He wrote everything down, he sometimes worried that his clients might think that he was ignoring them…or worse. But he didn’t stop. He wrote everything down. He had to get what they said on paper, because otherwise the wonder of what they said would be lost.
This is what he told himself.
The truth is…he wrote it down to keep the first floor in the right part of the building.
What is the date today? Who is the president? What is the name of this place? What floor are we on?
Because the truth is…how did he know? How did he know that the 40 year old man sitting across from him didn’t have a radio transistor implanted in his teeth when he was in high school? Why else would he be hearing a radio station tuning in and out constantly for the past 23 years? The drugs used to help, but they took those away and gave him some that don’t do anything at all (go ask Alice 1967). The nicotine helps. Loud music from a different radio station helps. Pliers would be the ultimate solution, but that would be painful and make an awful mess. And how would he chew adobo? Or nicotine gum?
“The date is February 20, 2015. What a stupid question. What else would the date fucking be? Did you invent a goddam time machine? That’s not even fucking possible man. Time is not fucking linear man. You can’t go forward and backward like youre on a people mover. Like at the airport. Like at the fucking vegas airport where celebs like liberace used to say “please stand to the right so people can pass to the left” he was a faggot you know thats ok live and let live but he could playthatfuckingpianomanthatsgoddamtrue”
How could he know what was true or not? Didn’t his Mom and Dad tell him to always tell the truth? How can you know what’s true or not? Weird stuff happens everyday. He was trained in social work school to listen without judgement. To filter out the truth from the…what? Lies? Delusions? Satanic influences? What else could it be? What else would cause a woman to say that her uncle put her in the oven when she was four. Four hours at 425 degrees. And yet nobody believes this but she survived. When she left the oven she was so hot that she went outside to cover herself with snow. She might have died, but she was rescued by a lion who had escaped from the Bronx Zoo. I’m not lying, look it up. They caught the lion and took the lion and the little girl back to the zoo because she was so brown from being cooked in the oven that they thought she was the lion’s little baby. Why don’t you believe me? Oh you do believe me? Well we’re going to get along just fine.
“The president’s name is Seamus Cigar O’Brien. But he’s black. Well half black. But he was born in Kenya I don’t care what anybody says why else would he have an Irish name?”
He looks at the bespectacled man in his late 30s. Except for the Minions t-shirt he could be his tax accountant. Yes, Mr. Boy, you can file as “single” even though you’re technically only separated. He functions quite well despite the color commentary that constantly runs through his head. Like a Director’s Commentary on the Special Edition DVD. “The social worker is played by David Buckler. He’s great in this scene. I told him to write shit down constantly. Obsessively. I didn’t get a look at the page after he was done but I’m sure it looked amazing. Like the scribblings of an insane monk. Like Rasputin. He was crazy. Oh…that’s not a good word to use if we’re making a flick about mental illness. OK. He was mentally ill.”
“What floor are we on? Oh. What floor are we on?” He looks out the window to the street. “The first floor. Is there a second floor?”
Yes, he tells the client, but it’s only offices. We keep all the activities on the first floor. We keep everything important on the first floor. The first floor.
He keeps writing. He writes everything down. He writes everything down to keep everything where it belongs. The voices in his head tell him to.