“I don’t know. I may never be chilling again.”
“Did you almost kill yourself to get in here?” Aaron asks. “That’s what Nia told me.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t capable of dealing with the real world.”
“Craig, don’t kill yourself, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“Just. . . don’t.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ll see you soon, man.”
Aaron turns and the nurses open the door for him. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just someone who hasn’t had his stay on Six North yet. I take the record to Smitty to store behind the nurses’ station.
forty-six
Six North doesn’t need a PA system, because of President Armelio, but it does have one, used regularly for the simple and rhythmic messages of “Lunch is served,” “Medication,” and “All smokers to the smoking lounge; smokers, get your smokes.” This afternoon it pipes up with a longer message, courtesy of Monica.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon our patient Craig Gilner, who is leaving tomorrow, is going to be drawing his artwork for everyone on the floor. If you’d like your own personal piece of Craig’s art, come to the end of the hallway by the dining room. End of the dining-room hallway, five minutes. Have fun!”
I sit down in the backmost chair, by the window that peers out over the avenue that crosses the street I live on, so close to my real life. I look over at my conference chair where I meet with my parents and Noelle. I have a second chair set up in front of me as an art desk, with stacks of board games on it and a chessboard on top. It’s a little flimsy, but it’ll do.
President Armelio is first to approach. He strides up, barrel-chested and sure of himself, like a torpedo.
“Hey, buddy, this is great! You gonna make me one of your heads with the maps inside?”
“That’s right.”
“Well let’s go, buddy. I ain’t got all day!”
Right. Armelio is going to have to be done fast because he is fast. I sketch the outline of his head and shoulders without a second thought and start in on his brain map. Highways, that’s what Armelio has in his head—six-lane highways running parallel, streaking through a city, with purpose and minimal on-ramps. He doesn’t have any quiet little streets or parks; it’s highways and a grid, and no rivers either. The highways hardly even connect because Armelio doesn’t mix up his thoughts; he has one and does it and then he moves on to the next. It’s a great way to live. Especially when the biggest thought is wanting to play cards. Cards have to be represented in Armelio’s brain somewhere. So I sketch some streets into an ace of spades right in the middle—it’s not a great ace of spades, but Armelio gets it.
“Spades! Buddy, I crush you in spades.”
I put my initials on it, big and bold, “CG” like “computer-generated.”
“I’m gonna keep this, for real,” Armelio says. “You a good guy, Craig.” He shakes my hand. “You want my number for when you go?”
“Sure.” I take out a piece of paper.
“It’s an adult home,” Armelio says. “You’re gonna have to ask for Spyros, which is my other name.” He gives me the number and moves aside, and there’s Ebony, with her cane and her velvet pants, smacking her lips.
“I heard . . . that you were making your brains for people,” she says.
“That’s right! And you know who the first person who said they were brains was?”
“Me!”
“Absolutely. Now, look” —I gesture at my stack of work on the floor—“now I’ve got all this.”
“So I get paid, right?” Ebony laughs.
“Not quite; I haven’t really made it yet. As an artist.”
“I know. It’s tough.”
“So you just get a brain map for yourself, okay?”
“Good!”
I trace her head freehand, looking at her, not the paper. I look down and it’s pretty good. Ebony’s brain . . . what’s in there? A lot of circles, for all the buttons she stole. She was a nut with those buttons. Didn’t mess around. Quite a schemer. And with all of her gambling skill, she needs to have a Strip, like Vegas. So I get a big boulevard in the middle and lots of traffic circles around it, with circular parks, circular malls, little circle lakes. It comes out looking less like a city and more like a necklace with a central band and tons of bunched-up jewels hanging off.
“It’s pretty!” she says.
“And you’re done.” I hand it to her.
“You like doing these, huh?”
“Yeah. It helps, you know . . . with my depression. I came in here with depression.”
“Imagine having depression when you were eleven years old,” Ebony says. “If all my children were in this hall, this hall would be full up, I tell you.”
“You have kids?” I ask, keeping my voice down.
“I had thirteen miscarriages,” she says. “Imagine that.” And she looks at me without any of the humor or attitude that she usually puts on, just with big wide eyes and empty questions.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“I know. I know you are. That’s the thing.”
Ebony shuffles away showing off her portrait (“That’s me! See? Me!”); she doesn’t leave a phone number. Humble is next.
“All right, man, what kinda scam you got going on here?”
“It’s nothing.” I start in on Humble’s bald head. Bald heads are easy. You know, if I had to right now, I think I could handle the lower tip of Manhattan. I look at Humble. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Make me look good, all right?”
I laugh. Inside Humble’s head is industrial chaos.
I don’t make any small blocks, just big ones—the kind of blocks where you’d find lumber shops and factories and bars where Humble would hang out at and work. I put the ocean in there, to represent his hometown, Bensonhurst, which borders the ocean, where he hooked up with all those girls way back when. Then I splash it with highways, erasing the streets and putting them over the top, throwing in crazy interchanges for no reason, making the whole thing look violent and random, but also powerful and true—the kind of mind that could come up with some great stuff if you harnessed it right. When I’m done, I look up.
“I guess it’s okay.” He shrugs.
I chuckle. “Thanks, Humble.”
“I want you to remember me,” he says. “No joke. When you’re a big-time artist or whatever, you gotta invite me to one of the parties.”
“It’s a deal,” I say. “But how am I going to be in touch?”
“Oh, right—I got a number!” Humble says. “I’m gonna be staying in Seaside Paradise; it’s the same home that Armelio is going to, but I’m going to be on a different floor.” He gives me the number; I put it on the same sheet as Armelio’s.
“You’re not gonna be in touch,” Humble says.
“I will,” I say.
“No you won’t; I can tell. But it’s okay. You have a lot going for you. Just don’t burn out again.”
We shake hands. Up next is Noelle.
“Hey, girl!”
“Don’t you dare start calling me that. This is very nice of you to do.”
“Least I could do. They’re all such cool people.”
“You’re like a celebrity now. Everyone wants to know if I’m your girlfriend.”
“And what do you tell them?”
“‘No!’ And then I walk away.”
“Good call.”
“So what are you trying to pull? You already made one of these for me. You just said it wasn’t finished.”
I pull out the one I made for her, with the guy and girl connected by the bridge, and write my phone number on the back of it.