The Perfect Drug

Before I say another word... write another word, to be more accurate... I have to warn you that I am crazy. I don't mean to say that I'm completely, madly cackling, drooling, out of touch with reality, eating flies, crazy. Perhaps that occurs later down the road, or perhaps not. No, I mean to say that I know I'm not completely in touch with reality. I am very aware that I cannot be seeing some of the things I have seen. But... it's not just the things I've seen that lead me to believe I am crazy, but also the people I have met. I've gotten quite tired of trying to distinguish who is real, and who is not, and you would too if you ask person A if person B is real, only to wonder if person A is lying about person B because person A isn't real either. It gets old really quick.

It didn't start out that way, or the way certain people just lack that hold on what you would all consider reality. Not at all, for me, it started with a drug. I'm not much for pill-popping, other than the occasional Percodan, or Oxycodone, nothing much heavier than that. I'm your basic weed sort of guy, maybe a hit of acid, but I was leery about that, as it can cause trips, even long after you've stopped hitting it. I did try some Ex, you know, once or twice, and almost ended up going home with some girl I was head-over-heels about, saved by my friend, Nate, though I was furious with him at the time. This particular pill, though, was an exception, not even supposed to be available to the public, as it was in its testing phase, and doing so well. Apparently, according to Nate, who had snuck me out about ten of the little capsules to begin with, it was supposed to enhance the number of neurons that fired in the brain, jumpstarting synapses, that sort of thing. And it seemed to do just that, at first, anyway. After taking it, I felt more lucid, clear-headed, able to remember things better, make connections I never would've made otherwise.

It wasn't until later, about fifteen or sixteen doses later, that I had my first hallucination. I was on the subway, headed home from work, and there was a man just across from me. He was well dressed, suit, overcoat, tie, all that, but he had the head of a frog. It wasn't just a little odd-shaped... bear with me here... he literally had the head of a frog. It was greenish-gray, and his eyes... anyway, when he noticed how I kept looking over at him, he got defensive and started croaking at me, and I went and sat somewhere else where I didn't have to look at him. Thinking that maybe I'd just been working too hard, I went home and went to bed, taking another of those capsules. Even my dreams were lucid, so clear, and I remembered them upon waking, which I had never done before.

When I told Nate about the hallucination, he laughed so hard he fell out of his seat.

"You wouldn't have been laughing if you'd seen it yourself," I bristled at his laughter, "It was creepy as hell!"

"I'll bet you scared the shit out of Mr. Toad, too!" he continued to laugh.

It got worse, of course, because, while I supposed I could handle the sight of a man with a frog's head, birds yelling at me to get the fuck out of the way was even more bizarre, I shit you not! There's apparently no animal I've met that is surlier than a pigeon on a mission. I almost yelled at him to fuck off, and then caught myself. It seemed as if I'd been cast in the worst Disney movie ever made!

Luckily, I didn't have a girlfriend, or a wife, or anything like that. Otherwise, I might have some explaining to do about my sudden issues. Not that I couldn't get a girlfriend, mind you. I'm not a bad-looking guy. I'm about five-foot-nine, closer to five-ten, almost one hundred seventy pounds. I'm kinda pale, I guess, as I don't tan well. My hair is a light brown, and I keep it spiked up, a little longer in the front than the back, which is okay, because I don't deal with customers, so it's not a big deal. My eyes are so dark as to appear almost black, especially when compared to my pale skin. Nate says I look like one of those vampire guys in some teen drama, but I don't know, because I don't watch teen dramas. He's weird like that, I guess.

I happened to catch the news one night, in which Pharmcare, a major medical company, was the target of a major snafu involving a new drug being tested, in which the drug caused major mental problems in the test subjects. I was suddenly very concerned, and I quit taking the medicine Nate had given me. I confronted him about it the next day, but he'd already been worrying before that.

"What the fuck did you give me, man?" I demanded.

"Ah, fuck, man," he ran his hands through his short, curly hair, really doing no damage to it, "Did you stop taking it? Flush the rest of it down the toilet."

"Tell me!" I pushed him.

"Shit, man, it was supposed to be safe!" he threw his hands in the air, frightened and angry, but not more so than me.

"I've been seeing all kinds of shit!" I paced across his living room, "You don't even realize the shit I've been seeing, Nate!"

