to the doctor.
"I'm waiting for Louie," he said simply. "He said he'd be back soon to get me. He told me to wait."
The doctor made a motion to the bulky aide and Jim found himself locked in his room, alone.
He stood by the door for a long moment, not completely processing the sudden change of environment. Then he sat on the stiff cot and pulled a small paper envelope from his sock. One, two, three, four pills. He took two of them and swallowed them dry. The rest were returned to the secret place in his sock. He laid back on the thin bed, his arms folded behind his head.
The ceiling was bare and empty and perfectly white and flat, like everything else in this place: devoid of character, of texture, or colour, of the slightest of imperfections.
His lids grew heavy.
He wondered where Louie was.
He wondered where he was.
The white became dark.
Louie lay in bed, unable to sleep. He kept his mind planted firmly on the subject of work, of Alex, of driving a taxi again. But he knew he could distract himself for only so long. As exhaustion overtook him, she crept her way into the corners of his head. He heard her voice calling out to him. He saw her face. He closed his eyes and he was there.
It was raining. The street was a river, glowing with red and green and yellow orbs of blurred light- reflections. Cars skidded through the water. The rainfall was deafening in itself.
He couldn't hear the sirens. He could barely see five feet in front of him, the rain was so thick.
But he heard her. He saw the fear on her face. And he will never forget.
The trucker was yelling at the cops, gesturing and waving his arms wildly at the place where his vehicle had skidded onto the sidewalk. Louie didn't care. He held her. Felt her weak breath and warm, soft body. She looked up at him- straight into his eyes. Her lips parted and rain fell into her mouth as she spoke.
"It's cold," she whispered.
He didn't know what to say so he said everything. "Don't worry, you'll be fine, the ambulance is coming, I'm here, I love you, don't close your eyes, everything's gonna be okay, you're gonna be alright..."
"Everything's dark," she said.
He cried.
"Judy, I'm so sorry," He touched her cheek.
"Louie...?"
"Y-yeah?"
"I-"
Her eyes emptied and her body fell. She slipped out of his hands and into the water. Blood streamed from head and stomach, twirling and mixing with the currents. Her blood stained his sleeves and hands. He screamed.
"Next thing I knew, I was on top of that bastard trucker, beating the life out of him. I tried to kill him. I would have if the cops hadn't pulled me off," Louie fiddled with his fingers.
The doctor looked up from her notes, watching him from over her thick-lensed glasses. "Go on," she said, gesturing with her pen. He cleared his throat, glancing around at the other patients. Jim was sitting right beside him, staring off into space, drugged up on meds. Billy sat on his other side, fidgeting nervously the way he always did.
"There's nothing else to say," he muttered, his voice thick and hoarse. The doctor, Dr. Quinzel, as her small, bronze name-tag read, cocked an eyebrow.
"Now I don't believe that's entirely true, Mr. De Palma. According to your police file you attempted suicide while you were in custody for assault and battery. Would you care to explain to us why you chose that route?"
"No," he growled.
"Very well. Would anyone like to try to shed some light on Mr. De Palma's case? Anyone?"
The patients stirred, some sat on their hands, some looked out the window. One waved his hand erratically, and was ignored. No words were uttered. Dr. Quinzel sighed, slightly irritated.
"Very well. We shall return to your case next week, Mr. De Palma. Now, who would like to be next?"
A patient's wavering hand sprang up again and was again ignored.
"Mr. Bibbit?" Quinzel glanced at the slightly shivering man.
"N-n-n-no," he shook his head, keeping his face down.
She jotted something down in her notepad.
"Mr. Ignatowski?"
Jim made no movement to suggest that he had heard her.
"Mr. Ignatowski?"
"Iggy," Louie nudged the reverend's arm sharply, bringing him out of his stupor. Jim blinked, regaining his focus.
"Yeah?" He said, "What? Is it lunch?"
"Would you like to be the next to talk, Mr. Ignatowski?" The blonde woman positioned her pen at a harsh angle against the paper. Jim thought deeply for a moment and shrugged.
"Sure, why not?" He stood and straightened himself up to speak like he was to give a speech before a cabinet. "Uhhh... what do you want me to talk about?"
"Why don't we start with your addiction?"
"Well, I always have had a serious problem with the Bob Newhart Show, I admit. Once I didn't leave my apartment for a week when the station held a Bob Newhart marathon. It was... insanity! I know this now. But then, all I cared about was seeing Marcia Wallace. So I-"
"Mr. Ignatowski," the doctor took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose impatiently.
