Katherine Schokalski MICKEY Illustration: Olwyn Morinsky
	How much would you pay for a “Mickey”? Five Bucks? May be ten? Maybe twenty five, if we are talking about Sunday night, all stores are closed and you REALLY need one… Tony without any doubt would have given up his life for this little flask of liquid bliss that in secrecy was splashing in a small glass bottle inside the right pocket of Tony’s fleece jogging pants, old soft and stretched in the knees. He just came back from an outing he was invited to by a tiresome and boring volunteer from an always caring “Friends of Schizophrenia” society. Tony was super happy to quarry this little precious trophy at the end of this long day and was proud of him-self for having drawn a good (decent) gulp of whiskey from his recent “ever-sober” and dull guardian and tutor of today. Of course nothing comes for free and Tony had to put some work into getting his wish fulfilled. As they say: “There is no free lunch”… This is an exaggeration; of course, one should simply know where to go. One thing is certain - no one could get booze for free, not even a “professional” freebee. No one, except for Tony. Today he did it. Oh, boy, praise the folly! It is truly the essence of life and the feeder of all rascals and scoundrels. What are we without them? Just as he spotted today’s good volunteer, Tony came up with a simple artless plan. Tony will be friendly and pleasant and will ask him to take Tony for a ride. In the car Tony will tell him how difficult, hard and arduous his life is, how misunderstood he is and how everyday he suffers from disrespect. Than he will add some colors to that picture and will create stories from his childhood. He will tell the volunteer how his whore of a mother ran away with her lover and how he was beaten up by his alcoholic father. How he was mocked for being poor and how ill-tempered children from his small community school would not accept him for who he was. Now tell me, who won’t be torched by this? What kind of stone cold heart would not buy that and keep from crying. Maybe someone… but here is the good news: there are no volunteers, especially from the “Schizophrenia Society” decorated with a stone heart. That means that the plan will most likely be successful. The main thing now – is to choose the right itineraries, or to make sure, that this good-hearted dummy will choose the route past the liqueur store. The rest is Tony’s business. Tony was not worried about the truth being revealed. This “Good Samaritan” will never be able to find out that Tony did have a very loving family, that his sisters are visiting him regularly, and that his life in the Rehab Centre was in clover: everyday he had freshly cooked good food, and his personal room was tidy and clean with a personal bathroom and a nice TV set. He will never find out that Tony gets to go on all sorts of outings several times a week and gets cigarettes every hour and a half. Even if he would find out Tony would explain to him that he Tony, was different and did not need all that junk. He needs only one thing – freedom, real freedom. Who can argue that freedom is not the only true virtue? If not for the stroke that Tony drank himself into a couple of years ago that finally crippled him, Tony would not aim for just a mickey. He could have swizzled a whole case of liqueur back then, but now… Now hoarse and with speech impairment he had to sing another tune and use his plaintive appearance rather than colorful picturesque speeches. Like in everything in life there was a positive touch in this miserable post stroke existence. To make one cry it was enough now to attach a pitiful, teary stare to a short story. Absolutely everything today was going as planned. The route for a ride was chosen smoothly – with not one, but two liqueur stores on the way. The two had plenty of time and spring weather was inspiring, encouraging everyone to love, do good deeds and enjoy life. The volunteer seemed to be already seasoned enough and ready for a feat. After a story about the sorrow childhood accompanied by a little glance of entreaty and supplication that Tony spiced with a tear shaking lower lip, the poor volunteer certainly was ready to give Tony his last and only shirt. “Now is the time” – thought Tony to himself and out loud, addressing him to the volunteer he hoarsely whispered: - What are they doing for me? Ah? Just push pills! Does that help me? No! Does anyone care? No! And Tony indignantly struck the air in front of him. “Of course… I understand,” replied the companioned volunteer. “I feel for you… So many patients! How difficult it must be for everybody! I only can imagine…” “Difficult!” one humble little freshly and timely squeezed tear streamed down Tony’s left cheek. “Difficult… Who has it the hardest? Ah? Who? I am asking you now? The patient,” replied Tony to his own question for the lack of answer from his conversation partner. “Do we have anything… anything in life that makes us happy? No, we don’t!” “Well, I guess you are right,” the volunteer was definitely moved by Tony’s little presentation and his face beamed compassion, concern and sympathy. “What can we do, though? How can we help? Really, me, for example… How? Let say today? Maybe we could do something special just today? Just so that this day would be remarkable, not like any other