Same Shit - Different Job

What should an old spiteful bar manager do when he is finally fed up with all the crap? When he is tired of putting on fake smiles, listening to the punter’s same old whining and serving happiness by the fluid oz.? (Some people say you cant buy happiness for money. They are insane, of course. As we all know, money CAN buy happiness. Its what they were invented for, for fuck’s sake! You want proof? Just ask for a receipt next time you buy something). What could this old barman, who has viewed life from this side of the bar and become an expert in human behavior, possibly do now? I mean, listening to your crap is what I do best. I wish there was a way to charge you more for that, and also be able to tell you that there is something wrong with you… Hang on… I could become a psychotherapist!

True story…

Not too long ago, I decided to hang up whatever it is a bar manager hangs up when he is done with his shit. I went back to school and started my journey towards that diploma. A diploma that certifies me to call you an idiot and lock you up if need be…

I also took the opportunity to get an employment at a psychiatric ward. One of those locked wards where the criminally insane serve their sentences. I found out two things about this job that kind of surprised me:

1)People are people.

You can actually speak to a deeply psychotic person as if he was any guy on the street, provided you don’t expect too much of a reply. Which means that this job doesn’t exactly differ that much from bartending. Hence, I rule at my new job.

2)Insane is insane.

I used to have a pretty clear picture of what that meant. We all do. You know; the guy on the underground platform, singing and praising the Lord while wearing his grandmothers underwear on his head, reeking of  excrement. Or; the old lady muttering obscenities under her breath, boiling bread and living with 56 rabid cats. Right? Ok, so may be. But the people they lock up here are made of a completely different material. You don’t know insane until you swing by my ward… These people are bloody bonkers.

So, stepping into this new world of insanity, to learn about their illnesses and behaviors, made me slightly uncomfortable. I was constantly afraid I would trigger a maniac by saying the wrong thing:

“So, Mr. Smith, I see you wear a crucifix around your neck. I take it you believe in God?”

“God? GOD??! I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT GOD! I AM THE LORD! STAND BACK AND WATCH, YOU GODLESS UNBELIEVER!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

“Would you like some more fava beans with your liver, Mr. Smith?”

“Would I? T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t!!!” (best pronounced while breathing in for maximum Hannibal Lecter effect)

You get the picture. I started out by just watching. I didn’t wanna be in anybody’s way. Instead I found my own ways to stay away from the worst fuckheads (on about an extended arm’s + fist’s length). With time, I came to conclusion no1, as seen above; People are people. Most of them are just like you and me, only fucking insane.

We have them all: The maniacs, the paranoids, the schizophrenics, the rotomanics, the borderline-cases, the split personality cases and so on… The place looks more and more like the bar I used to work in.

One of my favorites is actually under the absolute conviction that he is the actual King of China. He is also a Gold-Ninja (whatever the fuck that is), a Texas Ranger and a trillionaire (unfortunately, his money are all in 747:s standing on Beijing airport, so he cant “show me the money”). He speaks make believe Chinese (“Chow mein lo Taipei Beijing dim sum!!!”) and pardons the staff for their cruelties against his royal person.

Although most of the patients each have a particular quirk that I would be more than happy to elaborate in lengths, I think it could be considered out of order. Against proper ethics and all that. Hmmm... who the fuck am I kidding? I can go on for a bit longer.

When I first met… let’s call him John, I thought, “I cant believe you caught a specimen like this alive!” He is out of this world. He is 61 now, but has been in every institution and mental hospital you can think of. What he's here for? He murdered his mother, and kept her on a kitchen chair in his apartment for 3 weeks, feeding her and talking to her. And you thought Norman Bates was bloody nuts... Every day he is fed altogether 27 (!) different pills to stay on a level where he is actually able to function within reason. Still, the old Bozo is able to start a fight in an empty room. He is the stereotype of all that is insane. A bona fide madman in his prime. Violent, animated and with that crazy stare that could shoot a fly dead from a thousand miles. From time to time, John is “bad”. Bad in the sense that he’s lashing out, or being aggressive and threatening or just being loud and obnoxious. At those times, John is confined to his room and kept under close watch. Close watch means that someone, preferably the new guy, has to sit and watch him for a couple of hours in his room. With the door closed. Nice. I was the new guy a lot. I almost pissed my pants more than once.

Even though I, through trial-and-error, have found ways to calm him down, during the hours we spend in isolation, he can still all of a sudden stand up from his bed and shout out, “Achtung!!! Heil Hitler! Die Deutsche Musketieren blah blah blah!!!” Pupils wider than I thought was humanly possible. Red face. Adrenaline shaking his body. Understanding, of course, that the man is very excited about whatever it is he feels the need to convey to me, I still have to ask him to calm down and please perhaps tell me of the first car he ever owned. And lo and behold; he shuts up, sits himself down, and speaks in a calm reasonable voice about his first car, like he was having tea with the Queen.

That fucking freaks me out! Be upset all you want, but the 180 turn is freaky.

I remember one time when John refused to take his medicine. In cases like that, the patient is kindly offered an injection of the medicine instead, as a hell of a cocktail (again I’m haunted by my past), and normally, John agrees to this, but not this time. The atmosphere thickened. My colleagues started warming up for a big fight. Knuckles were cracked, and sharp objects were relocated elsewhere. The nurse shivered. “Call for backup”, she whispered to me.

“Call for what?” I said, “Let me talk to him. I’ll make him understand the consequences if he doesn’t take the shot.”

She chuckled through her strained grin. “No, don’t bother, just call the ward above and ask them to send down a couple of guys.”

So, I did. There are now five of us. Big guys. We go into his room and ask him if he has reconsidered. No. He hasn’t. Following standard protocol, we throw ourselves over him and pin him down on his bed. OK, John doesn’t give up that easily. He fights for his bloody life. Someone sets off the alarm and we get like 10 more guys to back us up. Still, John is putting up great resistance. He’s throwing us around like we were ants off an elephant’s back. I’ve never seen anything like it. The nurse gives him five shots of sedatives once John is restrained. Any single one of those shots would put a horse to bed. At least we bagged him in the end. “Set’em up Joe” has become “Tie’em up Joe”. I wish we could have done this at the bar sometimes.

I admire the people that manage to stay in this profession for any length of time. I know I won’t be able to. I’ll hang on long enough to make the cash and credits I need to get through medical school. Once I get that diploma I can fulfill my dream: To call you all fucking idiots and demented sick bastards. But this time I can charge you for it. And be unquestionably right about it too.

You fucking idiots… I can’t wait.

Joe

Joe was one of our more popular DRS writers, the angry bartender, whose career was sadly cut short by a sudden change of trade.

Now he's back to tell the tale.