USA Today

 

I’ve got a friend, a high school buddy from Connecticut where I grew up. This is a loyal solid friend and he’s damn smart. He, Ralph, was an actuary for an insurance company. He crunched numbers and tried to figure out what will happen to insurance rates in 20 years if somebody’s grandmother sneezes three times in a row on a cloudy day in the year 2030.

     The problem is he lost his job as the dark side of depression ate at him. He became suicidal and couldn’t crawl out of the blackness. Anyhooo, I thought time to visit back East anyway. Maybe I can assist a bit.

      I flew back, among other things to help him to check in to The Institute of Living because on his own the idea terrified him. The Institute of Living is an organization to help those suffering from mental health issues – like depression. The fact that my friend had checked in meant he really was trying, a first step to taming the dragon of depression. I arrived at 6 a.m. in Connecticut, drove to his house, and we shot over to the institute in Hartford.

     Connecticut’s moist, green beauty overpowered me as exhaustion, elation and worry kicked in. The newly tarred, well-kept roads coveted few potholes, traffic remained absurdly light, and the hospital/institution sat in a park-like setting. Old colonial buildings consisted of sandstone or granite.

     I helped my friend check in and told him I’d be in the institute’s park writing. I found a gazebo, parked my butt on the floor, and pulled out about three-hundred typed pages I needed to edit. Pretty soon a few of the checked-in people visited.

     “So why are YOU here?” one of them asked me.

     “Huh? Oh … I’m with a friend.”

     The guy looked around, didn’t see anybody. “Is the … friend … in the gazebo with us now?” He wore a worried look.

     "No, he’s checking in.” I pointed at one of the many buildings. “I’m just here to help him.”

     “Where you from?” the guy asked as he sucked down a cigarette. I don’t think he exhaled at all.

     “California. I just came a few minutes ago.”

      “From California. You … just came here a few minutes ago. How?”

     “I flew.”

     “Like … you have special powers … flew?”

      None of this was mean-spirited on the questioner’s part. He was just trying to measure my level of delusion.

     “No, I just arrived in Bradley Field with US Air.”

     “But it’s only 7 a.m. How could you get here so fast? I can tell if people are evil. You’re not evil. But I think maybe you are lost, man.”

     “Thanks.” I looked at him over the rim of my glasses.

     What you writing?” He asked as he sucked down what was left of his entire cigarette.

     “Working on a book.”

     "Does yours have invisible ink, too?”

     “No.”

     “You can tell me. Who is your doctor here? Maybe I know him.”

     I had to laugh. The outside temperature started to rise and cook the moist soil. The New England humidity hung low. A different fellow walked in with a heavy denim jacket. He stared at me.

     “Aren’t you hot?” I asked trying breaking the ice and gauge him.

     “Nope! Like hot.” He shot back. “You like hot?”

     “Not like this.”

     “What else don’t ya’ like?”

     I stopped writing.

     “Oh, crowds, traffic…”

     He didn’t let me finish. “You need to be alone in here, man?”

     “No. No. I like the company, but that’s very kind of you.”

     I don’t think he believed me because he bolted out of the gazebo muttering to himself.

     The same scenario happened three more times. The guests kept on coming over thinking I was one of them.

I told my friend Ralph when he finally finished. It made him laugh and that was good. It was the first time he had laughed in a loooong time.

 

I think Ralph will make it.