day. Can we somehow make it a very special day?” Tony was keeping silent. “Maybe you could tell me how?” insisted the volunteer once more. “What can I say … I don’t even want to waste my breath cause I know you won’t do it even though it is a mere bagatelle”. “Well… I’ll try,” and the volunteer looked at Tony as if he was saying that he was ready to listen and help regardless of what it will take. “You see… In a few days,” Tony’s voice was low and hoarse. “It will be my little brother’s day. He passed away quite a few years ago…” Tony fell silent skillfully suppressing his affected forced agitation, about his brother… Well it was of course a pure lie. Tony never had a brother. He had two sisters and both of them were well and lived not to far away from the Rehab Centre. But of course there is truth … and then there is truth. It has been long time since Tony learned to tell others stories that were far away from the real truth. Sometimes he was telling those stories to himself. They made him feel sorry for himself and that felt good. Were the stories true or was it a lie? Does it matter? It was his truth and sometimes he even believed in it. If one would try to refute, disprove his truth Tony would immediately throw a fit and his rage would scare, and intimidate everyone around him. For this kind of rage Tony had every right as he was officially attributed by clever doctors to the army of insane lunatics. This time, just like many times before, Tony’s new truth was calculated and had a very specific, very achievable goal. “Me and ma brotha… We were, like … inseparable…Where there was one – the other would be there too,” said Tony after a short silence. “Once he died, I became so lonely… One in the whole entire world… Sometimes I think I should have died together with him… I would love to, but… somehow it does not work. I am still alive. See?…” The volunteer’s eyes turned watery. He looked at Tony expressing love, compassion and understanding and inviting him to talk, to tell more and finally, share his cherished wish. “I thought… Maybe this year I could remember him. Just have a little drink on the day he died… Just sit there, have a drink all by myself and remember him. All those days we spent together… You know… It’s just like we had life back than… And now…” Tony nodded angrily. “In the Rehab… What am I going to remember him with? With orange juice? Or maybe decaffeinated coffee? I’m sure those doctors themselves drink every day. Does that mean they are going to offer me some? Even for a special occasion? No way!” Tony nodded again and swiped with his right hand in the most annoyed and exasperate way. “And you… What would you like to remember him with?” “ You see, usually my brotha and I had whisky to celebrate. Just a little, just so we could relax a little bit. So… I thought… maybe just a Mickey… The whole big bottle I do not even want to touch. Too much, you know. Bad for your health…And I do not have anyone to share it with, so one little Mickey would just do it for me. Just to remember him that day...” “Mickey – this is the small one? The 250 mills?” the Volunteer definitely was moving in the right direction. “Yeah! That’s what it is!” “Then we’ll just stop by a liqueur store on our way back and will grab one. You choose and I….I pay for it. Finally it’s not every day that one mourns on the day of the only brother’s death”. Tony decided to keep silence. He turned his face to the volunteer his eyes almost watery with expression of sincere gratefulness and gratitude. “Silence is gold,” said Tony to himself. “And this is exactly the case,” and just to be on the safe side he squeezed a stingy, lonely tear out of his right eye. * * * The two found a parking spot right in front of the liqueur store. The volunteer helped Tony to get out of the car and thoughtfully held the door to the store open for him. Tony was not rushing: he was carefully choosing a good Mickey for tonight – a quality, but not an expensive one: finally he was not some kind of egotistical jerk. He patiently waited for the volunteer to pay for it and as soon as this good deed was accomplished Tony expeditiously hid the treasure in his pocket and asked to bring him home. Another pleasant surprise was waiting for Tony at the rehab. All the workers on the unit – the nurse and her assistant, with whom he would have to spend the rest of the day, were casuals and novices. That meant that there was nobody to sniff or frisk him, and he Tony would be able to roll the unit for tonight. At the entrance hе said goodbye to the volunteer whose name he had long forgotten, and supporting himself on the walker jerked the door open. “I demand the increase of my daily tobacco ratio!” – barked Tony from the doorsteps looking straight at the young, tall and skinny nurse anxiously staring at him from behind the nursing station. “I want more smokes every day! I have the right to get it!!!” He knew damn well that his tobacco ratio was maxed out as it is and his doctor would never approve even a small increase but he also knew that an attack was the best form of defense. This rule never ever deceived him before. The nurse jumped to the cupboard with the clients’ files frightened by his yell and quickly leafed through his chart hoping to find the right answer to Tony’s demand exactly as he had expected. “Don’t worry… Please, don’t