Vincent Gallo - Tasya

“Then I believe we can just skip right to the reason you are visiting today.” Dr. I said.

Hugh took a deep breath and got right to the point.

“I have hallucinations. Believe it or not, they are triggered only when I come in contact with the news. When people are speaking about the news they turn into fantastical creatures and beasts. When I hold a newspaper the ink drips with poison, seeps onto my hands and sears my skin. Dogs start to talk, the sun becomes sentient, and the world around blends into an unreality.”

Hugh sat back in his chair and was surprised at how easy it was to speak about his hallucinations.

Hugh decided to continue with his monologue.

“Even though my hallucinations and reality overlap with one another, I'm able to distinguish what is and what is not fiction. If a cat stands up on his two legs, pulls out a soap box, leaps onto it, waves around a crusty old walking stick and starts to criticize the news on how they are fear mongers, I have no doubt that this cat is a projection of my mind.”

“Mr. Mechta, if I'm correct, you haven't spoken to anyone about this before.” Dr. I said after half a minute of silence and contemplative mustache rubbing. “Why have you decided now, of all times, to seek professional assessment?”

Hugh wrinkled up his nose and traced his finger across the bridge. His nose was a tad crooked, but he had never seen that as a flaw. It was a part of him and made him who he was. The hallucinations, on the other hand, Hugh found harder to not view as flaws because everyone had a nose, but not everyone had hallucinations.

With that thought in mind, Hugh proceeded to answer the doctor's question.

“I've chosen to speak to someone about this because I have a burning desire to know why this is happening. Is there something fundamentally wrong with me? I don't mean neurologically, but as a person, as a member of society. Am I a broken baby chick or does my curious condition reveal something special about me?”

Hugh was confused about his emotions. He wasn't sure if he felt proud and strong for speaking about his inner self. He felt that he had spoken about it confidently. On the other hand, he also felt vulnerable for exposing himself. So, should he feel confident, vulnerable, a concoction of both? Or something else altogether?

Hugh brought his hands to his face and rubbed where a mustache and goatee would have been if he had ever decided to grow one. He knew that he'd have to wait for the doctor's response to get a better sense of how he should feel about what he had just said.

And wait Hugh did, because the doctor spent about five minutes rubbing, massaging, caressing, and twirling his facial hair in silence. Every time Hugh opened his mouth to speak the doctor held up his hand, signaling Hugh to remain silent and not to break his train of thought. It seemed like the doctor was processing all the information that Hugh provided him with and was waiting to download a response from some external server that would tell him how to respond.

The doctor's answer was not one that Hugh expected, and evoked disappointment more than anything else.

“Mr. Mechta,” Dr. I said with a deep exhale, “I find you to remarkable baby chick. With that said, I cannot help you personally, but I can pluck you off the conveyer belt and ship you off to someone who can. I'll jot down some contacts, who specialize in neurology, and you can schedule an appointment with them.”

The doctor wrote down his mentioned contacts and tore out the sheet of paper from his clipboard.

“Doctor, I know that there are different medical specializations, and you may not specialize in people who have hallucinations, but can you give me some feedback based on your own medical training?” Hugh asked, glad that Dr. I could refer him to some other specialists, but still wanting the doctor’s take because he was the first-person Hugh had opened up to about his hallucinations. “Other than me being a ‘remarkable baby chick.’”

“No. I cannot.” Dr. I said curtly as he folded up the paper and passed it to Hugh.

Hugh tucked the paper away into his breast pocket and gave it a reassuring tap even though he knew there was no way it could fall out.

“That seems to conclude our appointment Mr. Mechta.” Dr. I said. Hugh half expected him to starting playing with facial hair again, but he didn't. All he did was give a shrug. “My next patient won't be here for a while, maybe you would like to stay a little longer? We can chat more about my vacation if you'd like.”

Hugh stood straight up from his chair, eager not to fall into the trap of a one-sided conversation, and fumbled out a fib that needed to care for his niece and tend to his garden.

Dr. I brushed his goatee and gave Hugh a dubious look that said that he hadn't believed one word about the niece nor the garden. Not wanting to test to what extent the doctor had believed him, Hugh expressed his thanks for the list of references and hurried out of the room before Dr. I's hand could transition back to mustache twirling.

Hugh cut through the empty lobby and out into the street, wondering when the next patient would arrive.

Hugh got in and off the metro. During the entire journey home, his thoughts were focused on the imagery of himself as a chirping little bird riding the convey belt of destiny to a grim nugget ending.

Although the doctor had used this framework as a medical tool for understanding patients, Hugh couldn't help but extrapolate it and see it as a metaphor for contemporary society. Was everyone just coasting on the conveyer belt of life to a meaningless doom? Were they all just hapless riders, oblivious to the void at the end of the tunnel, whose only reprieve on the track towards death depended on the whim of an omnipotent hand that would scoop them away, only to return them to a fate which everyone must face?