"You think I would've given you the damn pills if I had thought they were so dangerous? Fuck, man, they're auditing my department, looking for misplaced pills. I think they know some got taken, but not who took them."

"So what the hell am I supposed to do now? If I go see someone and tell them I've been taking some experimental pills, they'll sure as hell figure that out, and trace it back to you."

Nate sat with his head in his hands, "Shit, man, maybe they'll figure out how to reverse it or something. For the time being, you've just got to roll with it."

"Roll with it..." I exploded, "A pigeon fucking told me to get the fuck out of the way, Nate! People have been saying all kinds of weird shit to me! Some guy at work told me that Mrs. Maple is the cause of the fall of the Third Reich, Nate! Who the fuck is Mrs. Maple?"

Nate shook his head, "Ah, fuck, man... I didn't know, man, I swear I didn't. Maybe it'll wear off when you stop taking it."

"It'd better, dude, cause I'm freaking out," I said, leaving.

If it had, then there would be no point talking (writing) about it, would there? No, it got worse.

"So, how long have you been having these hallucinations?" Dr. Suttelmyre looked up from a yellow pad, his green-and-gold Montblanc pen ready to write.

"It's been about a month," I fidgeted, "And it's been getting pretty bad."

"Tell me about it," he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.

I sighed, "Yesterday, I got into an elevator with this guy. Out of nowhere, the man begins singing some show tune or something, dancing to it, and then walks right through the door."

"He sang and danced, and then walked out of the elevator?"

"No, he sang and danced, and then walked through a closed elevator door, while the elevator was still moving," I elaborated.

"That must've been quite distressing," Dr. Suttelmyre arched a bushy eyebrow.

"Ha! After I got off the elevator, I saw a cockroach the size of my fist. It was making racecar noises as it streaked down the hall. Somehow, I found that one a bit more distressing."

I watched him jot something down on his pad, and then he looked up and asked, "So far, nothing you've hallucinated has shown any malevolent intent, tried to convince you to do bad things?"

"Nothing like that, not yet, anyway," I shook my head, "What the hell am I supposed to do, doc? I can't keep functioning at my job if this keeps happening."

He adjusted his sombrero, pulling the little strap tighter on his chin, "That's for damn sure, you crazy bastard!"

I realized that he wasn't real, and I was sitting in my apartment, talking to someone who wasn't there. Fuck.

It got worse for Nate, too. They suspected someone in his department of stealing the defective drug, and, though they hadn't pinned it on him, they suspected him. So far, however, they had no real evidence that he had done it, so he was still okay, he hoped.

"I was careful as hell," he insisted, "I got ahold of the stuff before they had finished inventorying it, so they know some is missing, but not really from where, exactly. Listen, you should make yourself scarce for a while. If they get ahold of you, they'll figure out that you've been taking it, and they'll trace it back to me."

I got pretty pissed off, but he had a point. Never mind that he was mostly preoccupied with keeping his own ass out of the fire, not so much with my problems. I took the subway home, ignoring anyone who talked to me, including a rat who was asking for a cigarette. I just shook my head and got on the car. I don't smoke cigarettes, anyway.

When I got home, Dr. Suttelmyre was waiting for me.

"You're late for your nine o'clock appointment," he clucked his tongue, appearing very irritated.

"Yeah, I never scheduled a nine o'clock," I replied, locking my door and tossing my jacket up on the hook, "Oh, yeah, and, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're not real."

"Maybe you'd like to sit down so we can discuss this."

"So I should discuss the fact that I'm sitting here discussing it with a man who doesn't exist? How exactly is that supposed to help me?"

"Well, if I'm not real, then where did I get this cool tie?" he showed me his tie, on which Daffy Duck stood front and center, his beak on the top of his head, looking quite angry.

"That's my tie," I frowned, "Why the hell are you wearing it?"

"It looks better on me, I think," he chuckled at it before tucking it back in his jacket, "It works great on setting patients at ease, you know."

"What patients?" I snapped, "A doctor who doesn't exist can't have patients!"

"I can if my patients don't exist either," he wiggled his eyebrows comically, "And, speaking of, how do you know you exist?"

Not having a solid answer for that, I picked up my television remote and tossed it to him. He caught it, and my jaw dropped.