worry,” muttered the nurse her voice trembling. “Give me just one second, please. I’ll explain… In just a second…” “By the looks of it – you are more worried than I am,” snickered Tony to himself and using the perfect moment of confusion mastered by him in split seconds promptly rolled his precious treasure into his room. His left leg was making large, loud, angry steps while his right one was dragging carefully trying not to bang the bottle against the walker. The riddle could give away his little secret. The rest of the evening went by uneventful. Couple of times he bawled out at some of the clients. Just so… Just to persuade himself and others around him that this day and this evening was an ordinary one, no different from all the other days and evenings that he spent here in the last two years. This way no one would be suspicious and no one would even think of checking his room or watching him more carefully. A couple of times he dropped a package of smokes by the nursing station and demanded the nurse to pick it up for him that very second. “You are a public servant and I… I am the public! You have to serve me! Move!” yelled Tony hoarsely at the young girl through the loud wheezing. The nurse quickly dove under the walker just not to agitate “the poor client” and promptly fetched Tony’s smokes: “Here you are. Please, don’t you worry”. “That’s it,” was his reply, and instead of “thank you” he gave her an angry look and strolled away. “That’s it,” he repeated to himself, “now no one is gonna sniff around!” The evening was his. He was only anticipating the time alone with his dear Mickey. “There it is …My little one …” whispered Tony tenderly feeling the tiny bottle in his pocked. He flopped down onto his bed with his clothes on and began to wait for others to settle in their rooms. He waited for all sounds to be gone and for silence to begin. He waited for the moonshine to cut through the cold skies and gild his white windowsill. He waited for his loneliness… Sometimes those lonely nights made him remember. Now as if out of spite, the stupid memories were flooding his head. He did not like his memories and not because they were telling him how hurt he was. No. If someone was hurt – those were the people around him, and he was the hurting one. Nobody ever dared to touch him or to show him any disrespect. The nasty part of his memories was that he never could remember one day, one hour of his life when he simply felt happy. Those enthusiastic, delightful teenagers always in raptures over something that was surrounding him seemed to find happiness in anything. Any small and stupid thing could make them excited. Anything! “Oh! Hurray! Tomorrow is Valentine!” “Cool! My father gave me his old car!” “Ah! My parents and I are going for two weeks on vacation! We are going to fly an airplane!” “Retards!” thought Tony and sometimes spat it out loudly, “retards and morons!” At times he even thought they were a bit drafted or, maybe simply trying to fool him and themselves pretending to be happy. Really, deep down, they were just as empty, as angry and edgy as was Tony. Maybe they simply thought it was important to pretend to be happy? Well, he was not one of those. Time went by. The reasons to be happy for his teenage friends changed but their idiotic excitement was still there. Of course Tony knew they sometimes had bad days as well. For example if a guy has been dumped by his girlfriend he would naturally be down for quite some time but than he finds himself another love, and everything is rosy again. “Oh! Cool! Oh! Great! Oh! I’m so happy!” (deleted the second Again) Once when Tony was just sixteen he managed to unlock his father’s safe closet and snatched the whole bottle of whiskey. He almost downed it on his own and for the first time understood what it meant to feel happy. To say he felt absolutely happy would be of course an exaggeration. But it felt sticky, it felt slow, it felt lazy… It felt as if all his feelings were sucked into some kind of marsh. He felt so lazy that he did not even care to hate or be angry. Nothing mattered. It seemed as if he would not give a damn even if his house would burn down this very moment… “That’s LIFE!” thought Tony trying to strain the little part of his brain that was still capable of producing thoughts and… passed out… Next morning of course, Tony’s father found out about the missing bottle and Tony was in trouble. There were fists flying. Dad was yelling and screaming. He said that he would not take Tony with him to hunt for Tony’s seventeenth birthday. “Now!” he yelled, “the hell with you! I’am not taking you hunting! Never! Don’t even dream about it! How can I trust you now?!” Tony did not take that seriously. He knew there were almost two full months left until his birthday and it was not too hard to turn dad’s threats around. