I've always had a soft spot for the mentally ill, perhaps recognizing kindred spirits. Nowadays, these poor souls receive professional help with dispatch. Wasn't always that way. Before, when you slipped a gear you'd be slapped in jail. When a psychiatrist showed up, you were loaded down with Thorazine, and sat there for up to two weeks waiting for the commitment hearing, and a reservation for a hospital. By the time you were ready to be shipped, the stay in jail with little processional care had driven someone with minor eccentricities goofier than a Democrat with taxpayer's dollars.
Most returned from the institution as sane as the rest of us.--admittedly, a poor standard. There was however, a flaw in the system. These folks were heavily medicated. The drugs had aggravating side effects like malaise, insomnia, or diarrhea. Soon the patient would rationalize that since they were sane there was no need to take these drugs that made them feel awful. So they'd quit taking them and go nuts again, now not capable of recognizing the medicine kept them sane. It happened repeatedly.
One poor soul who rode this cycle we'll call Humphrey Bogart. A local business man, he'd morph into Bogart when he slipped over the edge. The signs were obvious. First a slight lisp, and talking out the side of his mouth. Then the snap-brim Fedora. In a few more days, the trench coat. And finally, the Colt .45 semi-auto tucked in his belt along with an urge to waste Nazis and bad guys.
We'd sack him up, he'd go through the drill, and in a year or so, he'd come home to stay for a while. But he always backslid. As did many others.
Another problem was transporting them to the care facility. Our two resources were the G. Pierce Wood facility in Arcadia and Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami. No ambulance. No straight jacket*. Just a police car and a prayer the Thorazine would do its job. That didn't always happen.
A beautiful black woman, who we came to call Pocahontas, arrived in Naples fresh out of college. She'd received a touchy-feely grant to teach family values in the ghetto. ( It was the sixties) To do this, she'd taken up residence in the Quarters. We'd warned the gentle, sophisticated lady that she'd be entering a foreign world. A dangerous world for which she wasn't prepared. She would have none of it, saying if she didn't live with her clients she wouldn' be respected. She lasted a week before she was beaten and raped. Then she turned into Pocahontas.
The shrink explained that she couldn't reconcile someone of her race doing this to her so she'd abandoned her race and become an American Indian. In her cell she liked to strip naked and dance, chanting around a fire only she could see. So she was drugged leaving her seldom awake. Eventually, they had an opening at Jackson Memorial.
On the hundred mile ride to Miami, Pocahontas was more alert than usual, but quiet and morose. Her cop chauffeur, J.A. Foyt, was relieved things were going so well. And she remained sedate until they reached downtown Miami. Then she abruptly stripped off her clothes, began chanting, and doing a frantic dance in the back seat. This was an instant hit with most spectators--she was quite beautiful. But Foyt were horrified. He weighed his options. If he stopped and tried to control her, he'd sure as hell be on the evening news, a cop wrestling a naked Indian princess. Nope, not this ol' hoss. Flipping on the siren and lights, he decided to get to Jackson Memorial on the double.
Emergency lights don't give you much of an edge in Miami traffic. Besides, the show was drawing a crowd. Cars following, honking horns, pedestrians trying to keep pace, some now in the street, running around the car for a better look. Disaster would've been eminent if a higher power hadn't interceded. Out of nowhere, a South Florida frog-strangler materialized. Torrents of rain, lightening, the works. It's hard to be a soggy voyeur so the crowd disappeared. Foyt proceeded on to the hospital unencumbered.
Parking the cruiser, Foyt looked back at his charge, who had dressed and was calm. That dance you were doing, he asked. That couldn't have been a rain dance could it?
Pocahontas didn't say a word. Just looked at him and gave him something we hadn't seen before. Something quite beautiful. A smile.
*Trivia note: Since we had no straight jacket at the jail, when someone became violent we'd wrap them up in a wet sheet. Works great!
Most returned from the institution as sane as the rest of us.--admittedly, a poor standard. There was however, a flaw in the system. These folks were heavily medicated. The drugs had aggravating side effects like malaise, insomnia, or diarrhea. Soon the patient would rationalize that since they were sane there was no need to take these drugs that made them feel awful. So they'd quit taking them and go nuts again, now not capable of recognizing the medicine kept them sane. It happened repeatedly.
One poor soul who rode this cycle we'll call Humphrey Bogart. A local business man, he'd morph into Bogart when he slipped over the edge. The signs were obvious. First a slight lisp, and talking out the side of his mouth. Then the snap-brim Fedora. In a few more days, the trench coat. And finally, the Colt .45 semi-auto tucked in his belt along with an urge to waste Nazis and bad guys.
We'd sack him up, he'd go through the drill, and in a year or so, he'd come home to stay for a while. But he always backslid. As did many others.
Another problem was transporting them to the care facility. Our two resources were the G. Pierce Wood facility in Arcadia and Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami. No ambulance. No straight jacket*. Just a police car and a prayer the Thorazine would do its job. That didn't always happen.
A beautiful black woman, who we came to call Pocahontas, arrived in Naples fresh out of college. She'd received a touchy-feely grant to teach family values in the ghetto. ( It was the sixties) To do this, she'd taken up residence in the Quarters. We'd warned the gentle, sophisticated lady that she'd be entering a foreign world. A dangerous world for which she wasn't prepared. She would have none of it, saying if she didn't live with her clients she wouldn' be respected. She lasted a week before she was beaten and raped. Then she turned into Pocahontas.
The shrink explained that she couldn't reconcile someone of her race doing this to her so she'd abandoned her race and become an American Indian. In her cell she liked to strip naked and dance, chanting around a fire only she could see. So she was drugged leaving her seldom awake. Eventually, they had an opening at Jackson Memorial.
On the hundred mile ride to Miami, Pocahontas was more alert than usual, but quiet and morose. Her cop chauffeur, J.A. Foyt, was relieved things were going so well. And she remained sedate until they reached downtown Miami. Then she abruptly stripped off her clothes, began chanting, and doing a frantic dance in the back seat. This was an instant hit with most spectators--she was quite beautiful. But Foyt were horrified. He weighed his options. If he stopped and tried to control her, he'd sure as hell be on the evening news, a cop wrestling a naked Indian princess. Nope, not this ol' hoss. Flipping on the siren and lights, he decided to get to Jackson Memorial on the double.
Emergency lights don't give you much of an edge in Miami traffic. Besides, the show was drawing a crowd. Cars following, honking horns, pedestrians trying to keep pace, some now in the street, running around the car for a better look. Disaster would've been eminent if a higher power hadn't interceded. Out of nowhere, a South Florida frog-strangler materialized. Torrents of rain, lightening, the works. It's hard to be a soggy voyeur so the crowd disappeared. Foyt proceeded on to the hospital unencumbered.
Parking the cruiser, Foyt looked back at his charge, who had dressed and was calm. That dance you were doing, he asked. That couldn't have been a rain dance could it?
Pocahontas didn't say a word. Just looked at him and gave him something we hadn't seen before. Something quite beautiful. A smile.
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