"Great trick, huh?" he grinned, and pointed the remote at me, "Look again."

I looked at the coffee table I had picked the remote up from, and there it was, exactly where it had been before I... thought... I had picked it up.

"Thank you very much, I'm here all week," he announced.

"I'm fucked," I blinked, dazed.

"You think you're fucked now, just wait 'til you get my bill!"

I looked up from the table, and he was gone.

I did end up losing my job, which seemed inevitable, but it could've been worse. Anyway, Mr. Durkin, my supervisor called me at my desk and informed me that he wished to see me in his office. I got up, skirted a guy who was head-banging to music only he could hear... pretty sure he wasn't real, but I couldn't tell... and went to Mr. Durkin's office. He asked me to sit down, and I did, looking at pictures he had of his grandchildren, and a decent looking daughter.

"It has come to my attention that you might be having some troubles," he began, "Is there anything going on that I should be made aware of?"

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at one of the grandchildren, a little boy, in one of the pictures. Hey, he started it!

"No," I lied, "I don't think so, anyway."

"Well, some of your coworkers seem to think otherwise. You have been seen arguing with yourself, displaying signs that maybe you should seek help. One coworker says you've been ignoring him because you 'were sure he was not really there.' Do you recall this coworker?"

I shrugged, "I'm not sure what you mean," and then I looked down at the picture of Mr. Durkin's daughter, who was flashing her tits at me. They were nice, sure, but it wasn't the time to pay her any compliments.

"Are you even paying attention?" Mr. Durkin frowned, "I swear, it's as if you've suffered some sort of breakdown or something."

"Maybe I haven't been getting a lot of sleep," I sighed.

Of course not, not when Dr. Suttelmyre, my non-existent psychiatrist, made constant house calls at four in the morning!

"Because your coworkers are concerned for their safety, and because I'm become quite concerned as well," Mr. Durkin did appear quite worried, "I'd like you to submit to a random drug test."

"Drug test?" I laughed, "What are you getting at, Mr. Durkin? I'm pretty offended that you would even suggest such a thing to me! I have been an employee here for three years, and I've called in sick twice... Twice! I've put in long hours, worked weekends on several occasions, and I get a little preoccupied, and you suggest a drug test?"

"I wouldn't call your actions over the past few weeks just being preoccupied."

"Oh, so you're a doctor, now?"

"And the drug test? That's not a suggestion. You will submit to a drug test, or you will resign your position in this company."

"This is bullshit!" I slapped the desk, making him jump in fear, "I'm sure as hell not submitting to a drug test, that's for sure. If this is how you treat your employees, then I want no part of it, so you can stick your drug test up your ass. I'm gonna call an attorney and see what he says about it. Oh, and by the way, your daughter's got some nice tits."

I walked out while he was still stunned to silence, and I glanced back to see him pick up the picture and look at it, uncomprehending.

I emptied out my desk, carrying my things out into the hall, ignoring Frannie, an overweight woman in a dark blue pantsuit that looked like it had been made from cheap bedspreads, as she asked me what had happened. I took the elevator down to the ground floor, walked out, and never went back. I never called an attorney as I had assured Mr. Durkin I would, as I couldn't afford one, anyway, not to mention, I'd never pass a drug test. Hell, I'd gone without weed for three months when I'd been searching for jobs just to pass the mandatory, pre-hiring drug test, and never again since then. Until I'd gone crazy, I'd never given Mr. Durkin or anyone else a reason to think anything might be wrong with me. I rode the subway home, purposely arguing with a bum who asked me if I'd seen who had won the World Series Poker Tournament last night, just so that the menacing looking Hispanic guy with the expansive tattoos would see me as more of a threat than himself, and leave me alone.

Once I was in my apartment, starting to worry about how I would make the rent payments and bills, Dr. Suttelmyre walked in and sat down, offering me a seat.

"Shit, doc," I hung my head in my hands, "Now's not a good time. In fact, never is a much better time for this. I'm really wishing I could go back to normal right now, and you're not helping one little bit."

"You are showing signs of psychosis, Steve," he replied evenly, "Basically, you are having trouble distinguishing what is real, and what is not. These hallucinations are just a symptom of your psychosis."

"What do you suggest I do, doc?" I sighed wearily.