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. Just drop something like: “Dad, I want to be just like you when I grow up!” Then clean the chicken-house a couple times without a reminder. And that was it. Bruises from his dad’s fists wouldn’t last long. Besides, Tony was used to the fights by then. Sometimes he thought he even liked his father’s violence. No, he did not like the pain inflicted by his dad but rather something that this pain provoked in him. He liked the furious, raging anger, the vehement and fervent hatred that those fights were waking up in him. It was at least something colorful. Something much better then his everyday numbness. That year just as Tony anticipated, everything was fine by his seventeenth birthday. His dad forgot about all his threats and together with Tony he went for his usual autumn hunting trip. Now he knew what else could make him feel good besides the booze. To say “feel happy” would sound too strong again. One can hardly call happiness an exultation over a little embattled prey, small useless victim of a leisure hunt. They were hunting almost all day, got a whole bunch of birds and returned home by sundown. Daddy, as always, found his bottle of whisky and did not seem to need anyone else. Tony stayed in his room thinking about the rifle and how cool it would be to get it and go shooting and hunting on his own. Who would know that he could get this opportunity that same night? * * * Late in the evening after dinner some neighbors came by. They remembered that it was Tony’s birthday and came to say “Hi” to the “newborn” as they called him, and to have a chat with his parents. Everybody had some beer, then whiskey, then beer again… It happened to be a good get together. After midnight the quite tipsy guests left. Tony’s mom finally found her way to the bedroom and slept in. Daddy blacked out right there where he drank – in the living room, by the always-on-and-loud TV. Without any trouble Tony pulled the key to the safe with firearms from his dad’s pocket. Now a real gun was only steps away from Tony. He quietly opened up the safe, took dad’s favorite Ruger Deefield rifle and stepped out into the garden. In the black sky eternal distant stars were shadowing their trembling humble light into the crispy cold air. The chilly almost wintry October night crawled into the garden and exhaling frost spilled over the grass. Tony sat on the stairs his face numbing from cold. It felt as if the emptiness of that cold and lonely night was lying heavily on his chest and did not want to let his heart beat freely. “So… I am seventeen now… Hurray! Now what? “ thought Tony “Tomorrow is a school day again, and again I have to face those idiots with their perma-happiness: ‘Ah, so sweet! Ah, so cool!”… Then I’ll get home and will argue with mom again and will have to explain to her that I am not a slave to work in her house. Do I need it? Why the hell should I put this up? Do I have to be engaged in all this drudgery called ‘Life’?” Tony grabbed the rifle and aimed at one glimmering, flickering star somewhere up in the sky. He bent his pointer somewhere near the trigger and half whispered half exhaled: “Bang!” Then looked up at the tree tops barely distinguishable in the dark air: “Stupid stars! Too far to shoot…” He was right on that one. A bullet, small drop of plumb sent from the cold October night would not reach a star in a million years. “It won’t get there but do I really care?” kept Tony thinking. Well, he did not. His life was here, in this ugly marsh filled up with rapturous, ever-delighted morons surrounding him every single day… Tony looked at his feet dressed in old worn-out runners covered in mud with the back pressed into the sole, then at the crispy cold grass hardened by the frost, and a genius idea came to him: what if he would cut it off right now? What if he would just clear off from this strange place for ever? Where? Tony did not believe in God or the Devil, neither in the hell, nor in paradise. He did not care where he would go, just wanted to leave behind all that stupid everyday drag called life. And what a chance he had tonight! “On my birthday night… Just one shot and I’am out of here… Like a real guy too…” thought Tony, nodded his head and smiled to himself. That was the kind of death he could only dream about… Not to lose any more time, Tony turned his baseball cap backwards so that the cap peak would not be in the way and put the barrel to his chest where his heart was pounding heavily under the checkered cowboy shirt just an inch away from the cold metal of the weapon. Tony’s left arm supported the heavy rifle his right hand’s thumb on the trigger. The boy inhaled for the last time and slowly applied pressure… Shit!!! Why didn’t he shoot all the owls in the neighborhood first?! Just as he almost broke the resistance of the sensitive trigger and his goal was only a hair away something moved in the thick dark crown of the nearest pine tree. A few branches broke off, and a big heavy owl dashed out of the tree loudly flapping her strong wings. Tony’s left hand twitched and the right thumb pressed the trigger as if in a spasm… The bullet broached his chest just an inch or two above the heart. In powerless rage Tony fell down on the steps of the porch. He carefully felt the area where just seconds ago dad’s rifle was pointing to shoot through his heart. Blood! Sticky, still warm and already cooling down on the surface of his flannel shirt it smeared between the tips of his fingers. “Bloody loser!” yelled Tony in a weak voice. He spat and right away realized that his spittle fell on his own chest, somewhere near the wound. Could he cry right now he would but it seemed that mother-nature didn’t grant him even that small gift - the ability to cry, to shed tears and let all his heavy feelings out. The ability to let