Rivethead - Ben Hamper [115]
I turned on the radio thinking some music might soothe me down. The Beach Boys were singin’ “Wouldn't It Be Nice,” a great song if you could escape the irony of the title. I began to sing along: “Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true…” Jesus, I started bawlin’ like a newborn. Even Brian Wilson was takin’ a poke at me. I slapped off the radio.
I arrived at my place and called Moore. “At least we know it's not a stroke or heart attack,” he said. “My guess is some kind of nervous breakdown. Do you have a doctor?”
“No,” I answered.
“Then I will give you the number of someone you can call. Do you remember Darlene Shea? She's always been a fan of your writing.”
“I don't need groupies, I need a damn exorcist!” I shouted.
“Darlene is a physician, a very good one. Call this number first thing tomorrow and tell her that you must see her at once.”
“What if I'm going insane?” I asked Mike.
“Then I would say you're comin’ around to your old self.”
It was a long night. I paced back and forth through my apartment, unable to think straight, unable to talk on the phone, unable to relax. I tried to watch television but all they were showing were sitcoms featuring large flies, frogs and lizard-things. I went through a fifth of Jim Beam and several beers. The alcohol at least helped me to pass out. As I slid off to sleep, I kept thinking maybe I'd wake up to find that this had all been part of some terrifying dream.
I got up the next morning feeling much better. Except for an unusually brutal hangover, I felt like my normal self. My arms no longer tingled, my vision was clear and, best of all, my heart was beating at its usual pace. I looked out the window to catch a peek at my neighbors. They looked ugly and beaten and full of malice. However, they didn't look at all like insects. Whatever it was that had overtaken me the previous day at work had surely passed through my system. I didn't bother calling the doctor. I was cured. I went back to the Rivet Line, a very grateful rat.
The shift went by without incident. Of course, Sanders wrote me up for walking off my job. He asked what had happened to me. I told him that I had come down with stomach flu. Sanders said that he hoped I was feeling better. He crammed the penalty into my shirt pocket and marched off.
On Friday, two days after my bizarre crack-up, I got to work and was loading my stock bins full of muffler hangers and rivets. Another day, another dullard. We had about fifteen minutes before the line was to roll. Dougie was done building up his springs and walked over. He began chattering about some trivial matter when, clear out of the unholy blue, everything suddenly flipped. Here we went again! My arms and legs started tinglin’ and shakin’. My heart joined in, an atomic bongo thumpin’ some blue streak lick. Doug was still yappin’ when I grabbed for my keys and hit the aisleway. I didn't wanna be around when he switched into a grasshopper or something.
I sped home fully realizing that Wednesday had not been the strange fluke I had hoped it had been. I was fucked up in a big way. This wasn't like havin’ a broken leg. A broken leg would heal. You could retain all your senses. Who knew about this shit? Who knew what it even was?
Hopefully, Dr. Shea. I got her on the phone and tried my best to describe what I was experiencing. I doubt that I was even making sense. She had me come straight to her office.
We talked a while and she came to a preliminary diagnosis. “Ben, you appear to be suffering from severe panic disorder. This condition often manifests itself in the symptoms you are currently experiencing—the rapid heartbeat, numbness in the extremities, distorted vision, feelings of paranoia, disassociation, hopelessness—they all fit the pattern. What I will have you do is two things.