“Little Pink Prison”
By
Ronald M. Walters
Indeed, this is a prison different than all others. There are no bars on the windows, nor is the door composed of braced steel. The rattle of machine guns and the wail of sirens do not sound an alarm when an inmate escapes, and the guards with their oddly designed uniforms guard nothing but their health.
The walls are decorated with a warm, delicate shade of pink and are more than abundantly dotted with windows. And sixteen beds numbered from one to seventeen adorn its contaminated interior number thirteen is omitted for good luck.
We, the contaminated inmates, are here because we were suddenly discovered and caused to refrain from society. And our penalty is imposed for the safety of many and the health of as many others. Most of us gladly accept its merciful reward--our lives.
Outside of the coward’s excuse, there are precisely three ways to escape this pinkly enhanced prison. The first is that famous pine-scented wooden box. The second is a pardon for slow behavior which includes a scenic trip to a restful sanitarium. That last is the surgeon’s knife with its splendid curative power.
But we inmates are proud to be imprisoned here. Why? Simply because we know that the instant one of us walks through those unlocked doors we knowingly become predators of society. We know that one un-stifled sneeze becomes an inconspicuous spray of bacteria ready to attack an unsuspecting citizen. One uncontrolled cough, one innocent spit loosed carelessly at the sidewalk and we maraud without warning the health and happiness of playing children.
Our specially tempered prison could be anywhere in the world. It isn’t. It’s hidden deep in a modern cavern of steel and brick that the government sculptured into a hospital. Here in a small pink corner on the fourteenth floor sixteen veterans are again united in comradeship by a common enemy. The doctors call it Tuberculosis. Most people call it T.B. We call it the bug.
My name is Sam Brewster--married--two kids. Me and the finance company did own an automobile and a new home, and we did own and operate a service station on a going corner. We did until business got too good, and I went to work double shifts in a selfish attempt at keeping it that way. Instead of showing a big fat profit, I committed the crime of self-abuse, faced a jury of doctors, was found guilty, isolated at first, then officially entered into this pink caldron of disease. And the finance company resolved our partnership.
But that isn’t the story. This is the story of what happens to men when they are partitioned away from society in a little pink room where patience becomes the abrasive quality of boredom in an effort to rid themselves of a disease.
Outside in the other world, the early morning sun was making long square shadows out of long square buildings. Inside, an attendant was energetically dropping ice into the shining steel pots that are our water fountains. Our pink cell was being introduced to a new day.
Usually, I was the second person to awake, but that particular morning I was a shade quicker than old man Claus. He was a Spanish American War product by the full name of Benjamin J. Claus. He sat slightly hunched in the chair beside his bed with his body wreathed in blankets from head to foot giving him the appearance of an indian huddled before a campfire. A few years ago he had been involved in an accident that had cemented his spinal column into an inflexible line. Now he spends both day and night resting (if you want to call it that ) in a padded chair.
But for all his troubles, he was a cheerful guy. And his physical appearance, with the exception of the beard, bore a startling resemblance to an other man named Claus.
As if my gaze had penetrated the blankets, he shrugged into motion. Rubbing his head vigorously, he yawned a greeting to the awakening world.
I beamed a smile his way and said, “Morning Ben.”
“Morning Sam.” He grinned back.
“Rest good last night?” I asked.
“Yep,” he answered, “Sure did!”
I pointed out the window and commented, “Looks like a nice day.”
“Yep, Ben smiled, “Gonna be a right nice day for a stroll through the park.”
“Sure. If we had a park!” I gave him the stock reply.
Ben chuckled and started toward the bathroom.
Angelo Nickolasodemos--Nicky for short--sat up in bed and stretched his muscular arms to shake off the previous night’s dreams. He was a veteran of the Korean campaign and a dark haired Adonis with an obvious Greek ancestry.
He propped himself on one elbow, grabbed a cigarette from the bedside locker, lit it, then leaned back and blew a white cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He gave me a halfhearted smile and said, “They should be in with the banana-cart before long.” He paused then added, “Shouldn’t they?”
That day was his second try for surgery. On the first attempt the operation had been postponed because he had one of those rare types of blood and there wasn’t enough available to get through the entire operation.
I gave him a big brother look and asked, “Worried?”
“No!”
“Relax then!”
“I am relaxed. It’s just this sweating it out that gets you. I don’t see why they don’t knock a guy out in the middle of the night so he won’t know when it happens.” His voice reeked with exasperation.
“They usually do!” I replied.
Outside in the other world, the early morning sun was making long square shadows out of long square buildings. Inside, an attendant was energetically dropping ice into the shining steel pots that are our water fountains. Our pink cell was being introduced to a new day.
Usually, I was the second person to awake, but that particular morning I was a shade quicker than old man Claus. He was a Spanish American War product by the full name of Benjamin J. Claus. He sat slightly hunched in the chair beside his bed with his body wreathed in blankets from head to foot giving him the appearance of an indian huddled before a campfire. A few years ago he had been involved in an accident that had cemented his spinal column into an inflexible line. Now he spends both day and night resting (if you want to call it that ) in a padded chair.
