The clicking of a typewriter. He listens closely to it, picking up the beginning of the memory and untangling it from the skein, following with his fingers and then his hands. The tapping of a song he heard once, or maybe one all in his head. He constructs the image of a night lit well and blue, gravel crunching underfoot as they ran across rooftops, the patter and footfalls shaping the tune he improvises as they sprint, but before he can remember where they were running to, or maybe even who they were, or even more maybe if they ever existed, the thread runs out, and The Good Doctor calls out to him.
"Excuse me," says The Good Doctor awkwardly. 'Excuse me' is not the proper thing to say, and The Good Doctor knows it. However, they refuse to accept his name as anything but a continuation of his fantasies, and they cannot use the usual attention gaining phrases like "Hey you!", because they are too alarming and condescending to the delicate constitutions of the patients. These psychotherapy types are so easy to analyze.
"I'm sorry," he says and smiles. He tries to smile as much as possible in here, because it makes the scars look worse, and the beautiful nurses take pity on his damaged and charismatic soul, and treat him almost close to nicely. "I was distracted by the typewriter."
The Good Doctor makes a concerned face. "Typewriter?"
He keeps smiling, even though inside he wants to smack himself in the head with a two-by-four. Of course there isn't a typewriter; you're crazy, remember? And this is a hospital for crazy people. Here they can rebuild him; they can make him better. Stronger. Faster than he was before.
Oh well, he can still see some use to be gained from the situation, and he has never been one to miss the beat. "What?" he asks innocently.
"You just said you were distracted by a typewriter."
"When?"
"Not thirty seconds ago."
"I most certainly did not," he huffs. He points two fingers at the doctor and shakes them, puts on his most indignant tone. "I came to this hospital to get better, not to be charged with such wild and humiliating accusations!" He licks his lips. "Frankly sir," he says, and lets the pause hang here dramatically, "I am deeply offended. I have half a mind to pack my things and leave this very instant." Another pause. He leans back in his folding chair and folds his arms. "And don't expect that you'll get a good review."
The Good Doctor stares at him intensely for some moments. "I'm sorry," he says slowly. He looks down at his legal pad and scratches something, looks back up at him, scratches some more, shakes his head. The Good Doctor is balding, wears thick glasses, and from the look of his skin, never leaves the hospital while it's still light out.
Sometimes if he's very good, he can convince the nurses to take him to the dayroom, which has a view of the parking lot, and he watches The Good Doctor arrive and leave. He drives a Honda. Every day he parks in the same spot. He wears his lab coat all the time.
"Dr. Lehman," says a nurse as she pokes her head through the door, "the session is over." She smiles at the patient, and he peeks out from under his brow and smiles back sheepishly. The Good Doctor rises from his chair, adjusts his coat, and turns to the door. "Yes, well," he stalls, "you've made very good progress today. I will see you again in two days." He nods, and hurries out the door.
The nurse creeps in, un-straps his wrists from the white metal chair, and helps ease him up. He finds it harder to get around these days, with the dizziness and tingling of the drugs they pump into him. Not to mention, two weeks ago he got flipped over in a truck. He thinks.
"There, there," coos the nurse as she supports his arm. Together they shuffle to the door and down the hallway, his soft slippers and her canvas house shoes making little more noise than a courteous mouse. Once they are back in his room, the nurse lays him onto the bed, removes his slippers, and attaches his soft restraints to the handrails. Then, almost apologetically, she attaches the handcuffs. She flitters about the room, readying his next dose of medication. Through the wall, he can hear the ravaged ragged breathing of one Jonathon Crane, suffering through another round of nightmares. He finds the irony of a nightmare beset Crane too be one of those things too perfect for words, and in any other setting it would keep him in giggles for hours, but here, right now, the nurse is ready with the candy, and he does not want to scare her and jeopardize the one thing that keeps him (ha ha) sane.
She asks if there is anything she can get him. A glass of water. Anything.
He says no, smiles, and she smiles back. She shuts the light. She leaves. And he is still smiling. He falls asleep smiling.
He knows that his dreams will be clear.
