unplugged

He is wearing a blue hospital gown and bright yellow footies. Several multi-colored electrode wires are sprouting like weeds from his chest.

None of this is odd.

But the pack of Marlboro Gold cigarettes and red Bic lighter in his right hand is. So is the fact he’s slowly bobbing and weaving down a ramp to the street below.

The hospital chaplain is concerned.

·       Does the patient have permission to disconnect himself from a heart monitor?

·       Does staff know he’s gone AWOL?

·       Is he medically competent and physically able to do what he’s doing?

The chaplain feels a responsibility to check on the man’s safety. He’s eager to get home after a long shift, but duty calls.

He’s compelled as his brother’s keeper and by a phrase in his job description: “other duties as assigned.”

The chaplain passes the stranger on the ramp. He is careful to avoid a collision and passes the man on his right. As he does, he glances over to get a better look at the escaped prisoner.

The man is laser focused on his feet. He appears to recognize the importance of making sure his descent goes without incident. He veers towards the chaplain but somehow manages to will his body back into its own lane.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah…just getting outside for a while to have a smoke.”

The chaplain’s first assumption is confirmed. The guy just wants a cigarette. As a former smoker, he can empathize.

The man’s head tilts up and to the left. He makes eye contact with his new friend.

“How about you? You doing ok?”

There’s a vibe of kindness in the air.

The chaplain initiated contact and the stranger apparently appreciates him doing so.

“Yeah.”

They are side by side now, slowly navigating the downward slope in unison. Neither of them is making much progress in terms of descent.  

“I hope to get out tomorrow.”

“That’s great! Home sweet home!”

The chaplain revels in the man’s good news. Scores of patient visits have taught him a nearly universal truth: nobody wants to be in the hospital.

The man laughs. But what he says next is not funny.

“Except I don’t have a home.”

The chaplain is taken aback by this response. He briefly mulls over how to respond. After an awkward pause, he decides to speak.  

“It stinks to be in the hospital.”

Right or wrong, that’s what tumbles out of his mouth.

“Yeah, it does.”

While the stranger agrees with the chaplain’s observation, any further conversation isn’t necessary.

The man stops and looks down at his right hand. The gold and white package in his palm commands his full attention.

He raises his arm and taps the package on the side of his left hand. One filtered volunteer emerges a little more than all the others. He grasps the victim by the filter, pulls it out and places it between his lips.

This is all done in slow motion. It’s either a cherished ritual or due to some kind of physical or mental impairment. Perhaps a little of both.

What’s about to happen is much more important than connecting with another human being. The chaplain is now an afterthought. Priority calls.

The man seems mesmerized as his left hand takes the pack of cigarettes from his right. That frees the latter to use the Bic lighter unencumbered.

His thumb strums the sparker wheel, but nothing happens. He does it a second time with the same result.

The man’s mood changes. He is not happy with this result.

He flicks the wheel a third time and out comes the flame. The vibe changes. The man is pleased.

But now the cigarette must be lit. It is something he has done many times, but today it is more challenging than usual.

For some reason he can’t seem to make it happen. It’s such a simple thing, but for some reason it doesn’t happen. The cigarette and lighter are both ready, but they can’t seem to get on the same page.  

The man is unhappy again.

But his mood improves a second time. It is achieved by moving his face closer to the flame and bringing his hand closer to his face.

Success.

This is what he’s been yearning for. This is what compelled him to unplug himself from a heart monitor and leave the hospital.

The man looks straight ahead. Even though they are standing side by side, it’s as if the chaplain doesn’t exist anymore. He’s not the priority and never has been.

He watches as the man closes his eyes and takes a long drag. Smoke eventually streams out of his nostrils like twin waterfalls. A little bit sneaks out of the mouth as well, but not much. 

His technique is not that of a newbie or an actor pretending to smoke. This is no amateur.

This is a man who knows what he’s doing, someone who’s mastered his chosen craft. The stranger may not be dressed like it, but he’s a modern-day Marlboro Man.   

The man grunts. Or maybe it’s a sigh. Regardless, it communicates both pleasure and relief.

His right arm stays in the cocked position and readies itself for a second helping.

But before partaking, the man decides to put a bow on the conversation. Even though he himself has long since moved on, the chaplain has not. Physically speaking the intruder is still standing at his side.

“You have a good evening.”

It’s a sincere but firm end to their brief interaction. He stares straight ahead at nothing in particular. He’s giving his temporary friend a non-verbal cold shoulder.

Nothing to see here, mister. Time to move on.

The chaplain takes the hint and says, “You too.”

He makes his way down the rest of the ramp, crosses the street and heads for his car at the far end of the parking lot.

After walking for a while he glances over his left shoulder for a final look. Sure enough, he can still see the man. Somebody wearing a blue hospital gown and yellow footies is easy to spot. Especially if he has multi-colored electrode wires sprouting from his chest.

The man has somehow made it down the ramp and is standing in the middle of the street. Cars give him a wide berth, unsure of his intentions. Despite the close calls, his right hand stays busy delivering a cigarette to his anxious lips.

The chaplain looks away. He doesn’t want to see any harm come to the stranger and tries to console himself.

“I tried to help the guy…I did my best…What else could I have done?”

The pep talk doesn’t work. He’s not convinced and feels like a total failure.

He gets in his car, leaves the parking lot and comes to a stop at the top of a hill. He looks to his right and there, not 10 feet away, is the stranger. He somehow made it across the street without getting hit.

The man is sitting on a curb facing the hospital, the very place that imprisoned him. He lights a second cigarette using the red-hot butt of the first.

He is oblivious to the chaplain’s presence or the cars zipping back and forth in front of him.

Sitting on a curb, head down and smoking, the man looks right at home.

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