Lost

                                      Lost                 

    “The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.”

    “You don’t know how you got here? That is unbelievable. You don’t remember me picking you up just twenty minutes ago and bringing you here, to this room… your bedroom?”

    “Who did you say you were?”

    And that is how it began, or I should say, the beginning of the end. When confronted with a situation that appears not only abnormal but laced with doubt, It is best to walk away and pretend it doesn’t exist. But when that someone is your brother, and is abnormal and his very presence causes you to be skeptical of what he says, you can’t just run away, no matter how liberating you imagine it could be.

    The adage, a rock and a hard place is where I’ve felt I’ve existed most of my life. My parents were big Marx Brothers fans, hence the name Harpo. Most parents attempt to crown their newborns with a name of significance, indicating a hope or wish that their son or daughter will become what the name inspires in them. In Harpo’s case, it appears not to have worked. 

    I have no idea what my parents were hoping for, but I attempt to assure myself it was not what they got. It isn’t that Harpo’s not bright, which he isn’t, but that he is so self-assured he can’t accept criticism of any kind. 

    It became evident by a situation that occurred in first grade; he’d already refused kindergarten.  He convinced himself that school was a waste of his time. He could educate himself at home and spend additional hours a day studying, that were being wasted on his commute to and from school. He told the teacher before he walked out of class that he had a TV, and that a Captain Kangaroo had assured him he would aid him in his educational pursuits. 

    My parents were summoned in an attempt to explain Harpo’s disdain for school. Harpo being their first child they had gone to extreme measures, according to my Aunt, my Mother’s sister, to not make the same mistakes their parents had made with them. They had both grown up in ultra conservative households, where everyone had a place and a duty to that place, as well as to other family members. 

    According to my Aunt, she was treated like Hitler’s children would have been, had Hitler had children. They ate at a specific time; if you were late, you didn’t eat. You went to bed at a specific time, whether you were tired or not. You did your homework before supper. One hour of TV was allowed daily.

    The “energy jar” was kept on the dining room table; if you forgot to turn off a light when leaving a room, a dollar was to be placed in the jar, which was an incentive, given that your allowance was two dollars per week.  You were expected to be a contributing family member, working for the betterment of all. Aunt Erlene said “It didn’t take but a time or two and you not only turned off the light in the room you left, but every light in the house, just to be sure. 

    Debt incurred was carried over from week to week. It was on Harpo’s third birthday he’d forgotten to turn off the bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, and living room lights. Once you are “in the hole,” as Erleen put it, it is impossible to get out. You are after that point working for nothing; even an indentured servant “has a definite date when they will be released from their indebtedness.”   

    My parents were so traumatized by their childhoods that when ever a decision had to be made, they asked themselves what their parents would have done, and then did the opposite. So, when Harpo refused to go to school, the capitulated to his demand. They would hire a tutor; they did feel Captain Kangaroo, although he appeared to be a nice enough man, wouldn’t have the time necessary to devote to their child’s needs, considering all of his commitments. 

    Jerry Jerky, a retired science teacher who had discovered that retirement didn’t suit him, was suggested as an adjunct to the Captain. My parent asked for references, as all well meaning parents would; Mr. Jerky refused. “I’ve been a teacher for more than twenty-five years and my record speaks for itself” he declared. 

    My parents agreed, although they were not sure why. They decided apparently that twenty-five years of teaching science at the correctional facility for disturbed adolescents might be just what Harpo needed; discipline with an attitude they reasoned would be a reminder to Harpo that compromise, despite what most people believed, was essential if co-operation and therefore progress was to be attained.

    Mr. Jerky began his duties on Monday, and resigned on Tuesday after lunch, stating “I’d rather be on death row where people have resigned themselves to the inevitability of death, and therefore it only comes down to the when and how.” Harpo wouldn’t accept the premise, stating “if Christ can go walk about, why can’t I.” We were not sure what he meant, which wasn’t unusual. 

    Mr. Jerky, although being an agnostic, found Harpo’s claim to be not only arrogant and presumptuous regarding faith, but tauntingly  idealistic, which Harpo had found, although unproveable, a safety measure in case he was wrong. Mr. Jerky had attempted to counsel Harpo on the subject in hopes of getting him to concede to the possibility that there could be something other than eternal darkness, after the light in his life expired, but had no luck. 

    Harpo, during the exchange of idealistic persuasions, had managed to convince Jery Jerky that he too could ascend into heaven, if he used the same principles he was so adamantly attempting to apply to Harpo’s beliefs. “Faith after all” Harpo declared, “is the engine that will eventually kill us all. So why not just get it over with and avoid all the discomfort and worry that accompanies aging?” his rebuttal to Mr. Jerky.

