The food comes in paper plates. A small heap of Persian white rice and, lets say, chicken or a stew. I’ve got a white hospital robe on with green dots, although I don’t feel sick. My seat, one of only a handful here, is uncomfortable. Metal plate with holes punched in, slanted, like ones you’d find in an old airport. I hate plastic cutlery: how are you supposed to cut chicken with a plastic fork?
We eat. Me and a few other patients. I don’t remember the conversations or their names. Men, differing ages, differing backgrounds. There’s a TV on the wall. State TV. News, women in tight veils, and sometimes movies. Hollywood. Translated. Can’t hear the sound though, and we don’t want to either. And that’s the common room. The head nurse’s office is in it.
Then, there’s my room. It’s me and KT, and the meditation guy. The meditation guy is always meditating, which I respect, because, if you ask me, when there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do, the one thing left is to face the conditions of your existence head on. And so he does. He is also adamant that there is nothing wrong with him -this he explains to his children, who put him here, every time they come for a visit. He has to stay though. And so he takes his pills, shows the nurse his mouth empty, looks around, and spits the pills out. I once caught glimpse of him doing that. Touché! I should try his technique. But I don’t, and the pills continue to make me feel unwell.
So the days go by, though at an excruciatingly slow pace. Green metal bars cover the windows from outside. And looking through them, down from the second floor, city life goes on around us unbothered. When will I get out?
Then mom comes for a visit and brings tangerines. Another time, apples. She looks happy. Nothing can possibly happen to me while here. Plus, she knows where to find me next. And me? Well, if my spirit could move, it would punch a hole through these walls, head first, and fly off the second floor, onto the streets below.
Then KT comes in and asks me if girls in Canada are pretty -for the tenth time. And I reassure my lovesick friend that they are indeed. Some years later, when we are both out, I once talk to him while he’s off his meds. He doesn’t sound half as crazy -just a tad aggressive, if you ask me.