But for all his troubles, he was a cheerful guy. And his physical appearance, with the exception of the beard, bore a startling resemblance to an other man named Claus.
As if my gaze had penetrated the blankets, he shrugged into motion. Rubbing his head vigorously, he yawned a greeting to the awakening world.
I beamed a smile his way and said, “Morning Ben.”
“Morning Sam.” He grinned back.
“Rest good last night?” I asked.
“Yep,” he answered, “Sure did!”
I pointed out the window and commented, “Looks like a nice day.”
“Yep, Ben smiled, “Gonna be a right nice day for a stroll through the park.”
“Sure. If we had a park!” I gave him the stock reply.
Ben chuckled and started toward the bathroom.
Angelo Nickolasodemos--Nicky for short--sat up in bed and stretched his muscular arms to shake off the previous night’s dreams. He was a veteran of the Korean campaign and a dark haired Adonis with an obvious Greek ancestry.
He propped himself on one elbow, grabbed a cigarette from the bedside locker, lit it, then leaned back and blew a white cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He gave me a halfhearted smile and said, “They should be in with the banana-cart before long.” He paused then added, “Shouldn’t they?”
That day was his second try for surgery. On the first attempt the operation had been postponed because he had one of those rare types of blood and there wasn’t enough available to get through the entire operation.
I gave him a big brother look and asked, “Worried?”
“No!”
“Relax then!”
“I am relaxed. It’s just this sweating it out that gets you. I don’t see why they don’t knock a guy out in the middle of the night so he won’t know when it happens.” His voice reeked with exasperation.
“They usually do!” I replied.
His voice raised slightly and took on a hint of frustration, “Sam,” He said, “just as sure as I’m living they’re going to cancel me again!”
“Well, it’s not your fault.” I shrugged. “And neither is it the fault of the doctors. They can’t operate without the blood, and their hands are tied until they can get it.”
Nicky dropped his head disgustedly and said, “Yeah, I know! But you’d think in this day and age people would give up fifteen lousy minutes out of one lousy year to give one pint of blood. Wouldn’t you?”
“Well, it’s not your fault.” I shrugged. “And neither is it the fault of the doctors. They can’t operate without the blood, and their hands are tied until they can get it.”
Nicky dropped his head disgustedly and said, “Yeah, I know! But you’d think in this day and age people would give up fifteen lousy minutes out of one lousy year to give one pint of blood. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah! You’d think that!” I agreed.
Nicky jumped out of bed and picked up his shaving gear. He hesitated, turned and exclaimed, “Nuts! The next time I get born I’m going to get me a common ordinary kind of bubbles for blood!” He made for the bathroom wearing his usual carefree grin.
Studs Logsdon planked his tall lanky frame on the floor and started his everyday journey back and forth across our pink cell. In an action simultaneous with that movement he cried out his only mannerism of speech, “Boy! I can’t stand this stuff!”
Studs Logsdon planked his tall lanky frame on the floor and started his everyday journey back and forth across our pink cell. In an action simultaneous with that movement he cried out his only mannerism of speech, “Boy! I can’t stand this stuff!”
Occasionally he would express his only other emotion. He kept a picture of his wife on his locker which he would pick up and clutch tightly against his chest as he walked incessantly about the room.
The bug had not only destroyed one of his lungs, but had caused him to retreat to the edge of insanity where he remained on a questionable balance. The doctors said that he had never adjusted to the conditions of the disease and in all probability never would. A little weasel of a man complained from the other side of the room. “Why don’t somebody slow that stupid jerk down? He makes me nervous!”
The man’s name was Wilber Tuttle, and by far the most disgusting of individuals. He didn’t merely wash his face like most men, he sponged it. After shaving, he had to use an imported brand of lotion that smelled suggestively of cherry blossoms. But the greatest farce about him was when he pulled out his ten-cents-a-quart hair tonic and tried to spread a few sickly looking hairs over the entire area of his head.
When Tuttle wasn’t primping himself, he was fighting World War I. When he wasn’t single handedly winning his war, he was complaining about the terrible treatment he was getting. In between times he picked on poor defenseless Studs to show the rest of us what a wise man he was.
The bug had not only destroyed one of his lungs, but had caused him to retreat to the edge of insanity where he remained on a questionable balance. The doctors said that he had never adjusted to the conditions of the disease and in all probability never would. A little weasel of a man complained from the other side of the room. “Why don’t somebody slow that stupid jerk down? He makes me nervous!”
The man’s name was Wilber Tuttle, and by far the most disgusting of individuals. He didn’t merely wash his face like most men, he sponged it. After shaving, he had to use an imported brand of lotion that smelled suggestively of cherry blossoms. But the greatest farce about him was when he pulled out his ten-cents-a-quart hair tonic and tried to spread a few sickly looking hairs over the entire area of his head.
When Tuttle wasn’t primping himself, he was fighting World War I. When he wasn’t single handedly winning his war, he was complaining about the terrible treatment he was getting. In between times he picked on poor defenseless Studs to show the rest of us what a wise man he was.
I tossed him a dirty look and headed for the bathroom myself.
That’s how a really extraordinary day began in our pink one room cell. It was later in the evening to be exact; and Nicky, Ben, and I were indulging in our daily game of matchstick poker.
