vagrancy vacancy

Like any small isolated community with limited resources, we of the unit were very interested in newcomers. Suddenly, there would be a flurry of activity at one particular door. Unit counselors would suddenly brandish large rings of keys. Security guards would appear behind the counter conferring with social workers. One counselor would call out to another, "We got three comin' up! One female, two male!" Paperwork and files would change hands. Sometimes the door would open enough to get a glimpse of the "Intake Room." Usually the unit therapist/counselor/social worker would sit with their back to us. One or more people would be around the table. Sometimes it was difficult to guess which was the new patient.
Lenny and I were sitting next to each other on the couch when the Intake door swung open. Lenny turned to look, "We got a new one." I would have turned to look but that would have required me to turn most of my body 180 degrees. Besides, I was engrossed by Lenny's left hand. It was resting on his knee. Which was close to my knee. He had those good mannish hands; thick fingers, wide nail beds, sturdy thumbs, tan and sorta calloused. Very nice.
"Male or female or transgender?" I asked.
"Whatever it was, it looks like a male now." Lenny was funny.
"Looks like you've got a roommate, my friend." I teased him. He had been on the unit for four days with no roommate. That was the equivalent of Five Star accommodations by Psych Ward standards. We were all envious. Roomates could be...well, ooky. On a previous hospitalization, I was placed in a room with a detoxing heroin addict. She did nothing but lay stock still in bed, then suddenly bolt upright and into the bathroom to violently hurl. The entire room smelled like vomit and I woke up every couple of hours during the night to the sounds of her wretching. I don't understand how this was conducive to my stabilization. The worst part was the bathroom situation. I am unable to go to the bathroom (translated; defecate) in public. It just won't happen. Once on a business trip, the company had the rather debasing policy of rooming employees together. I did not go to the bathroom from Sunday until Friday.
"I think he's naked." Lenny was looking back into the room.
"Whaaa?" I almost turned, then thought better of it. I didn't need to see that.
"Seriously, he didn't have a shirt on. I couldn't see under the table, but he's definitley nekked from the waist up." Although he commented on this, he was unphased. For a first-timer, Lenny wasn't particularly freaked out by anything or anybody in this place; not even Angela.
Angela was an old black lady who took over every group meeting. No matter what the subject, Angela had something to contribute and contribute and contribute. Once she raised her hand to share. The counselor acknowledged her. She proceeded to tell us that she suffered from 'incomptenence'. She was going to strike it rich designing a product called "Body Plugs." They would be like tampons for incomptenence. She said that men could benefit from using them as well by eliminating ..."them skid marks they always be havin' up in they drawahs, you know how they be havin' them skid marks. 'Cos they be nasty as hail. And gay mens, too. In case they be dribblin' or somethin'. " She said they would be available in designer colors like purple. She had a passion for purple. That's why she wore something purple every day. If you owned an item that happened to be purple, Angela would ask if she could have it. At another meeting, she told us about the horrendous abuse she suffered at the hands of her father. One story was about how he would often put them in the car and drive head on into oncoming traffic, swerving away at the last possible second. She and her siblings had planned to murder him, but he left before they carried it out. Tears streamed down her face and fell onto her sweatshirt when she told us about dreaming of being a big strapping man who could have beaten her father to protect her siblings. Instead, she tried to place herself between him and the younger ones. After that meeting, where I had been moved by her story, I overheard her ask Dave, "Hey, Hey, baby...how big is your stuff? Cos you be lookin' bi-ig to me. Whatch you, 8? Is you 8? Is you biggah?"