Dr. I's framework left Hugh with a sense of dark unease, that in the very end, there is only death.

Scenes of chicken nuggets fled Hugh's mind once he exited the metro. The bright rays of the sun shined down on him and the warmth coming from overhead tickled his skin with tiny reminders that he had yet to inspect the list of contacts in his pocket.

Hugh slid the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and had a sense of joy at who he would call and who he would continue his voyage with next. He felt himself on a sort of hero's journey, one in which the ending would see him having a better understanding of himself and why he had hallucinations.

The warmth from the sun intensified and Hugh could feel the heat spreading from his wrists to his fingertips. His fingers started to grow hot from the sun’s rays. It was as if the sun was simultaneously urging Hugh on and trying to catch a glance of the names etched on the paper.

Hugh unfolded the paper and disappointment unfolded from within his heart…

Hugh had heard the idiom ‘chicken scratch' used to describe someone's handwriting. The notes by Dr. I exemplified that idiom and then some, for the notes were unreadable. It looked as if a three-year-old child had taken a pen and tried to practice writing cursive after he or she had watched a cartoon character do it on TV.

Hugh tried to decode the phone numbers in the mess of Dr. I's handwriting but only the numbers 2 and 7 were printed clearly. Deep in the chaos of curved lines that made up the letters in the names, he was only able to make out a handful of them. He wasn't sure if his mind were playing tricks on him or if he were straining his eyes too much in the vain attempt to read the words, but the only legible letters spelled out ‘chicken nugget.’

If anyone were watching him in the beginning of this affair and wondering why someone would stop outside the metro to open up a piece of paper, instead of just heading home, then they would be struck with even more wonder as they saw him toss the paper into the air and let it float down onto the sidewalk.

If anyone were to pick up the paper and read it, Hugh was sure they would do the same as he had – they would throw those incomprehensible notes to the wind.

Hugh let the paper sail to the pavement, crossed the busy road, and headed off home.

The sight of his building relaxed him and cleansed the disappointment that had accompanied reading Dr. I's note.

He loved the apartment complex in which he lived. It reminded him of an old fortress that one could read about in a military fantasy novel. Of course, the building lacked the wear and tear of battle, but it still gave Hugh the impression he was living in a fortress. The sides of the building were eight stories tall and stood in the formation of a long rectangle cut in half horizontally. In place of the severed rectangular was a lengthy and high red brick wall that spanned from one wing of the rectangle to the other. Inside this truncated rectangle brick wall combination sat a courtyard that housed a playground for children and circular sitting area decorated with flowers and benches.

One could not enter their apartment outside of this fortress because there were no doors or entrances on the outer walls. To enter the stairway to your apartment required going through the courtyard. This is what Hugh liked the most, for the way you would enter the fortress walls, to gain access to your apartment, was through a series of archways that peppered the walls. Hugh always enjoyed walking through the archways because it made him feel like he was returning to a secure and protected castle. Since the courtyard was directly in the center he was always able to see the people who lived alongside him in the complex, either sitting on the benches chatting, tidying up the flowers in the garden, or playing with their children on the playground.

The building looked like a fortress, but it lacked the militancy and aggression that always comes with these institutions in stories, novels, and history. There were no generals screaming orders, but rather children shouting with glee. There were no weapons being fired, just bottles being dropped into bins. Soldiers didn't stand at attention, just flowers stretching up towards the sun.

Perhaps it was this juxtaposition of the fortress-like style of the building and the gentler tone of life held within that impressed upon Hugh the most. He felt like the building was hugging and protecting the courtyard while providing a secure space for people to live their lives.

Hugh felt secure crossing through one of the arches and moving into the courtyard, but he also felt the distinct grumbles, rumbles, and pangs in his stomach that told that he hadn't eaten for quite some time. He decided to put off going back home just yet and crossed to the northeastern edge of the courtyard. He existed the fortress through another one of its various arches and headed for a nearby café.

The walk to the café was quick and brisk, for it wasn't too far away. That was another benefit of living in the fortress, it was close to many different shops and cafés.

Hugh came into the café, eager to scrutinize the day's selection of food hiding behind protective glass. The hot food on offer for the day was quite banal—mashed potatoes, fried steaks, green beans, soups, some malformed looking chicken, and other assortments of dishes. None of these pricked nor tickled Hugh's interest too much and some choices even gave Hugh premonitions of future indigestion. In the end, he chose a prepacked sandwich to go along with a coffee.

Hugh made his way to the window and even before he had a chance to sip his coffee and unpack his sandwich two women occupied the seats at the table right next to his own. Hugh peered around the café and could see open tables and chairs from corner to corner. The table which these women had chosen was so close to Hugh's own that if anyone walked into the café and observed them, they would have thought that Hugh and the two women were dinning together.