Nicky turned toward Ben and asked, “How do you manage to stay so cheerful all the time”
That’s how a really extraordinary day began in our pink one room cell. It was later in the evening to be exact; and Nicky, Ben, and I were indulging in our daily game of matchstick poker.
Nicky turned toward Ben and asked, “How do you manage to stay so cheerful all the time”
“Tain’t hard son,” Ben paused long enough to expose three aces and rake in the pot, “Ya see I’ve been a bachelor all my life. Here it ain’t bad at all. Plenty of company and I got to admit that they sure cook the 'vittles better’n I do.”
Curiously, I asked, “Do you mean to say that you’ve cooked for yourself all your life?”
Ben grinned philosophically, his mustache trying hard to come out of his ears and said, “Not quite son. I just mix up my own brand of mess and let the stove do the rest.” He adopted a stern look and continued, “Kept a pot of something boiling most of my life. Never could keep the burnt taste out though.”
Nicky smiled, “Boy you must have had a rough go of it. You ought to get you a woman from now on.”
“Not on 'yer ding-dong daddy!” Ben retorted making an injured pride. “I ain’t had an argument with a woman in my whole life and I ain’t gonna start now!”
It was at that instant that we heard the announcement of our temporary reprieve from boredom. It was in the shape of a voice about the size of a small clap of thunder, and it was roaring, “I hope 'yer guardian angel drops dead! Be-gorry...how kin you expect a man to get well without a little innocent spirit to help calm him along?”
The voice, dragging a half-frightened nurse, burst through the door. It was coming from a red headed, red faced, raw boned Irishman.
And it was hard to tell whether the color was from the whiskey, his anger, or was merely the proper shade of red for a well blemished Irishman to be wearing.
Kitty Richards, the nurse, maneuvered him toward a bed prudently trying to calm him down. She handed him a pair of pajamas and told him to put them on. Nr. O’Neal, as she called him, cocked his head and eyed’ the pajamas suspiciously. He said, “Sure now child. 'Yer not planning to put Mike O’Neal in this dainty contraption, are ye now?”
Kitty cooed her reply, “Why of course, Mr. O’Neal! Hospital rules you know.”
Thunder clapped again, “Be-gorry it’s a conspiracy. I’ve been sleeping in me ‘long johns’ for many a year now, and I’ll be burned in Hades before I’ll be put in them dainties!”
Kitty responded with her own brand of temper. She stamped her foot and screamed back, “Now you listen to me you big baboon! Either you start behaving like a gentleman, or you can just get out of here!”
Nicky, coming to Kitty’s defense, grinned at Mike and said, “You, my friend, have just been burned by Hades!”
“Saints be blessed! I think you’re right lad!” Mike’s voice was two shades less in anger.
Kitty turned her beautiful brown eyes on Nicky and sighed, “Thanks loads, Nicky.” Her voice carried one more implication than a note of thanks.
Mike O’Neal was pacified. He gave the room a bleary survey then he and his load of whiskey closed his eyes and quickly snored into a sound sleep.
There was much speculation about the character of mike O’Neal that night. We viewed him somewhat skeptically, afraid that our pink prison had just turned from blunt boredom into a first class turmoil.
It took him a matter of seconds when he arose the next morning to dispel any ferment of rudeness that he might have inaugurated. He awakened with the atmosphere of a life long friend and slugged everyone with a big comrade like grin. It took him only an hour or two longer to become the champion of Studs Logsdon. Then he spent the rest of the day making shambles out of boredom and oiling the rusty cogs of laughter among the rest of us.
Not being sufficiently orientated the first morning, Mike either missed or ignored Tuttle’s daily transgression against Studs. But the next day things went a bit differently. Little Wilber arose as cocky and contemptible as ever and issued another of his smug, meager-minded illiteracy's. He sputtered indignantly at Studs, “Why don’t you get a gun and end everbody's troubles?”
Mike breathed fire and charged across to Tuttle’s bedside. He stuck a huge hairy fist under Wilber’s nose and said, “See that, you mealy-mouthed weasel? One more bit of nonsense from you and I’ll mash that frilly nose of yours all over your dainty little face.” His words, although distorted with his brogue, were as crisp as an ax against a heavy log on a cold fall morning.
Tuttle squirmed nervously and squeaked, “Now don’t get mad! I didn’t mean nothing by it. I was just trying to help calm him down!”
“'Yer kind of help ain’t needed. And I’ll thank ye to keep 'yer puny mouth shut from now on!” He rubbed his fist against Wilber’s nose to add emphasis to his statement. Needless to say Tuttle got the point.
That evening Mike joined our game of matchstick poker and was officially accepted into our society. He proved to be well gifted with gab, but a lousy poker player. It took only about forty-five minutes of his Irish brand of humor for us to clean him of all his matches.
He shoved his chair away from the card table and said, “Me friends, this is no kind of game for an honest Irishman to be in.” He flashed a smile my way and continued, “What they got you in here for, Sammy?”
“The name’s not Sammy, Mike. It’s Sam. And I’m here for the same reason you are.”
He looked at Ben. “And you, Ben-- you here for the same thing?”