    The last I heard of Mr. Jerky, he’d given up retirement and began teaching again at the renamed juvenile detention center which had recently purchased the YMCA franchise in Pemberton, and were allowed to keep the Y’s motto, although no one could remember what it was. 

    I believe it was during that transitional period that Harpo began to noticeably deteriorate. Having too many choices, all of your own making, with no lines in the sand or consequences for your actions, allowed Harpo to escape himself and become what he imagined himself to be, a god. 

    It didn’t take long before he began to wear vestments reminiscent of an African Swahili Tribe, and show up unannounced at baptisms and weddings. When he was caught hearing confessions, even the most liberal minded of the community began to voice disapproval. Harpo’s conservative stance on basically all things institutional began to upset church members. 

    After lengthy talks between a priest and my parents, it was decided that Harpo would be banned, from not only the church itself, but the entire four block area surrounding it. Harpo showed no remorse, claiming “I was only doing what most people do when they validate themselves. I have forgiven everyone, regardless of their moral ineptitude. If I am criticized for doling out harsher penances than other confessors, I do not apologize. Some people need to accept the principle of no pain, no gain.” And then he began blessing people and asked them to kiss the ring he’d recently found in a half-eaten box of Cracker Jacks. 

    When the priest and my parents decided the zone around the church needed to be expanded to 12 blocks, it meant that Harpo, had he been attending school, would not have been able too. I believe it was the restrictions that made him take the final step off the plank into a sea of tranquility, that so many seek and so few find.

*

    Lofton Heights Sanitarium is not nearly as foreboding as its name implies; that is if you know the story of James P Lofton and how the Sanitarium became named after him.

    Lofton was a shrewd businessman who attempted to live up to the idealism promoted by Ebenezer Scrooge. Lofton, however, did not have the discipline or temperament to be apathetic to everything and everyone all the time. His bold statements and ridiculous claims were considered childish by many, sanctimonious by others.

    Lofton had been the first inmate at the detention center, as well as the youngest. He’d been accused of attempted murder of his parents because of their willful disregard for money. He was too young, being only 7, to be gallowsed for what Lofton considered a necessary act if the country was to remain financially sound.

    It was reported he died during a hotdog eating contest to raise money for calculators. His motto, “a calculator on every desk” was abandoned after his odd death. 

    His was preventable but for the lack of FDA oversight of the sausage industry. The sawdust in the hotdog he attempted to eat, swelled, causing asphyxiation. His unusual death was the reason the center was named after him it was claimed.

    Harpo was interned in 2001. The entire mental health system had long since crumbled, due to the lack of funding during Ronny’s Administration. He believed mental illness was but a state of mind that paralleled those who sat on their front porch all day watching traffic go by. 

    “You wouldn’t expect the hardworking tax payers of this country to pay for porch people, now would you?” As the result of the insightfulness of the administration, thousands of formerly considered “porch people” were released to find porches of their own, that were not being subsidized by the good tax payers of the country.

    Harpo was evaluated by several psychiatrists. They all determined he was neither a threat to himself nor others. Despite Jerky’s testimony to the contrary, Harpo was to be released, had they been able to find him a sponsor. Mother and father claimed they were too busy to help Harpo, having recently opened a new age café catering to youthful malcontents, which according to several surveys was the new reason to never leave your house. 

    The malcontents claimed it was too dangerous to go outside, air pollution, stray bullets, and pigeons. their excuses wore as thin as the reasons for avoiding the military draft had been bed wetting and bone spurs. 

    The Malcontent Café was open 24/7, and shuttle service from home to the café was offered if you committed to staying a minimum of 8 hours, and not complain about anything. Some malcontents never did see the light of day. The garage in the back was used for disembarking, and was guaranteed to be daylight free. 

    My parents were doing quite well until one night a rival gang of malcontents showed up with automatic weapons. The exterior resembled the Canadian American Mexican flag when the paint balling ended. Closed captioned cameras recorded the entire incidence. After that, everyone began using the old excuses again, crime, violence, danger, to remain home; it was anonymous suggested the café close. 

    It was during the disruptive turmoil that Harpo found himself in “no man’s land.” He couldn’t find a sponsor, and the one remaining requirement that had been neglectfully left in the by-laws required every person who was released, be given the certainty that they were going to a safe environment that would not interfere with their constitutional right to delusional episodes of transformation. The “interpretation” of the word “transformation” is presently before the supreme court, who has agreed to hear the case, despite the previous courts decisions confirming delusion was “protected by the Constitution.”

   So Harpo was caught up in a catch 22 scenario, which he explained to me in a lengthy letter. 

