Taking Over The Asylum

         He’d known it since he was a child. Even as far back as 5th grade, when all the other kids spent their free time setting squirrels on fire, he used to just be content playing with a soccer ball in his backyard. Sure they called him names, he even got into fights sometimes, but mostly they left him alone. They were scared of him.

         “How come you don’t go out and break trees, John, like the other kids?” his mother would say. “You don’t even howl at the sun anymore, what the hell’s got into you? All you do is sit in here like some kind of crazy and watch TV or kick that ball around.”

         John just shrugged. “I’m just not a big fan of killing trees, Mom.”

         His mother stared at him and then burst into a fit of laughter. “Not a big fan of killing trees, he says!” She stared at him. “If you don’t kill trees, you won’t grill knees, will you? You won’t spill teas! You won’t drill bees! And then where will you be?”

         Sometimes it was difficult to follow his mother’s logic. He just shrugged again.

         At last she gave a huge sigh and turned to father, who was sitting wide-eyed in the armchair. “There’s something not right with that boy,” she said. “I think you should take him to see a specialist.”

         “Suuure,” his father said.

         “I mean he’s been like this ever since Aunt Mabel came back from Venus and opened her turkey factory. He never sees friends and he’s getting bad grades at school.”

         “Riiiight.”

         “I think he’ll just get worse and worse unless we do something about it now.”

         “Yeeeeah, good one,” said his father, nodding.

“I don’t know why I bother!” said mother, hopping into the kitchen.

Father winked at John and grinned. “Don’t listen to her, son. Here.”

He stood up and pulled a small yellow plastic bottle the shape of a lemon from his trouser pocket. “Come and give me a hand covering the wallpaper in lemon juice, there’s a good lad. It’ll put us in good stead when the Pancake People get here.”



         In school things were twice as bad.

         One day his Geography teacher was explaining to them about how volcanoes worked.

         “You see,” said Mr. Felaney, pointing his extendable aluminum pointer at the cross-sectional picture of a volcano, “This is just the same as an enormous pimple. This hot, red stuff inside is your pus, and this hunk of rock plugging it up is like the cap of a big dirty black head. Then what happens is the Hands of God come down and exert pressure here, here and here, forcing the hot red pus up, and out, up, and out, and – yes, Mr. Doe?”

         John rose nervously to his feet. “Can we actually see these Hands of God coming down, or are they invisible? Or are you, like, speaking metaphorically?”

         Mr. Felaney froze. “I beg your pardon, young man?”

         John repeated the question, more less how he’d said it the first time.

         With a white, trembling face, Mr. Felaney said, “Are you trying to make a ‘tit’ out of me, sir? I believe that is the modern vernacular, is that not right? A ‘tit’?”

         John began to take his seat with a wave of the hand, saying, “Uh, never mind, it’s not –“

         “STAND UP!” Mr. Felaney shouted. Some of the other students stirred in their sleep. John stood up again. Mr. Felaney was staring at him. “Just what is your intention young man? To make a fool of me in front of all of these fine, fine, toe the line students?” He gestured an arm towards the class full of a thousand sleeping youths, heads on their pillows on their desks. The school believed in the power of sleep-learning. An unconscious mind was regarded as an empty vessel, thus facilitating the transfer of facts by osmosis.

         “No, no,” John said, from his position near the front left. “I just don’t think it’s right to talk about volcanoes as if they are giant, pus-filled black-headed pimples. Of God.”

         Mr. Felaney’s face started to vibrate. Then it turned purple. The vibrations grew and the purpleness deepened, until suddenly he said in a quiet voice, “Tit?”

         John turned his good ear towards the podium. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

         “Tit?” Mr. Felaney said, his pointer wavering. “Titty tit tit?”

         John cleared his throat. “Uh …” John cast a glance about him, suddenly wishing he hadn’t dared to ask the question.

         “Tit tit titty? TIT TITTY TIT!?” Mr. Felaney was now hitting the lectern with his pointer with every ‘tit’ or ‘titty’ that was flying, wetly, from his lips.

         “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to answer that question,” said John, meekly, “if it is a question…”

         Mr. Felaney was becoming quite animated. “BWAAH!” he screamed, throwing his notes on the floor. “BWAAARGLE BARGLE BARGLE GWAAAH!” He tore the volcano poster off the wall and began stomping on it.

         “It’s all right,” said John with a sigh, ducking his way towards the door. “I’ll make my own way to the principle’s office.” He left the room, full of still slumbering students, and closed the door quietly behind him.



         The principle of the school was one of the only people who made the slightest sense to John. He knocked on the door of his office, heard a loud `Enter!` and opened the door.

         The principle was standing in the center of his room dressed in a red negligee, black socks and holding a fishing rod dangling what looked like an eraser on a hook in the gold fish bowl near the window. “Damn things never seem to bite!” he said.