“Yep!” Ben answered tersely.
Mike was obviously unaware that he had T.B. With his face drawn into a puzzled frown he turned toward Nicky, “Tell me lad...what black fate has befallen me?”
Nicky, sensing a chance to ham it up, placed his palm on his forehead, dropped his head slightly, and said while his other hand waved artistically, “My buddy, you have been kissed by the fickle hand of fate to bear with or without honor a disease called Tuberculosis. Because you have been chosen, you are now imprisoned in this pink cell; and so shall ye remain until you’re arrested!” He dropped all manner of pretense and laughed, “Get it? The only prison in the world that you have to get arrested to get out of!”
Mike missed the point entirely. “As far as this tuberculosis stuff goes, I’ll have that licked in a couple of weeks --but they aren’t gonna keep Mike O’Neal locked up in a prison!”
I interrupted in an effort to soothe his fast mounting anger.
“The door isn’t locked Mike. Nobody will force you to stay. You can walk out of here anytime you want to.”
“What’s this business about a prison then?”
“Mike, it takes a long time to cure T.B. If you decide to take the cure you’ll have to remain in this room for months. If you decide to leave you’ll spread your disease among hundreds of other people, including some defenseless children. It’s your choice, Mike. Stay and wait it out in this room, or walk out and become a menace to yourself and society!”
Mike shook his head and pondered the information. “Well now, that’s a different kind of story.” He said.
Kitty Richards wheeled her medicine cart into our tiny prison and changed the topic of conversation. Her wholesome and suggestive curves fitted neatly behind the surgical gown she was wearing. And above the surgical mask, sparkling brown eyes peeked from below well groomed eyebrows. Her perfume taunted the imagination of all of us. And her voice was more of a sexy moan than a clear articulation.
She said from across the room, “Okay 'fellas. Time to chase a few bugs with a little of our special medicine cocktail.”
She ignored the usual moans and walked over to our corner. She looked at Mike and said, “Well, Mr. O’Neal...I see you’ve met the other rascals.” Rascals was her pet name for all the inmates.
“Sure child. And a fine bunch they are too!” Mike beamed.
“Good,” Kitty replied then added, “I’m glad you like them.”
Then the gaze of a dark haired boy and a brown eyed girl locked passionately. For want of a better thought, Nicky asked, “How are you tonight angel?”
Their gazes still interlocked, Kitty murmured her reply, “Lonely!”
Mike, as alert as a frightened fox, smashed the momentary trip to cloud nine with an astute observation. “What have we here now... a budding romance?”
Kitty’s face turned red and she wilted away in sudden attention to her nursing duties, while Nicky, adorned with the shame faced embarrassment of a child, merely hung his head.
So the T.B. bug bit a raw-boned Irishman and dropped a spark of happiness into our boring little prison. I guess you would have to call Mike a natural born public relations man. Because of his escapades our exiguous area no longer seemed confined. The pink walls merely disappeared and were forgotten about.
As a nurse, Mike, soon excelled. He reached out to somewhere and broke off a tiny piece of life and pushed it into the human hulk called Studs. Then he cultured and nourished it until it began to smolder into a certainty. What the doctors said wouldn’t be done, Mike was doing.
The only abstainer in the entire group was Wilber Tuttle. He had retreated into his own smoldering kingdom, and he sat day after day with his beady eyes chasing Mike around the room. Hatred burned and seethed in him like a growing tumor, waiting for the opportunity to gain his vengeance.
The romance that had lain almost hidden between Nick and Kitty dawned into a promising love affair with some persistent prodding by Mike. Hardly a minute passed by without Nicky getting one of Mike’s cupid like darts broadside.
Mike was an obstinate guy and some few days later he was able to end his efforts at playing cupid.
Things had been unusually quiet and we were sitting in one of our regular late evening bull-sessions. Nicky had been in a strange contemplative mood since early afternoon. Mike laid a fatherly hand on Nicky’s shoulder and asked, “What’s the matter lad...something bothering you?”
Nicky sighed and replied, “Yeah, Mike. I’m in love with Kitty, but I can’t get up enough nerve to tell her.”
“That’s no problem lad. Just use a little will-power.”
“But how?” Nick queried, “How can a guy propose in a room full of screwballs like this? Tell the truth...Did you ever see an environment less romantic than this?”
Mike shrugged the question off, “Look lad, if you love the girl don’t let anything stand in your way. And don’t worry about these monkeys...I’ll make sure you have enough privacy!”
“Okay,” Nicky said, “I’ll try it, Mike.” But his voice was lacking in enthusiasm.
As if by prearranged signal Kitty came bustling through the door and Mike pressed his advantage. He called, “Hey! Kitty! Come here quick!”
“What is the matter Mike? You look worried.” She said.
Mike replied, “It’s not me, Kitty. It’s Nicky!”
With a sudden look of consternation she grabbed Nicky by the wrist in a professional gesture. While the rest of us eased out of the situation she said, “What’s wrong Nicky? Why didn’t you tell me sooner that something was wrong? Your pulse is too fast -- I’m going to get the doctor right away!” She turned and started toward the door.