them go... In silence he lay there staring at the high, cold, dark unreachable skies. Woken up by the sound of the gunshot Tony’s mom and sisters appeared at the doorsteps on the porch. He heard them cry, squeak and yell, he heard them run into the house and try to wake up his sleeping drunken dad. Then there were sirens of an ambulance, and a couple of calm and easy-going nurses. There was a stretcher and a silent ride to the hospital. It felt as if someone turned off the light. No, it was not the light …those were all the lights in the world. It felt as though Tony was cast under the water and no noise or light, not even thoughts were able to reach him. It was a blissful NOTHING. Perhaps it was the place where Tony tried to get on the wings of the small plumb bullet from his father’s rifle? Now skillful doctors were trying hard to get him back, out of there. Than there were dressings and bandages, there were clean hospital smells and much later – endless visits to boring and stupid counselors, psychologists and psychiatrists: “Have you had suicidal thoughts before?” “………………………” “Were yopu planning to use your father’s rifle? “………………………” “Were you teased and mocked at school by your peers?” “………………………” “Have you been getting along with your parents and siblings?” “………………………” “What are the most pleasant memories of your childhood?” “………………………” “What if you had a magic wand? Just imagine….. You have a magic wand that can fulfill all your wishes. What would you wish for?” “………………………” “What kind of relations did you have in your family?” “………………………” Tony kept silent. He firmly decided not to talk with those idiots. What could he tell them? Did they really want to hear that the only thing he was regretting was the fact that because of the stupid owl he misfired? Was he suppose to share with them that had he had a magic wand he would first shoot all the owls and than finish what he planned? This time Tony had one wish only: he wanted to be left alone. He wanted all those morons to leave. He wanted them to stop asking him their idiotic questions. Pretty soon it became clear, that Tony was not wishing to communicate and maintain the dialog with experts. He was left alone and awarded with a fancy psychiatric diagnosis. Now he was getting the whole bunch of pills every single day. After that …. After that there were years of heavy drinking, successful and not so much so fistfights and close acquaintance with local cops… And now he was old and not as strong as before. They signed him out into some kind of fancy “experimental rehabilitation facility”. What was he supposed to be rehabilitated from? He did not give a damn, nor did he care. If someone would offer him a magic wand, he would first try to get rid of all the doctors because it was them who pulled him back from NOTHINGNESS on that remote October night. After that he would have gotten all the owls, and at the very end, he would have taken care of himself. The clock on the wall was ticking its eternal hobbling rhythm, and all even the most restless patients of the rehab probably slept by now. It was quiet. Out of the pocket of his fleece vest Tony fetched two round white pills that he managed to sneak at dinner time, when the evening meds were dispensed. He carefully cleaned them from the flakes of tissue that his pockets were always stuffed with and sat down on his bed. It was Tony’s old proven effective recipe, which he called “Tony’s cocktail”. He liked the supper-buzz he was getting from mixing hard liqueur with the pills prescribed by his psychiatrist. This mix was just cutting off all his thoughts and feelings and gave some rest to his heart tired and worn out by anger and hatred. He put the two little pills on the tip of his tongue. Tony opened his little bottle of whiskey and made the first generous gulp. It felt hot. The gulp of whiskey rolled down his throat, warmed up the stomach and immediately requested a gasp of fresh air. Rapidly and loudly Tony sniffed the stuffy air of his room and made another gulp. II All mornings in the rehab are the same. Tony gets up, wets his face so that the nurse would think he had a shower, gets his pills and goes to the breakfast table. For breakfast he usually gets porridge, cheese and a couple of eggs, and usually his breakfast is delivered to his table. Everyone in his care would prefer to bring him his food rather than provoke his anger. When angry, Tony was scary. He knew that and was using it smartly. This morning though he did not feel well. His lips seemed unwilling to shape words, his tongue was heavy, and his right leg did not want to move. Unsuccessfully he tried to explain to the new caregiver what his usual breakfast was but could not articulate even the most common words. The novice could not understand him, and Tony blew up: after another attempt to explain himself Tony chucked a flowery plastic glass at the caregiver. He missed but the fact itself that a patient is throwing objects at staff members created panic as always. Those stupid morons called everything “weapon” even if it was an orange or an empty and weightless plastic glass. That was exactly what happened this time.: “An object was used to…” heard Tony someone reporting on the phone. “Oh yes, one definitely can say ‘violence’…” Of course, the nurse arrived immediately with her stupid questions like “Why