This past Wednesday I had quite an interesting experience.
A man boarded the Red Line and he kept yelling out “They’re beating me, the police is beating me.” Mind you, no one was doing anything to the guy so we all chalked it up to just another nut and went back to our sleep, Sudoku, and mindless staring out the window.
The guy got up and started staggering towards the back of the train (naturally where I am sitting in one of the rear solo seats) and when he gets to the back door he looked at me and started crying out that “they’re going to beat me, don’t let them beat me”.
For some reason, I felt that he wasn’t your run of mill drunken nut, but that something was really wrong. So I asked him “who is bothering you?” “He kept repeating the police, the police is beating me, don’t let them beat me.” I put my book away and I tried to reassure him no one was going to bother him. He slid to the floor, looking as sad, scared as I’ve seen someone in years. He reminded me of my school-friend’s mother who long ago suffered schizophrenia before she took her own life. The fear, the panic, the paranoia of an unseen pursuer, the need to get to safety, all those scenes came rushing back.
I tried again to reassure him that he was ok and I offered to let him hold my hand if it would make him feel better. In an animal like way, he was hesitant to take my hand. He looked at me, shrank back and then coming a bit closer he finally took my hand. He told me then that he was schizophrenic. I asked if he’d like me to call an ambulance, take him to the hospital for help. He said he was trying to get to Cook County Hospital. I told him again that I would call an ambulance if he wanted but he seemed firm that he would continue on public transportation.
I don’t know why but I offered to take him. I said, if that’s where you need to go, I’ll see that you get there safely. He thanked me but then grew suspicious. “You’re playing with me, please don’t play with me. If you’re not going to do it, don’t say you will.” I promised him, “I will take you there.” Will you register me too? “Yes I said. I will register you as well.”
We finally reached Jackson where a woman stepped up and whispered to me which buses would most easily get me and my charge to the hospital. She then asked if I was a mental health professional. No, I’m not. She said that I had done a wonderful job of calming him and gaining his trust.
I learned that his name is Daryl T. He lives up north, Edgewater, Uptown or Rogers Park, I’m not sure. What a sight we must have been. Me, a 5 foot tall somewhat professional looking white woman walking down State Street holding hands with a disheveled, staggering black man with no laces in his shoes (recently in jail or hospitalized?) a half rolled (and poorly at that) cigarette for which no one would give him a light and dirty ragged jeans constantly falling down.
Daryl and I made it to Adams to wait for the number 7 bus. He asked a fellow passenger for a cigarette which the man gave him but Daryl panicked again, sank to the ground and starting crying out, pleading with the man not to beat him. I reassured Daryl he was ok, while whispering to the other man that Daryl was schizophrenic. The guy could pretty much tell we had a mentally unstable person here.
The bus ride to Cook County is where the fun started. I got Daryl seated, paid the fare and sat down next to him. He took my hand in his, buried his face in my shoulder and wiped snot all over my coat. Normally I would be gagging and heaving at the disgusting thought but it strangely didn’t bother me. It was like caring for a child, you don’t mind things so much. A lady sitting across from us took out a box of tissue and offered me some. I happily took a couple sheets and Daryl turned his face to me as a child would to it’s mother, allowing me to wipe the mucous from his face. Again, I should have been retching and disgusted but it was just all in the days work, I was unfazed.
After I cleaned off Daryls face he once again lay his head on my shoulder. He then put his arm around my waist.
Great – I thought “This is where now I get stabbed or assaulted for my trouble.” All he wanted was to hold on to someone, so as long as he refrained from getting grabby, I allowed him to hold onto me. I felt him pinching my waist, yeah, I have a roll and he was playing with it.
So here I am, now getting my flab-grabbed by a snot-nosed schizophrenic who calms down when I rub his bald head with my mittened hand. If we made an odd pairing on State Street, imagine what the people heading West on the number 7 must have been thinking.
to be continued...
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