    “Dear Brother

Oh Ye of little faith; even though the Constitution has been amended to accept progressive idealism, the majority of the country has been grappling for more than a hundred years with the probability of devolution, which predicts we are slipping backwards in a manner that will once again introduce us to the slime from which we crawled. Devolving has always been a source of contention within our evangelical community; we cannot understand how so much has happened in only five thousand years.

    We prefer to believe in the “strict interpretation” of the Lords Book, which carries with it the understanding that the translated words have the same meaning today, that they had over two thousand years ago. Despite the fact people of that time could neither read nor write, leaving interpretation to those who claimed they could. 

    My predicament is similar in that no two psychiatrists agree on anything; it either enhances their image or diminishes it in the eyes of their followers. Also, when good old Ronny swept the halls looking for fraudulent mental patients, he mistakenly swept many thousands of the truly needy back onto the streets where they remain to this day, only under a different name and status.” 

    Harpo, having no previous record of mental illness, was left to the academic interpretations of those who had degrees on their walls, but no experience with the political weathervane that turns slowly, depending upon the mood of the country and the predictions of a Pennsylvania ground hog. 

    “Man kind is a fickle lot, whose attention span is that of a nit in a wind storm. So I can hope for either the reincarnation of Ronny’s ghost, or the satellite winds to change direction. I’d pray this tragedy ends soon as the room I’ve been assigned is painted the most hideous shade of purple, and I’m beginning to feel more like a flower in heat than I have a right to.”

    The remainder of the letter goes on to describe the height, weight, and hairstyles of his attendants. Although the letter was informative, I felt I could detect a crack beginning to form in his arrogant demeanor. He asked if I could get him out of there. “Normalcy is not only boring but it doesn’t suit me.”

    He asked that I speak with the psychiatrists and explain that I would care for him and prevent him from harming himself or anyone else. He is, as he put it, “too damn lazy to waste energy on people that don’t matter.”

    I did as he asked. I spent several days visiting those in charge seeking an explanation for my brothers purgatory, with no definitive results. I, as well as he, became morose at the thought of him remaining in his purple room as I wandered the halls of the institution in search of his freedom.

    Jerry Jerky meanwhile, was denied admittance on the grounds that he wasn’t sufficiently unstable; his condition was diagnosed as “Retirement Fatigue,” which has the effect of you believing there is a heaven on earth, that everyone has sought since a retirement age was introduced. 

    Although Mr. Jerky was considered nonviolent, the psychiatrists at the institution failed to test for progressive aggression, which it was determined was the cause for him setting fire to the institution. “Rejection can lead to unpredictable actions” they suggested. The psychiatric lottery at Malcontent Detention Center had speculated that Mr. Jerky would be shived by an inmate, if he attempted to teach Informed Intelligent Speculative Design to uninformed agnostics. 

    Despite the reluctance of the psychiatry staff, Harpo was to be released from a temporary facility; a subterranean bomb shelter built during the Cuban Missile crisis to accommodate the governing elite of the Capital city.

    I was requested to pick up Harpo. My parents continued to be busy with their latest endeavor; teaching cursive Elizabethan style penmanship to people formerly engaged in needle point, whose hands had become atrophied by their close association with needles and their demands.

    Harpo had not responded well to either the fire, his displacement, or the “furry walls” as he referred to them, of the underground bunker he had been housed in. He stood in the doorway of the tunnel flanked by two large men in white coveralls, as I arrived. They asked if I objected to him remaining in his strait jacket until we left the quarantined area, which I assumed was code for security. 

    I had no objections. It was difficult, however, seeing someone I’d grown up in proximity to, looking gaunt and not knowing who I was or what I wanted. “Where are we going?” His words to this day echo in my memory of that time and place I called school, and he called twelve grades above nothing. 

    My parents rather than deal with the guilt of having raised a child who refused to take off his straitjacket, left for Honduras to volunteer for a Brain Wave project meant to determine once and for all the legitimacy of claims that Aliens were interfering with our democratic elections. 

    I, after having spent several hours attempting to convince Harpo that I would not attempt to recreate the conditions of the bunker in his room, he quit trying. Blooming mold would have been difficult to create above ground in the colors he was fond of, not to mention the difficulty it would have caused me, being asthmatic. 

    Harpo had grown acclimated to the bunker conditions, not unlike others who become accepting of their circumstance, usually because they have no alternative. I returned him to the bunker facility, and after lengthy negotiations and agreeing to allow him to participate in various invasive experiments, they accepted him on an interim basis.  

    I left Harpo, him not knowing who I was, what I wanted, or how he got to where he wanted to go.  I continue to be skeptical of Ronny's decision that mental illness is all in peoples heads and would end one day if people would only be patient. I believe the condition will more likely end by death.