insanityThe college vice president of customer satisfaction went on into his suite of offices, I to my office cubicle. Another colleague of mine, a psychology teacher, had left a note on my desk. Dr. Meyer wanted to show me something. I walked down to Meyer's cubicle.
"What's up?" I asked.
He put his index finger to his lips. Shh, don't tell anybody. I nodded okay. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and pointed to something in it. I looked. It was a thick lead pipe about twelve inches long. One end had been wrapped in duct tape to make a grip. Dr. Meyer picked it up in his right hand, swung it loosely by the wrist, and plopped its lead bare end into the open palm of his left hand several times to demonstrate its obvious heft. Then he handed it to me. It was much heavier than I expected.
"I keep it in my desk," Meyer smiled, "just in case."
I looked at him.
"Join the real world," he said.
I played with it a few seconds, as Meyer had done, letting its weight fall into the palm of my hand. Plop. It would do some real damage to a man's head, no question. Plop. I laid it gently back down in the drawer of Meyer's desk.
"I had it in my hand and was just about to walk over and cold cock the bastard when he took off," Meyer told me. "Too bad. Clubbing that sorry son of a bitch in the head would've given me extreme pleasure, believe me!"
I laughed.
At what, I wasn't sure. I detest violence.
I told my wife what had happened when I got home from work that afternoon. We discussed the possible consequences. Five years earlier another student, a woman also schizophrenic, had called my home so often we had to have our number unlisted. So if Wyatt did want to harass me—or worse—at home he couldn't simply look up my address in the phone book, and the college would release neither my number nor my address without my permission. Still, I knew Wyatt was intelligent. My home address was included in a wide variety of public documents readily accessible even to an untrained researcher who had will enough and time. Would Wyatt track me down and attack me and my family at home? My wife and I were the parents of two young children. Perhaps Ruth and our son and daughter should stay with relatives or close friends until Wyatt had been located and his intentions were clear. We seriously considered it. But we also resisted capitulating to the disruption this one mad man was forcing upon our lives. I hardly the knew the person. I had almost no experience with the mentally ill. This reaction to a grade—and not to an F but to a C—was absurd. It was, well, insane! My wife and I alternated between momentary alarm, deep concern, spasmodic efforts at objective, rational analysis, and the fitful, uneasy laughter of anxiety. We wanted, of course, to believe that it would all very soon dissolve into absolutely nothing.
"Oops! I'm sorry I got so mad about my grade and flew off the handle, Mr. Skank."
............................................
INSANITY to be continued
"What's up?" I asked.
He put his index finger to his lips. Shh, don't tell anybody. I nodded okay. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and pointed to something in it. I looked. It was a thick lead pipe about twelve inches long. One end had been wrapped in duct tape to make a grip. Dr. Meyer picked it up in his right hand, swung it loosely by the wrist, and plopped its lead bare end into the open palm of his left hand several times to demonstrate its obvious heft. Then he handed it to me. It was much heavier than I expected.
"I keep it in my desk," Meyer smiled, "just in case."
I looked at him.
"Join the real world," he said.
I played with it a few seconds, as Meyer had done, letting its weight fall into the palm of my hand. Plop. It would do some real damage to a man's head, no question. Plop. I laid it gently back down in the drawer of Meyer's desk.
"I had it in my hand and was just about to walk over and cold cock the bastard when he took off," Meyer told me. "Too bad. Clubbing that sorry son of a bitch in the head would've given me extreme pleasure, believe me!"
I laughed.
At what, I wasn't sure. I detest violence.
I told my wife what had happened when I got home from work that afternoon. We discussed the possible consequences. Five years earlier another student, a woman also schizophrenic, had called my home so often we had to have our number unlisted. So if Wyatt did want to harass me—or worse—at home he couldn't simply look up my address in the phone book, and the college would release neither my number nor my address without my permission. Still, I knew Wyatt was intelligent. My home address was included in a wide variety of public documents readily accessible even to an untrained researcher who had will enough and time. Would Wyatt track me down and attack me and my family at home? My wife and I were the parents of two young children. Perhaps Ruth and our son and daughter should stay with relatives or close friends until Wyatt had been located and his intentions were clear. We seriously considered it. But we also resisted capitulating to the disruption this one mad man was forcing upon our lives. I hardly the knew the person. I had almost no experience with the mentally ill. This reaction to a grade—and not to an F but to a C—was absurd. It was, well, insane! My wife and I alternated between momentary alarm, deep concern, spasmodic efforts at objective, rational analysis, and the fitful, uneasy laughter of anxiety. We wanted, of course, to believe that it would all very soon dissolve into absolutely nothing.
"Oops! I'm sorry I got so mad about my grade and flew off the handle, Mr. Skank."
............................................
INSANITY to be continued
