A Story about The Joker and The Thief, Part 3
“Put me in the hospital for nerves And then they had to commit me You told 'em all I was crazy They cut off my legs Now I'm an amputee, God damn you”
- Flagpole Sitta, Harvey Danger
Evidently the psychological clinic didn't have the authority or expertise or resources or something to schedule J directly in a psychiatric facility. Instead, they took him in the back of a fortified station wagon to the nearby St Vincent's Hospital. And there he sat, waiting to see the clinical staff, in some sort of public foyer area, meters from the sliding glass doors, and freedom. Maybe he was being watched, but it sure felt like he could have just stood up and walked out at any point, for what seemed like a long time. Yet, despite a certain difficulty with sitting still, he opted to stay (perhaps because it seemed the more likely course for getting to see that eminent scientific expert).
After a while they moved him to a small room to wait in until he could be assessed. Now there was all the fun of trying to keep reasonably still, with the added joy of Not Being Around (Let Alone Talking To) People, and the attendant acceleration of J's internal monologue – a monologue that was already Pretty Fast and wasn't exactly crying out for further acceleration.
By the time he left the room and headed for assessment, J now considered himself a Person of Historically Significant Mental Capabilities.
He answered one of the standard battery of mood assessment questions they give you, honestly enough, by writing and drawing various symbols and diagrams representing infinity and so forth, where normally one is expected to circle a number on a more mundane scale of 1-10. 10 is not such a large number, after all, in the scheme of things.
At one point, a member of clinical team informed J he was being scheduled – that is to say, involuntarily admitted for treatment under the Mental Health Act.
While he waited, he made some phone calls, and had some visitors. He tried to explain some Things to them, but it didn't come across so well.
Eventually, after a few actual hours of real time spent at St Vincent's, he was transferred to Rozelle Hospital, at Callan Park – or Lothlorien, as it would come to be referred to in J's writings.
(to be continued)