did you throw a glass?” and “What made you so upset?” Tony really wanted to say something colorful to her but his tongue did not want to move at all, and instead of words he mumbled something incomprehensible. “Something is wrong with him!” shrieked the nurse. “He might have a stroke! Quickly! Somebody! Call the ambulance!” Just minutes later a couple of muscled guys were dragging Tony on a stretcher and a minute later he was already rushed to the hospital. Than there was the same routine well known to him: “Your name?” “Your place of birth?” “Your year of birth?” “Your card number?” Someone answered all the questions for Tony, and he was rolled into the waiting room. A few more minutes passed, and through the corner of his eye Tony saw a strongly-built gentleman approaching him swiftly and quietly. The gentleman was in his late forties, with thick gray hair and rectangular frameless glasses carrying a notebook in his hand. His feet packed into soft and shiny shoes of brown leather were making quick, firm, confident and at the same time quiet steps. A young girl, perhaps a nurse or a student, was following him just a step behind. “A doctor…” thought Tony. “This is the kind I hate the most, and….” – But even his thoughts were tangled by now in his head. The doctor reached Tony’s bed and opened a skinny folder passed to him by his assistant. He quickly skimmed through the page and looked at Tony a little bit above his tiny glasses: “Well my friend, how are we doing today?” “U-u-u-a-a-an!” Tony tried to swear but even the swearwords refused to comply. He angrily cut the air right in front of him looked at the doctor and spat on the floor right beside his bed. Oh, I do understand you my friend,” the doctor tried to comfort Tony. “Do not get upset. We will take good care of you, and you will be just fine”. The intonation itself, the way this doctor was speaking was clearly giving away his belonging to the upper class, and for some reason that was making Tony really mad. “U-u-ua-a-h-ah-u!” he tried to reply, again attempting to scramble sounds together and form some words. “Please, don’t trouble yourself my friend. Really, it is not good for you now. Just try to relax,” the doctor smiled at Tony in the friendliest way and started making notes in his notebook. “A-a-a-u-u-u!” Mumbled Tony and pointed at doctor’s notebook. “Ah-h! I guess now I understand you my friend! That is quite brilliant indeed! You want to write instead of trying to speak? Brilliant! Susan, please, would you give this gentleman your clip-board and a pen?” In just seconds all items, mentioned by the doctor were passed on to Tony. Thank God one hand was still working and for the first time in many years a genuine happy smirk touched his face. With an effort he scribbled something on the piece of paper and returned it to the doctor’s assistant. She read while Tony watched carefully for her reaction. “Here…” She definitely seemed confused. “Here… I don’t think it is important… Clinically important, I mean…” “It is OK,” the doctor evidently decided to assess the writing himself. “Everything can turn out to be an important clinical piece,” and he carefully pulled the paper out of his assistant’s hands. “Fuck off” stated Tony’s message in big clumsy letters “Well, most likely you are right. It may not necessarily be important clinically,” and the doctor gave Tony a quick and careful look. U-u-u-ah-a-a-a!” mumbled Tony once again pointing at Sue with his tobacco-stained yellow finger. “Sue, would you please give him another sheet? He seems to be a little bit upset, I can certainly understand that.” Once again the assistant passed on to Tony her clip-board and a pen. And once again a short message was ready to go in just minutes. This time Tony insisted that doctor reads the note himself. To make sure that he was understood, he pointed his finger at the doctor and mumbled something again. The Doctor got him and took the paper from Tony’s hands. “Fuck YOU!” was scribbled there this time. Tony shook his head as if in support of the written and just read statement and tried to smile. Doctor looked at him again. He stood up, whispered something to his assistant and gave Tony another look: “Well, my friend… I will see you later. Take care, and, please try to calm down and enjoy yourself.” Still mumbling, Tony made an attempt to grab the doctor’s chair by the leg and throw it at the moron but the doctor was clever and quickly pulled the chair out of Tony’s reach while Tony angrily and helplessly spat on the floor and threw himself on the narrow hospital bed. He was sweating and anger was strangling him. III The very clever nurse from the rehab was right. Tony did have a stroke and he died later the same night. This time luck was on his side, and doctors could not bring him back. The very next day, a letter written by Tony’s psychiatrist was sent to everyone in his care. Here is what it said: “It is a very sad day for all of us. Yesterday one of our clients Tony C. passed away in hospital. He was a courageous man. That is with dignity and pride that he withheld all the difficulties and ordeals of his life. His beautiful heart, his pleasant manners and nice temper helped him to acquire a lot of friends. His life was not easy, and we can call him a true hero of our time. Our memories about Tony will always be beautiful.”