“No!” Nicky blurted, “Wait a minute will you? I’m not sick!”
“What’s the matter then?”
“Kitty, I’m in love with a girl!”
Kitty’s eyes took on a radiant look of hope and she said, “Oh! Well she must be a lucky girl, Nicky. Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t know how lucky she is,” Nicky replied still being evasive, “but I know I love her!”
Tears began to form in kitty’s eyes but they were tears of happiness. And beneath the surgical mask that hid her face her chin was also quivering. Her voice was almost a whisper as she asked, “What is she like, Nicky? Is she pretty?”
Nicky was confused, and on the defensive but at last he blurted, “Yes! She’s very pretty! I mean I know she’s pretty! I mean...ah...ah...well, Heck! I’ve never seen all of her face!” Then he said it, “It’s you kitty. It’s you. You’re the girl I’m in love with!”
“Oh, Nicky!” Kitty exclaimed as she tore the mask away from her face. Her brown eyes sparkling, her face a beautiful glowing picture, she whispered, “I love you too, Nicky! I love you from the bottom of my heart!”
“Will you marry me as soon as I get out of here?”
“Yes, Nicky! Oh! Yes..Yes...Yes..” she cried.
And in one whirling motion the kids were locked deep in a passionate embrace.
A mellow mood permeated our pink abode that evening. I wore a big happy smile, but it couldn’t begin to match the one Mike had spread all over his face. Even Ben, who you wouldn’t expect to be inclined toward romantic things was radiating smug satisfaction.
Little did we realize that for us happiness and contentment had reached a peak that day. For the very next morning tragedy struck our tiny prison with the pink walls, and Mike’s era came to an end.
It was before breakfast and Mike was out taking a shower. Studs, unaware of any ill feelings in the cell (in fact, he was barely yet aware there were people other than Mike in the room) wandered too close to Tuttle’s bed and stood looking out a window.
Tuttle seized his opportunity for revenge. He eased up cautiously beside Studs and began oozing out his sneaky brand of violence. “What’s the matter stupid?” he asked, “Lonesome for someone? You can hear me can’t you stupid? Can’t you? You can hear every word I say!”
Studs looked at him vaguely.
Wilber continued his venomous chat, “Nice world out there isn’t it.”
He raised the window and let a cold blast of air hit Studs in the face. Then he continued, “It’s not very far nut-boy. You won’t bounce very hard!” Tuttle’s voice raised to a high pitch and he screamed the hatred that had been eating him up inside, “Why don’t you leave stupid...Nobody wants a nut like you around! Go ahead, stupid...Jump! Jump now!”
Studs responded. The tiny glowing ember that Mike had implanted sparkled, then flared, then erupted violently. He socked Wilber on the chin and Wilber went reeling across the room. Then poor tortured Studs looked wildly around the room and cried out pathetically, “I can’t stand this stuff!” And started through the window.
Mike returned from the bathroom just in time to catch the last of that enormous transgression. He rushed to the window and grabbed Studs. They fell against the screen. It ripped. But Mike managed to wrestle Studs back into the room.
Studs was completely berserk and beat at Mike with unbelievable strength and violence trying to get through the window. But Mike held him off until help arrived.
Mike sank to the floor as the attendants led Studs away. His body was drenched with perspiration, and every muscle was quivering with spasmodic jerks crying out their protest at almost complete exhaustion.
They put Mike on his bed and it was then that his tortured, tubercular lungs gave way. The strain that he had forced upon them was too much. He gave a strangled cough and blood spewed forth from his mouth.
The attendants carried Mr. Wilber Tuttle from the room and brought back a white screen. Doctors and nurses appeared and hustled around that screen making strange noises. A bottle appeared above the screen and dripped its red fluid as slowly as a sand filled hour glass. The doctors left and a priest came. Then he left.
Eternity was the rest of the day, but the day lasted only a moment. We who had known him only a matter of weeks but loved Mike like a brother, sweated nervously and gritted out teeth and prayed in every faith and way we knew how for Mike’s recovery.
But things went differently for Mike the man who had the simple qualities of life and shared them with everyone. Mike, the destroyer of boredom. Mike the maker of romance. Mike, the creator of laughter. Mike, the best of friends didn’t respond and took God’s way out of our pink prison.
Now in this tiny pink nick of a big wide world, it’s just past bedtime. That period of day when light has lapsed into darkness, and sleep has not yet performed its mystical duty, that period of day when a man surrounded by other men in loneliness floats on a different plane by virtue of his thoughts.
Ben grinned philosophically, his mustache trying hard to come out of his ears and said, “Not quite son. I just mix up my own brand of mess and let the stove do the rest.” He adopted a stern look and continued, “Kept a pot of something boiling most of my life. Never could keep the burnt taste out though.”
Nicky smiled, “Boy you must have had a rough go of it. You ought to get you a woman from now on.”
“Not on 'yer ding-dong daddy!” Ben retorted making an injured pride. “I ain’t had an argument with a woman in my whole life and I ain’t gonna start now!”
It was at that instant that we heard the announcement of our temporary reprieve from boredom. It was in the shape of a voice about the size of a small clap of thunder, and it was roaring, “I hope 'yer guardian angel drops dead! Be-gorry...how kin you expect a man to get well without a little innocent spirit to help calm him along?”
