The View from the Vue Read Online Free PDF Page A

delusions or hallucinations. He was oriented as to time and place, knew who the President was, could count backward from one hundred by sevens, and could correctly explain the meanings of different proverbs. The longer we spoke, the more convinced I became that because Mr. Washington was black and penniless, he had indeed been railroaded to The Vue. I began to feel angry. Finally, I could think of no further questions to ask him, so I thanked him and explained that I was going to present his case to the doctor in charge.
    Mr. Washington stood up and extended his hand, which I gripped. “Thank you very much, Dr. Karp,” he said. “I do trust that you will attempt to effect my prompt release from this unjustified confinement.”
    I assured him emphatically that I was firmly in his corner, proceeded directly to the chart rack, pulled out his chart, and read the police report from the cops who had brought him in. It said that he had been drunk and abusive, but made no mention of his set-to-with the gang of white youths. I ground my teeth loudly. Did they have to add falsification by omission to injustice?
    Leaving a cloud of smoke to mark my spot, I sought out Dr. Rothstein and poured out the story in a torrent. Dr. Rothstein stood there quietly throughout my performance. When I finished, he asked, “What did the admitting resident have to say about him?”
    I gulped. My righteous indignation had prevented me from looking past the police report. Together we went back to the chart rack and read the resident’s write-up. It was concise and to the point. It said that Mr. Washington had reeked of the demon rum and that he hadn’t been making much sense when he spoke. The resident’s diagnosis was: acute alcoholic psychosis.
    “That psych Admitting Office is a snakepit,” I said hastily. “Maybe the resident read the police report but didn’t have enough time to actually spend talking to Mr. Washington.”
    “That’s possible,” Dr. Rothstein said. “But I don’t think it’s very likely.”
    Neither did the rational part of my mind, but that entity had already been submerged in my emotions.
“You
come and talk to him,” I urged. “You’ll see he’s no more crazy than we are.”
    Dr. Rothstein smiled and followed me to Mr. Washington. He listened as the patient told his story again, and then we walked away together.
    “Well?” I asked as we moved out of earshot.
    “I think he ought to stay for observation for another day or two,” said Dr. Rothstein. He held up his hand to stop my howl of protest before it could start. “Tell you what,” he continued. “I’d like you to check up on him periodically during the day. Then tonight, before you go home, leave your phone number and tell them to call you if there’s any…change in his condition. Okay? Just be a little patient; I think you may learn something from this case.”
    Mr. Washington appeared to be fine all day, but when I stopped to say good-night to him, he seemed agitated. His hands shook as he tried to eat his dinner, and he couldn’t seem to sit still in his chair. I asked what was wrong.
    “If you were confined in a place like this,” said Mr. Washington, in a bass whine, “I assure you, you’d feel nervous too.”
    I tried to reassure him, and told him to hold out till morning, at which time I’d again attempt to have him released.
    At a quarter to one in the morning, my phone rang. The ward clerk told me to come right over, that Mr. Washington’s condition had definitely changed.
    My first reaction upon arriving at the ward was mixed disbelief and anger. Mr. Washington was strapped into a restraint bed, and he was struggling so fiercely that the whole apparatus was bouncing about on the floor. He was screaming unintelligible words and sentence fragments, and his finely measured speech had vanished. His vocabulary and dialect had become pure Bowery.
    I leaned over him. “Mr. Washington, Mr. Washington,” I shouted. “What’s the matter?