R. D. Laing
Santos Arruda is a schizophrenic with amazing abilities.
He causes lights to black out, batteries to discharge and everything around him to vibrate.
Oh, and he texts Tom Cruise daily tapping with his right index finger in the palm of his left hand. And you know what's really crazy? Tom Cruise texts him back.
Just a few minutes ago, he told me all hell was going to bust loose in the psych ward. And it did.
I was so stunned I had to get out of there and clear my mind.
Back in my office, I’m still trying to piece together what happened. I pick up his file and begin to read:
Arrested for illegal possession of cannabis and cocaine—charged with vagrancy. Referred for psychiatric assessment and formed. Detained 72 hours and then admitted to facility suffering from paranoid schizophrenia with delusions of grandeur.
Nothing unusual about his background or assessment. Being treated with Risperedal—an anti-psychotic—listed as cooperative.
But it’s what the file doesn’t state that bothers me—Santos Arruda is a most peculiar man—someone I need to know and study more closely.
I’m back at nine the following morning and Santos is sitting where he was the day before, texting.
“How are you today, Santos?”
He looks up and smiles. “I’m fine, but I see a fog in here today.”
He balls a piece of paper and tosses it toward the plastic wastebasket. It misses.
He looks at me. “See? —Interference.”
I nod. I don’t see, at least, I don’t see what he sees, but I reserve judgment.
“You see that girl?” He nods in the direction of a young depressive, with unkempt hair.
I nod again.
“You see the shadow people around her?”
I look closely, but see nothing but a morose girl staring off into space.
“No, I don’t. What do they look like Santos?”
“They don’t have faces or features—they’re just kind of like outlines—black entities around her.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s not good.”
I figure it's best to go along with him to see where this is heading.
“How can I help her?”
“You can’t do much. I can fly into her room tonight while she’s sleeping and steal her thoughts—that’ll help.”
“How do you do that?”
“Like I said, I’m a Scientologist. We can do psychic stuff. I’m not at the level of Tom Cruise—I haven’t been to the ship and taken the advanced courses. Wish I could afford that.”
I smile inwardly.
I figure ole’ Ron’s ship is anchored out there, just beyond the ten mile limit to escape paying income taxes.
Santos thinks it’s a retreat for learning high level psychic arts. Who’s to say? —A lot of rich and famous pay their money and believe like him.
“You need to watch her,” he says and nods toward the girl.
I tell him I will and continue on my rounds.
I wonder about Santos, but figure he’ll eventually be released—probably in another two months.
He’ll either rent a room or head back to the streets—and then, be arrested again for drugs and most likely end up back here.
It seems sad, but that’s the treadmill he’s on.
Just past three o’clock they announce code yellow—missing patient. The facility goes into lockdown.
I hear from Marsha it’s Sarah Firestone, the young depressive girl I saw in the psychiatric ward.
Every storage room and closet is being searched—security’s reviewing the videotapes from the closed circuit cameras.
I go to see Santos—he’s sitting there, tapping, presumably texting Tom.
“Santos—can you help me?”
“Sure, Doctor Reimer. You want to know about Sarah?”
I nod.
“She’s depressed, but still alive.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She’s not here—in the hospital, I mean.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?”
“She walked down to the lake. She’s planning to walk out and drown.”
“What part of the lake, Santos?”
“Near the pier. There’s a bend there—some long grass—it’s pretty secluded.”
“I know it.”
I grab two security guards and we exit the hospital and drive the quarter mile to the lake.
We spot her through some trees just going into the water. The guards are out the door and running across the rocky beach as fast as they can go.
I figure the water’s close to freezing and figure she’ll only last minutes at that temperature.
Fortunately, they manage to grab her, as she’s waist deep and just going under the waves.
I’m not a big ideas person—I’m no R. D. Laing, but I know what I observe. There’s something going on with Santos that defies the laws of psychiatry.
If I didn’t take him seriously, Sarah would be dead.
I don’t know how to write that up in the American Journal of Psychology, but there's wisdom written on the walls of madhouses or texted into palms by their inmates.
Maybe we should listen more and judge less.