“Could somebody please tell Frank
to put some fucking clothes on? Just
‘cause he’s blind and can’t see his own naked body, it don’t mean the rest of
us wanna look at his balls all day!”
“Language, Mr. Jenkins.” Bubba, one
of the larger orderlies, gave me a menacing glare, but he knew I was right.
Bubba approached Frank with a
robe. He reminded Frank that even though
he was currently in the male quarters of the mental health facility, his
indecent exposure was visible to females from the adjacent common area. I held back a smartass remark about Frank
spoiling my appetite so close to snack time.
I did not want to seem unruly because Bubba had a reputation as one of
the more trigger-happy orderlies. He
seemed to enjoy administering that infamous shot that could put a grown man
down for hours. I once watched him
inject a dozen guys in one day, so I kept my mouth shut. I always hated needles.
I’d been cooped up for four days
and never thought a mental health facility could be so damn crazy. No pun intended. I knew I didn’t belong here. Naked Frank was crazy. The chick that went by the name T-seven-minute was nuts, and the rest of
the patients were just fucking loony. I,
on the other hand, wound up in the Mental
Health Resource
Center on Edgewood Avenue in Jacksonville , FL
Insanus
omnis fuere credit cetero. In Latin,
that means Every madman thinks everyone
else is mad. I red that once in the Encyclopedia of Super Villains, but
don’t hold that against me. I believe it
was Eminem who said, “I ain’t crazy. I
say shit crazy to crazy people to make ‘em believe I’m crazy so they can relate
to me.” This explained how I ended up in
such a wacky predicament, well kind of anyway.
Here’s the condensed story of how I got myself in this mess.
I actually grew up in Okechobee,
which is about forty-five minutes north of Miami .
My big brother, Jermaine, and I were raised by our happily-married
pediatrician parents. We made the most
of living in such a small town. In 1997,
when I enrolled in middle school, Jermaine went off to the University of North Florida
in Jacksonville . He intended to follow in the family business
of medicine.
With big bro’ outta the house, I
started to blossom into my own individual during my adolescent years. Some would say I became a little
troublemaker. Sure, when I was in the
seventh grade, me and my pals planted leftover dissection specimens in the
girls’ bathrooms and locker room, but that went down in history as a classic
prank. I also picked up a knack for
graffiti my freshmen year of high school, and the mural of The Simpsons I did
outside the gymnasium wall was a work of art.
Principal Payne didn’t see it as art, and I was permanently on his shit
list. Of course, getting busted smoking
weed in the bathroom sophomore year didn’t help. It was actually my first time tasting the
sweet cannabis, but Mom and Dad were disappointed by the news that I was
experimenting with drugs. I got the,
“You should be more like your big brother….” Speech.
I thought my parents’ lectures were
lame and clichéd. They were always busy
with work, and nothing could tame my rebel heart. I was a wild child, a class clown, the life
of the party. My life was a party, but in
November of 2001, my party was pooped. I
came home late from school one day stoned out of my face. I tried to play it off, but I sensed that Mom
and Dad knew. They were in a good mood
though. They told me they were leaving
on a flight that night to celebrate their silver anniversary in Rome . I drove them to the airport in Miami .
“I hope my baby will be okay in the
house by yourself,” Mom said.
“Baby? I’m a man now, Momma.” I jokingly deepened my
voice of few octaves.
“Of course. Just don’t party too hard, sport,” Dad
winked.
“Party? I’m really not the type to throw a big house
party when both my parents are outta town,” I lied. I had three kegs on order for the weekend.
“We love you, Dewaun,” Mom said.
“Be careful, and don’t forget to
feed the fish,” Dad reminded me as they entered the terminal. “Take care, son.”
I awoke in a daze the following
Sunday. The house was trashed. I had only the faintest recollection of the
wild party I hosted. It was mess, but
there was no structural damage to the house.
That meant things didn’t get too far out of hand. Starsky and Hutch, our two goldfish, were
floating belly-up in their tank. I thought
I remembered to feed them. Then, I saw
two empty Grey Goose vodka bottles floating inside their tank. So much for drinking like a fish. I knew cleaning this up by Monday would be a
bitch, but the doorbell rang, and I discovered that irony was the biggest bitch
of them all. I opened the door to a cop
on my doorstep.
“Are you Dewaun Jenkins?” he asked.
I nodded and braced myself for the
brunt of a reprimand for my outrageous party.
The house still reeked of bud and booze.
I should have known better than to throw such an outrageously grand
party in such a small town. The sorrow
on the police officer’s face was all too telling though. He removed his hat out of respect and
delivered the bad news. My parents died
in a plane crash on their way back from Italy . Needless to say, I was very devastated.