"Hmm?"
"Your drug addiction, please."
"Oh, okee-dokey," Jim sat back down, his legs spread apart sloppily and his hands jammed into his pockets. He tilted his head back and cleared his throat noisily.
"U-uh. Welp, I'm what I like to call the 'living embodiment of the sixties'. Everything people did in the sixties, I did. Even when I didn't know what it was," he paused a moment. "In my first year of university a girlfriend of mine convinced my to try pot. It was in brownies. Blame it on the brownies, I say. That was the gateway- I became completely addicted and I wanted more (more marijuana, not more brownies. Though I like brownies). I dropped out of Harvard after my addiction became... crippling. I became (cough) hopelessly depressed. My family threw me out—wouldn't have anything to do with me. It was around this time that I overdosed for the first time. They brought me back..." He gestured to himself, "Obviously. My shrink at the time told me to get a job and a hobby to help me through the tough times. So I became ordained, changed my name, and started work on a beautiful... macrame... couch."
Dr. Quinzel scribbled furiously. Louie sat, staring at his friend, in quiet awe. The reverend continued:
"I was doing okay for a while. I went over to Vietnam- worked as a medic. After I got discharged I came back to New York and concentrated on working as a man of cloth to cope with the... with 'Nam. Then Lou, here," he patted his former colleague's shoulder affably. Louie brushed him off, embarrassed. "He got me a job as a cabbie and I stayed clean... well, mostly clean... for a—for a while..."
Jim trailed off, his eyes unfocused and his mouth hung slightly parted. He took a deep, uneven breath.
"And then..."
"I'm sorry, but that's all the time we have for today," Dr. Quinzel flashed her watch and stood briskly, "We'll continue this next week. Mr. Ignatowski will finish his story, we will have a discussion, and then I hope to hear from the rest of you," she smiled mechanically, "Dismissed."
Jim Ignatowski opened his eyes. He was sitting at the card table, facing the window, his back to the shifting bustle of the recreation room. Behind him patients played games, chess and checkers and cards and games that didn't really exist. He looked out the window. He watched the wind softly brush against the tree mere feet from that impenetrable pane of glass. The leaves swayed and rustled noiselessly. He saw the barbed wire fence standing tall in the distance. Through the tangled wire was New York City. Towering buildings, bustling shoppers, restaurants, the homeless, the opera, the subway.
Reverend Jim let the sigh slip out between his teeth. He suddenly felt cold and brittle. He glanced at the empty chair beside him—Louie's chair. He felt words bubbling up in the back of his throat like bile, all wanting to spout forth at the same time, melding and shifting until they were no longer legible as language. He threw up the mess on the table before him and the sick yellow, red, and green splatter spread itself across the surface. It thinned and ran in streams, dribbling to the floor.
He couldn't understand what it was trying to tell him.
A nurse and one of the aides rushed over to him and moved him away, leading him to the door, as the janitor rolled his eyes and dragged his mop and bucket to the table. They took him into the bathroom and washed his face with a coarse cloth, soap, and warm water. Then the nurse left to resume her duties and the aide escorted him back to his room.
"You need anything, bud?" The brawny, dark-skinned man asked as Jim settled himself on the edge of his cot.
"I need..."
There was a pregnant pause. The aide stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed.
"I don't know what I need," Jim admitted finally. The aide looked at him sadly.
"I'm sorry, man."
The door closed and locked. Jim sat on his bed, his hands in his lap.
"I don't know what I need..." He said quietly.
He reached two fingers into his sock, pulled out the envelope, and swallowed the last two pills.
Author's Note:
Well I'm sure this scenario has crossed the minds of ever person who has seen both Taxi and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and made the connection that Christopher Lloyd (Iggy/Taber) and Danny DeVito (Louie/Martini) are in both. I don't know if this story qualifies as a crossover, but it's definitely blurring the lines between them. Particularly since I had the stupid idea to stick Billy Bibbit in this story. Also, the presence of Dr. Quinzel is a reference to Harley Quinn, the Joker's henchwoman. I thought that considering that OFOtCN had both The Joker and Oswald Cobblepot, some Batman references were acceptable. I don't know. Maybe I was mistaken.
My apologies for killing off Judy, by-the-way. I'm a terrible person.