"You should learn how to ballroom dance, take some crocheting lessons, and never eat pre-processed, double-pasteurized cheese product," was his deadpan answer.

I looked up, and he looked at me with utmost seriousness.

"I guess that's why you make the big bucks, right?" I grinned.

Returning the grin, he replied, "Right you are, Steve! Right as rain, right as light, one might say. Oh, and you should probably be committed, too, because you're pretty fucked in the head."

Following the non-existent doctor's advice, I took a little trip to Grant Valley, a psychiatric hospital downtown, and was granted a psychiatric evaluation. As I was escorted into the office, I was asked to wait by a nurse with short, blonde hair and an obvious eating disorder, anorexia, not overeating. I waited for almost ten minutes, and then Dr. Suttelmyre walked in like he owned the place.

"Well, it seems that you have taken my advice," he sat behind the desk.

"Not now," I replied quietly, "What the hell?"

"Well, you're here, aren't you? Why not jump into it right now?"

Before I could answer, another man walked in, this time using the door, which was heartening. I stood and shook his hand, and he sat down right where Suttelmyre was. I half-expected that he would find he was sitting in another man's lap, but Dr. Suttelmyre just vanished.

"I'm Dr. Henry Massinger. And you are?"

"I'm Steven Weston."

"Good, now, you are here for a psychiatric evaluation? And you are here voluntarily, no remanding by a judge?"

"I'm here of my own will, doctor. I'm having some problems... obviously, or else why would I be here?"

"Well, it's good to know that you understand you have a problem, anyhow. Let me get settled here, and then we'll begin."

The evaluation lasted for almost an hour, and I answered as honestly as possible, except that I did omit the source of this psychosis, if that's really what I was suffering from.

"And this... Dr. Suttelmyre, is it... yes, okay, he recommended that you see me?"

"Well, not exactly. He suggested that I have myself committed."

"Well, that's something new. But you know that he's not real..."

"Oh, I know it. I also know that a lot of the things that are happening to me are not real, but knowing it doesn't make it go away. I wish it would."

"Okay, I think that I have enough information for the time being. I will recommend that you check in as soon as possible, for observation, and only for a few weeks while we come to a more accurate determination of your illness, and then we might prescribe some medications to help combat these hallucinations. As you have lost your job, I will suggest that you speak to Valerie at the front desk about alternate methods of payment during your stay here."

I thanked the doctor, shook his hand once more, and left his office. At the front desk, Valerie, a no-nonsense, primly-dressed woman with dark brown hair pulled up in a severe bun, gray power-suit with a knee-length pencil skirt, and pleasant, if not slightly sharp facial features, had already gotten out the forms I needed, having been called by Dr. Massinger as soon as I left his office.

"Luckily, there are state-funding programs available to you," she spoke in a higher-pitched voice than I had expected, which, combined with her dainty, elfin physique, gave me the impression that she dressed the way she did to be taken more seriously than she usually was, "Unfortunately for you, unless you are declared sane, once you start one of those programs, the chances of you getting out anytime soon are much slimmer."

She handed me the forms, and I looked them over, feeling a little uneasy. What if I was approved for one of the programs, and stuck here for the rest of my life because the effects of the drug never wore off? Still, it's not like I would have anywhere else to go, with no job, and no job possibilities, what with the hallucinations. I would have to move out of my apartment, sell most my things...

"If I'm committed voluntarily, what sort of privileges would be available to me?" I asked.

"Voluntary commitment is a good start," she smiled, "As long as you are considered nonviolent, and obey the rules, you may be allowed to have a computer in your room, wear your own clothes, that sort of thing. As a patient, you are here to be treated and rendered a productive and upstanding member of society. The truly violent and criminally insane are houses in another institution entirely, away from the city, so this is just a place for people who need help, and, for the most part, want help."

"Do you really believe that?" I asked, "It seems like sort of a canned statement."

She blinked, surprised, and then confided in me, "Listen, as far as I can tell, everyone's crazy as bat-shit. But the majority of us keep it to ourselves, and can function in society without scaring the shit out of people."

I laughed, "That's much better. I like you, you're alright."

With a more genuine smile that softened her facial features further, the pixie in her shining out, she allowed, "You're not so bad, yourself, Mr. Weston. It's too bad I don't date patients."