We received a life insurance policy
settlement and a generous inheritance from our parents that left us fairly
well-off. I mourned as best I
could. After the funeral, I moved to Jacksonville with
Jermaine. It didn’t take long to figure
out that our personalities and lifestyles really clashed. I was a party animal, and he was a med school
nerd. I coasted through my senior year
and graduated in Sandalwood’s Class of 2002.
Miraculously, Jermaine convinced me to pursue post-secondary education. He even pulled a few strings to get me
admitted to UNF. If I only knew this
wouldn’t be the first time he’d have me admitted.
Within a few days at the beginning
of the Fall 2002 semester, I had a reputation for being one of the biggest
potheads on campus. I decided to smoke
out one day and take a trip to Jacksonville
Beach on a Sunday following my first week of
classes. That’s where I met G. He was a laid back cat from Mississippi
who currently resided in Orange Park just south of Jacksonville .
His eyes were as glazed and bloodshot as mine, and it wasn’t from the
salt water. After an engaging
conversation, I unearthed that he also saw it through the eyes of Warren Sapp.
G was a mid-level drug dealer with
aspirations to expand his business and capitalize on profits by making his
products available on a college campus.
We talked, and after convincing G I was not an undercover cop, we set up
a business arrangement. He fronted me a
quarter pound to test the waters on campus.
It went well. I was a natural
weed man, but when I was down to my last dime sack, my fortunes turned. A not-so-random dorm search was conducted, and
thanks to some snitch, I got busted by campus security.
I was whisked away to the Duval
County Detention Facility downtown and booked for possession of marijuana. Luckily, I wasn’t caught with enough weight to
be nailed with an intent to distribute charge because I had less than twenty
grams on me, but the infraction was enough to get me expelled from UNF. Jermaine bailed me out of jail three days
later. He chastised me for my poor
decision-making skills and was amazed by how I got expelled so early in my
first semester of college.
Jermaine had already gone to my
dorm to pack my belongings. We got into
a heated argument in the car on our way to our apartment. I was pretty pissed. I said some things I should not have
said. He was just riding my ass so hard
about doing drugs and being irresponsible.
He told me he wanted me out of his apartment in two weeks. Since I was 18, he said I could us my share
of the inheritance to find my own place.
I mentioned something about wishing I was dead as he pulled into the
parking lot of the apartment complex.
Jermaine dropped me off because he
had classes later. I stormed out of the
car slamming the door viciously on my way out.
I entered the two bedroom apartment.
I phoned G to let him know what went down. I assured him that there was now way to trace
anything back to him. He was very
understanding, and we mad an arrangement for me to pay him what I owed in a
week. I found a secret stash of
emergency herb I had hidden in my bedroom.
It was enough for a descent spliff.
After my blunt session concluded, the doorbell rang.
“Are you Dewaun Jenkins?” the
police officer asked when I opened the door.
After I nodded with a not-this-shit-again look on my face, he said, “You’re
going to have to come with me.”
“What?” I was confused.
“You’re not in trouble, but you’re
going to have to come with me.”
That’s how I ended up in the loony
bin. Apparently, thanks to a law called
the Baker Act, if a family member thinks that a relative is in danger of
harming themselves or others, they can report it, and that person will be
escorted to a nearby mental hospital by police for evaluation and
treatment. My big brother Jermaine
pulled a fast one on me.
This was my fourth day in the mental
hospital. The psychological evaluation I
received proved I had some symptoms of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, but
there was not enough evidence for an official diagnosis. Blood tests obviously proved I had high
amounts of THC in my system. There was
something else interesting about my blood test.
The doctors indicated there was evidence of a minor chemical imbalance
in my brain. They fed me a bunch of
medical mumbo jumbo about a hyperactive brain and something about compounding
symptoms of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder in my early twenties.
“But I’m not crazy, right?” I kept
asking.
They could not give me a definitive
answer, so I started lobbying for a discharge.
It only took a few threats to call my lawyer for them to arrange my release. Much to my chagrin, Jermain was waiting for
me outside. I reluctantly walked up to
his car and st in the passenger seat.
“What he hell are you doing here?”
I asked.
“I’m sorry, but I thought this was
he best way to get you the help you needed,” he answered.
“Help? I’m no a damn junkie,
and I ain’ suicidal! By the way, didn’t
you kick me out, or something?”
“I’ve been rethinking what I
said. I want you to stay. I can help you get into a community college.”
“Here you go with that help shit again, Jermaine. I’m not a little kid no more. Jus take me to the crib so I can pack my
shit.”
“Well, what are you going to
do? Where are you going to go?”
“Imma take my share of the money
Mom and Dad left us to buy a car. Then,
I guess I’ll go back to Okechobee.”
“That money won’t last forever,
Dewaun.”
“Whatever the fuck ever, man. I’ll figure somethin’ out. Don’t worry.”
