Drunk Tank Pink

“He’s getting aggressive again.”

“Seriously? My God, what seems to be the issue now?”

He shrugged. He looked at the man, stout, tall, square – browed, chestnut eyes and hair, intently, examining each and every rugged and dismantled object thrown recklessly on his desk. Poor guy. He must have got his degree a couple of months ago, judging from the lopsided Certificate hanging on the wall.

“You’ve got a lot of getting used to around here, kid.” Maybe encouraging words will ease him, somehow. The guy (named James, printed in gold bold letters on the said Certificate) heaved a heavy sigh. Geez, he’s just trying to help the guy.

“Yea, you’re one to talk. You’ve got a taser. You can just what, blast them into space if they lay a hand on you. I can’t do that. I’m the one who gets blasted into space.” The cop snickered.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Psychologists don’t have it so easy. Especially ‘round here.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I like the job. The patients? Not so much.”

“Prisoners, you mean.” He must have felt smart, correcting a guy who busted his ass off to get his degree. James kept quiet.

“Well, there’s nothing much I can do now. I’m at a loss.”

“You can’t blame them. The guy’s got some pent-up rage, I suppose.”

James looked bewildered. “Pent – up rage? The guy’s a nutcase. According to his file –

He opened his drawer, files upon files stacked like a Jenga game. One small mistake and everything comes crashing down. He sifted through them one by one, until his eyes glowed with a keen ‘aha!’ moment, yanking the file and opening it in front of him. The cop snuck a peep at the ‘confidential’ file.

That was him, alright. A big guy, muscles like missiles ready to fire at whatever obstruction blocked his path, with a ‘I love mum’ tatted on his forehead. Quite terrifying.

“He murdered 18 people. Seriously, every time I try to examine him, he just yaps about how much he ‘loves his mum.’ I hate it. I’ve had enough of Freud’s ‘Oedipus complex’ nonsense. I can’t believe it actually exists.”

The cop looked bewildered. “Excuse me?”

James stifled a laugh, for the cop actually looked terrified. “Well, basically, the founder of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud, came up with this Psychosexual theory that states during the ‘Genital Stage,’ boys going through adolescence start to become – ahem – sexually attracted to their mothers. Turns out this guy is still fixated in that stage.”

The cop looked stunned. So, James went through 3 years of hell for this crap? No wonder he doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

“Oh please, that is the least horrifying thing Freud came up with.”

“So… what you think he still wants to bang his mum?”

James coughed. The tension in the room was palpable.

“Well… judging from the fact that the guys who were murdered were all dating women that … oddly resemble his mother, I’d go on a hunch and say… most likely.”

“Huh.”

A pause. The tension built, like a Jenga puzzle, blocks of air stacked one against the other. Both coughed.

“So, what’s left to do now?”

“Let’s start by not showing him a picture of his mum, how about that?”

“No. I meant about the aggression.”

James drummed his hands on the desk, leaned back against his chair and sighed. “Leave it up to me, uh?” He paused, scrunched his eyebrows, looked at the cop for assistance.

“Ben. A pleasure.” A hand.

“James. Likewise.” Handshake.

Another pause.

Ben looked around. Amongst the pile of rubbish laying on James’ desk, he saw a book. A peculiar looking book, titled Drunk Tank Pink: And Other Unexpected Forces That Shape How We Think, Feel, and Behave. Ben picked it up.

“What’s this?”

James looked up from his very professional, elaborate work on the ‘stickman doodle.’ A prerequisite for the psychology course. He scoffed, and went back to his work.

“Oh, just a book on the deterministic theory. Like how the environment shapes who we are. It’s all on the nurture debate. At least, that’s what I assume it’s about from the title…”

“But why the colour pink? And why’s it called ‘drunk tank pink?’ What, it gets people shit – faced or something? Could use this pink shit.”

James laughed. Ben’s musings on this odd colour was somehow amusing to him.

“Yes, I think everyone in here could benefit from it. Myself included. Actually, in the early 1980s, psychologists daubed jail cells with drunk tank pink paint and discovered that the colour calmed aggressive prisoners.”

Ben gaped. He looked at the book. Then at James. Then looked at the open file. Then at the book. Then at James.

“So, you’re telling me that this… drunk pink can… calm down aggression?”

James stared back like a wide – eyed deer. For a psychologist, he sucks at putting two and two together. “Possibly. It’s all just speculation, though.”

Ben couldn’t believe this guy. The answer was literally right in front of him! Well, he’s sitting there drawing doodles. What could he possibly expect?

“Maybe, this could uh, solve the – I don’t know, I mean, supposedly, you’re the expert, but, maybe – it could help solve the aggression problem?”

James blinked. His head swivelled forward, like a deer caught in headlights. It hit him (the car, for he didn’t move out the way quickly enough). He scoffed.

“What, you want to paint the guy’s cell pink? Like that’s going to solve the problem? We’re talking about years of regressed trauma here. And you think some fucking – pink girly colour is going to just – what, make all that disappear? Go poof? Houdini? Just like that?”

Seems like Ben hit a nerve. He weighed the hefty book in his hands. Looked at it. Looked at James (who, looked as if steam was coming out his ears, for how dare he insult his profession like that?)

“If the book, and, from what you just said, the experiment conducted in the 80s says so, then why not give it a try? What’s there to lose?”

James snapped. He slammed his hands on the desk, got up, sat back down, cracked his neck. He looked confused. But he can’t admit defeat. That would jeopardise his reputation! (And his practice). So, he put on a mean face, and slammed his hands again.

“Have you not heard a word I’ve just said? It’s absolutely pointless! Not only is it pointless, but it’s totally emasculating! What would this guy think, who, mind you, is probably having wet dreams in his cell right now (about his mum, no doubt), if you’d just barged right in his cell, and painted the walls… pink? Might as well transfer him to a woman’s prison!”

Ben stifled a laugh. Boy, this James guy must have his own Freudian issues going on.

“You’re right. Because, judging from the very ‘professional’ sketch you’ve got there, I’m sure trying a well – proven, based – on – fact, backed up by evidence, practice, would be very damaging to the prisoner’s already damaged mental health.”

Looks like James was finally convinced, for his cheeks turned exactly the same shade as the ‘drunk tank pink’ on the book’s cover page. He haphazardly grabbed the sketch, and shoved it in his drawer.

“You know what? Fine. Do what you want. But don’t come back crying to me if he starts humping the bed or something.”

The experiment was tried. The walls painted pink. A whopping success! And the best part is, no beds were humped in the process.