The voice, dragging a half-frightened nurse, burst through the door. It was coming from a red headed, red faced, raw boned Irishman.
And it was hard to tell whether the color was from the whiskey, his anger, or was merely the proper shade of red for a well blemished Irishman to be wearing.
Kitty Richards, the nurse, maneuvered him toward a bed prudently trying to calm him down. She handed him a pair of pajamas and told him to put them on. Nr. O’Neal, as she called him, cocked his head and eyed’ the pajamas suspiciously. He said, “Sure now child. 'Yer not planning to put Mike O’Neal in this dainty contraption, are ye now?”
Kitty cooed her reply, “Why of course, Mr. O’Neal! Hospital rules you know.”
Thunder clapped again, “Be-gorry it’s a conspiracy. I’ve been sleeping in me ‘long johns’ for many a year now, and I’ll be burned in Hades before I’ll be put in them dainties!”
Kitty responded with her own brand of temper. She stamped her foot and screamed back, “Now you listen to me you big baboon! Either you start behaving like a gentleman, or you can just get out of here!”
Nicky, coming to Kitty’s defense, grinned at Mike and said, “You, my friend, have just been burned by Hades!”
“Saints be blessed! I think you’re right lad!” Mike’s voice was two shades less in anger.
Kitty turned her beautiful brown eyes on Nicky and sighed, “Thanks loads, Nicky.” Her voice carried one more implication than a note of thanks.
Mike O’Neal was pacified. He gave the room a bleary survey then he and his load of whiskey closed his eyes and quickly snored into a sound sleep.
There was much speculation about the character of mike O’Neal that night. We viewed him somewhat skeptically, afraid that our pink prison had just turned from blunt boredom into a first class turmoil.
It took him a matter of seconds when he arose the next morning to dispel any ferment of rudeness that he might have inaugurated. He awakened with the atmosphere of a life long friend and slugged everyone with a big comrade like grin. It took him only an hour or two longer to become the champion of Studs Logsdon. Then he spent the rest of the day making shambles out of boredom and oiling the rusty cogs of laughter among the rest of us.
Not being sufficiently orientated the first morning, Mike either missed or ignored Tuttle’s daily transgression against Studs. But the next day things went a bit differently. Little Wilber arose as cocky and contemptible as ever and issued another of his smug, meager-minded illiteracy's. He sputtered indignantly at Studs, “Why don’t you get a gun and end everbody's troubles?”
Mike breathed fire and charged across to Tuttle’s bedside. He stuck a huge hairy fist under Wilber’s nose and said, “See that, you mealy-mouthed weasel? One more bit of nonsense from you and I’ll mash that frilly nose of yours all over your dainty little face.” His words, although distorted with his brogue, were as crisp as an ax against a heavy log on a cold fall morning.
Tuttle squirmed nervously and squeaked, “Now don’t get mad! I didn’t mean nothing by it. I was just trying to help calm him down!”
“'Yer kind of help ain’t needed. And I’ll thank ye to keep 'yer puny mouth shut from now on!” He rubbed his fist against Wilber’s nose to add emphasis to his statement. Needless to say Tuttle got the point.
That evening Mike joined our game of matchstick poker and was officially accepted into our society. He proved to be well gifted with gab, but a lousy poker player. It took only about forty-five minutes of his Irish brand of humor for us to clean him of all his matches.
He shoved his chair away from the card table and said, “Me friends, this is no kind of game for an honest Irishman to be in.” He flashed a smile my way and continued, “What they got you in here for, Sammy?”
“The name’s not Sammy, Mike. It’s Sam. And I’m here for the same reason you are.”
He looked at Ben. “And you, Ben-- you here for the same thing?”
“Yep!” Ben answered tersely.
Mike was obviously unaware that he had T.B. With his face drawn into a puzzled frown he turned toward Nicky, “Tell me lad...what black fate has befallen me?”
Nicky, sensing a chance to ham it up, placed his palm on his forehead, dropped his head slightly, and said while his other hand waved artistically, “My buddy, you have been kissed by the fickle hand of fate to bear with or without honor a disease called Tuberculosis. Because you have been chosen, you are now imprisoned in this pink cell; and so shall ye remain until you’re arrested!” He dropped all manner of pretense and laughed, “Get it? The only prison in the world that you have to get arrested to get out of!”
Mike missed the point entirely. “As far as this tuberculosis stuff goes, I’ll have that licked in a couple of weeks --but they aren’t gonna keep Mike O’Neal locked up in a prison!”
I interrupted in an effort to soothe his fast mounting anger.
“The door isn’t locked Mike. Nobody will force you to stay. You can walk out of here anytime you want to.”
“What’s this business about a prison then?”
“Mike, it takes a long time to cure T.B. If you decide to take the cure you’ll have to remain in this room for months. If you decide to leave you’ll spread your disease among hundreds of other people, including some defenseless children. It’s your choice, Mike. Stay and wait it out in this room, or walk out and become a menace to yourself and society!”
Mike shook his head and pondered the information. “Well now, that’s a different kind of story.” He said.
Kitty Richards wheeled her medicine cart into our tiny prison and changed the topic of conversation. Her wholesome and suggestive curves fitted neatly behind the surgical gown she was wearing. And above the surgical mask, sparkling brown eyes peeked from below well groomed eyebrows. Her perfume taunted the imagination of all of us. And her voice was more of a sexy moan than a clear articulation.
She said from across the room, “Okay 'fellas. Time to chase a few bugs with a little of our special medicine cocktail.”
She ignored the usual moans and walked over to our corner. She looked at Mike and said, “Well, Mr. O’Neal...I see you’ve met the other rascals.” Rascals was her pet name for all the inmates.
“Sure child. And a fine bunch they are too!” Mike beamed.
“Good,” Kitty replied then added, “I’m glad you like them.”
Then the gaze of a dark haired boy and a brown eyed girl locked passionately. For want of a better thought, Nicky asked, “How are you tonight angel?”
Their gazes still interlocked, Kitty murmured her reply, “Lonely!”
Mike, as alert as a frightened fox, smashed the momentary trip to cloud nine with an astute observation. “What have we here now... a budding romance?”
Kitty’s face turned red and she wilted away in sudden attention to her nursing duties, while Nicky, adorned with the shame faced embarrassment of a child, merely hung his head.
So the T.B. bug bit a raw-boned Irishman and dropped a spark of happiness into our boring little prison. I guess you would have to call Mike a natural born public relations man. Because of his escapades our exiguous area no longer seemed confined. The pink walls merely disappeared and were forgotten about.
As a nurse, Mike, soon excelled. He reached out to somewhere and broke off a tiny piece of life and pushed it into the human hulk called Studs. Then he cultured and nourished it until it began to smolder into a certainty. What the doctors said wouldn’t be done, Mike was doing.
The only abstainer in the entire group was Wilber Tuttle. He had retreated into his own smoldering kingdom, and he sat day after day with his beady eyes chasing Mike around the room. Hatred burned and seethed in him like a growing tumor, waiting for the opportunity to gain his vengeance.
The romance that had lain almost hidden between Nick and Kitty dawned into a promising love affair with some persistent prodding by Mike. Hardly a minute passed by without Nicky getting one of Mike’s cupid like darts broadside.
Mike was an obstinate guy and some few days later he was able to end his efforts at playing cupid.
Things had been unusually quiet and we were sitting in one of our regular late evening bull-sessions. Nicky had been in a strange contemplative mood since early afternoon. Mike laid a fatherly hand on Nicky’s shoulder and asked, “What’s the matter lad...something bothering you?”
Nicky sighed and replied, “Yeah, Mike. I’m in love with Kitty, but I can’t get up enough nerve to tell her.”
“That’s no problem lad. Just use a little will-power.”
“But how?” Nick queried, “How can a guy propose in a room full of screwballs like this? Tell the truth...Did you ever see an environment less romantic than this?”
Mike shrugged the question off, “Look lad, if you love the girl don’t let anything stand in your way. And don’t worry about these monkeys...I’ll make sure you have enough privacy!”
“Okay,” Nicky said, “I’ll try it, Mike.” But his voice was lacking in enthusiasm.
As if by prearranged signal Kitty came bustling through the door and Mike pressed his advantage. He called, “Hey! Kitty! Come here quick!”
“What is the matter Mike? You look worried.” She said.
Mike replied, “It’s not me, Kitty. It’s Nicky!”
With a sudden look of consternation she grabbed Nicky by the wrist in a professional gesture. While the rest of us eased out of the situation she said, “What’s wrong Nicky? Why didn’t you tell me sooner that something was wrong? Your pulse is too fast -- I’m going to get the doctor right away!” She turned and started toward the door.
“No!” Nicky blurted, “Wait a minute will you? I’m not sick!”
“What’s the matter then?”
“Kitty, I’m in love with a girl!”
Kitty’s eyes took on a radiant look of hope and she said, “Oh! Well she must be a lucky girl, Nicky. Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t know how lucky she is,” Nicky replied still being evasive, “but I know I love her!”
Tears began to form in kitty’s eyes but they were tears of happiness. And beneath the surgical mask that hid her face her chin was also quivering. Her voice was almost a whisper as she asked, “What is she like, Nicky? Is she pretty?”
Nicky was confused, and on the defensive but at last he blurted, “Yes! She’s very pretty! I mean I know she’s pretty! I mean...ah...ah...well, Heck! I’ve never seen all of her face!” Then he said it, “It’s you kitty. It’s you. You’re the girl I’m in love with!”
“Oh, Nicky!” Kitty exclaimed as she tore the mask away from her face. Her brown eyes sparkling, her face a beautiful glowing picture, she whispered, “I love you too, Nicky! I love you from the bottom of my heart!”
“Will you marry me as soon as I get out of here?”
“Yes, Nicky! Oh! Yes..Yes...Yes..” she cried.
And in one whirling motion the kids were locked deep in a passionate embrace.
A mellow mood permeated our pink abode that evening. I wore a big happy smile, but it couldn’t begin to match the one Mike had spread all over his face. Even Ben, who you wouldn’t expect to be inclined toward romantic things was radiating smug satisfaction.
Little did we realize that for us happiness and contentment had reached a peak that day. For the very next morning tragedy struck our tiny prison with the pink walls, and Mike’s era came to an end.
It was before breakfast and Mike was out taking a shower. Studs, unaware of any ill feelings in the cell (in fact, he was barely yet aware there were people other than Mike in the room) wandered too close to Tuttle’s bed and stood looking out a window.
Tuttle seized his opportunity for revenge. He eased up cautiously beside Studs and began oozing out his sneaky brand of violence. “What’s the matter stupid?” he asked, “Lonesome for someone? You can hear me can’t you stupid? Can’t you? You can hear every word I say!”
Studs looked at him vaguely.
Wilber continued his venomous chat, “Nice world out there isn’t it.”
He raised the window and let a cold blast of air hit Studs in the face. Then he continued, “It’s not very far nut-boy. You won’t bounce very hard!” Tuttle’s voice raised to a high pitch and he screamed the hatred that had been eating him up inside, “Why don’t you leave stupid...Nobody wants a nut like you around! Go ahead, stupid...Jump! Jump now!”
Studs responded. The tiny glowing ember that Mike had implanted sparkled, then flared, then erupted violently. He socked Wilber on the chin and Wilber went reeling across the room. Then poor tortured Studs looked wildly around the room and cried out pathetically, “I can’t stand this stuff!” And started through the window.
Mike returned from the bathroom just in time to catch the last of that enormous transgression. He rushed to the window and grabbed Studs. They fell against the screen. It ripped. But Mike managed to wrestle Studs back into the room.
Studs was completely berserk and beat at Mike with unbelievable strength and violence trying to get through the window. But Mike held him off until help arrived.
Mike sank to the floor as the attendants led Studs away. His body was drenched with perspiration, and every muscle was quivering with spasmodic jerks crying out their protest at almost complete exhaustion.
They put Mike on his bed and it was then that his tortured, tubercular lungs gave way. The strain that he had forced upon them was too much. He gave a strangled cough and blood spewed forth from his mouth.
The attendants carried Mr. Wilber Tuttle from the room and brought back a white screen. Doctors and nurses appeared and hustled around that screen making strange noises. A bottle appeared above the screen and dripped its red fluid as slowly as a sand filled hour glass. The doctors left and a priest came. Then he left.
Eternity was the rest of the day, but the day lasted only a moment. We who had known him only a matter of weeks but loved Mike like a brother, sweated nervously and gritted out teeth and prayed in every faith and way we knew how for Mike’s recovery.
But things went differently for Mike the man who had the simple qualities of life and shared them with everyone. Mike, the destroyer of boredom. Mike the maker of romance. Mike, the creator of laughter. Mike, the best of friends didn’t respond and took God’s way out of our pink prison.
Now in this tiny pink nick of a big wide world, it’s just past bedtime. That period of day when light has lapsed into darkness, and sleep has not yet performed its mystical duty, that period of day when a man surrounded by other men in loneliness floats on a different plane by virtue of his thoughts.
Outside in the other world, the lights of that world stand their silent sentinels in the surrounding darkness. The small white ones twinkle friendly and tirelessly; the dull green ones stare hypnotically and impersonally; and the bright red and yellow ones flash back brazenly and mockingly. down in the street people outside our prison move slowly, coasting their day to completion.
And I wonder...Which one will be the next for a pink prison like this one.
Inside, the symphony of sounds have started their nightly concert. the wind moans its soft and eerie whistle through the slightly opened windows, the snores of sleeping men blend smoothly with the pleasant hiss of the radiators, and an occasional strangling cough clashes like a cymbal destroying the peaceful refrain with the emphatic testimony of the always present bug.
And I wonder...Which one will be the next for a pink prison like this one.
Inside, the symphony of sounds have started their nightly concert. the wind moans its soft and eerie whistle through the slightly opened windows, the snores of sleeping men blend smoothly with the pleasant hiss of the radiators, and an occasional strangling cough clashes like a cymbal destroying the peaceful refrain with the emphatic testimony of the always present bug.
And I think...that in this golden age of medicine, miracle drugs only cure, not find disease; of the countless times I ignored those little Christmas seals and threw them carelessly into the waste basket; of the many times I went out of my way to avoid taking a free x-ray; or couldn’t be bothered to give a pint of blood; or forgot that tuberculosis strikes anybody.
And I think...of Mike, and Ben, and Nicky with his brand new wife and all the other like me that discover pink prisons the hard way.
But then I smile. Why? Because I think of home and a beautiful wife and a small freckle faced boy and a cute pug nosed little girl. Because tomorrow I walk out of this pink prison with a full pardon for excellent behavior, a lesson well learned, and God’s blessing for a lifetime of happiness.
And I think...of Mike, and Ben, and Nicky with his brand new wife and all the other like me that discover pink prisons the hard way.
But then I smile. Why? Because I think of home and a beautiful wife and a small freckle faced boy and a cute pug nosed little girl. Because tomorrow I walk out of this pink prison with a full pardon for excellent behavior, a lesson well learned, and God’s blessing for a lifetime of happiness.
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