         “Good afternoon, sir,” said John.

         “Ah!” the principle said, reeling in the lure and placing the rod against the wall. “Mr. Doe! And what brings you to these parts?”

         “I thought I better come down and see you before Mr. Felaney makes me. I guess I caused another disruption in his classroom.”

         “Oh,” said the principle, his face becoming grave. “Well, that’s serious, isn’t it?” He sat down slowly behind his desk. “Very serious indeed.”

         A long, loud farting sound suddenly emitted from his direction, lasting a good 15 seconds. He eyed John for any reaction, but John waited patiently for him to go on. The principle took out a Whoopee cushion and waved it in front of John’s nose before laying it on his desk. “As a matter of fact I thought I’d be seeing you again soon, young man. You do seem to be rather a loose canon on deck.” He pulled a cigar from his top drawer and lit it using a lighter resembling a phallus. “Some of the teachers tell me you don’t even sleep in the class. Is this true?” He took a few puffs and blew smoke rings up towards the ceiling.

         “Well, yes, it is tru-“

         BANG!

         The end of the cigar exploded, showering the office in brown confetti.

         The principle studied John’s face up close, but still no reaction. “I see, I see,” said the principle, taking another cigar from his drawer and lighting it. “Very serious. Go on.”

         “It is true. I don’t believe sleeping in class helps me learn anything. In fact, I believe that I learn and remember more in a class if I stay awake.”

         The principle took his cigar from his mouth and leaned forwards. “What did you just say?”

         “I said I remember more from a class if I stay awake.”

         A smile appeared on the principle’s face. “You what?” He chuckled. “You, you think you-“ The chuckle changed into a laugh. “You think you remember more if you stay awake? Get out of here.”

         “No really, I do.”

         The principle’s face was going red with laughter. “Come on, John, a joke’s a joke. Don’t be-“

         “No really, I’m not joking.”

         “Ha ha ha, remembers more when he’s awake, he says! Ha ha ha. Come on, John, don’t – oh, my heart, my heart! Ha ha ha!”

         “I’m telling you, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true!”

         “HA HA HA! Stop it, John! You’re too much!” The principle was clutching his sides. “Remembers more, he says! HA HA HA!”

         John took a deep breath and watched the principle, waiting for the tide to pass.

         “Hooo, that was a good one John, it really was! He he he.” Tears were streaming down the principle’s cheeks. “Oh, my heart! Remembers more when he’s – ha ha ha, hooo.” The principle shook his head, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Now, John,” he said, attempting to force the mirth from his face. “This is very serious, you know. He he he.” He cleared his throat. “Very serious. Not only do you not sleep in class, but I’ve also heard you take notes. Is this true?”

         John nodded. “Well, yes. I take notes and read them at home to make sure I understand them. I sometimes do additional exercises to –“

         The principle put a hand on John’s arm. “John,” he said, looking him in the eye, “Get your shit together, or I’m going to have to kick you out, you understand?”

They stared at each other.

“This is a reputable institution I’m running here, and I don’t intend to ruin other kids’ chances just to go around picking up after you. Now I know you’re a good kid, but you’re really going against the grain here, and that’s no good to anyone, least of all yourself. Take my advice. Keep your head down, do your best to fit in with everyone else, and you’ll be fine.”

“But, nothing makes sense! Nobody makes sense!”

         “That’s just life growing up, son. Happens to the worst of us. Just keep your head down, right down, and close your eyes if possible. And if you can, try and snore a bit.”



         After that meeting John realized he’d have to do his best just to fit in. Even though nothing made sense and nothing he did seemed to please anyone, he’d just have to find a way.

         Taking the principle’s advice, he pretended to sleep in all the classes. But in actuality he was wide awake, listening to every word the teachers said so that he could jot down as much as he could remember after the classes in the toilets. At home he would then do his best to separate the sensible teaching from the fantastic nonsense his teachers were filtering in.

         One day in maths class, the teacher prodded him with a ruler and said, “Doe, wake up and solve the exercise on the board.”

         He stood up, forced a yawn, and approached the board. The lights in the classroom were dimmed, so it wasn’t until he’d got to the front three or so rows that he could make out the formula the teacher had written up there. It wasn’t that difficult.



         (x+3)(x-2) =



         After a moment, he wrote out the answer on the right.



         (x+3)(x-2) = x2 +3x –2x –1

                       = x2 –x –1



         He turned and looked at the teacher, who had fallen asleep in John’s  chair, head back at an impossible angle, snoring softly.

         “Miss Greenhorn?”

The snoring paused, but the teacher didn’t move. “Yeees?”

         “I’ve finished the exercise.”

         “Already? Ridiculous!” The teacher snapped upright and strode towards the front of the class. “I’m going to whip your backside, boy, if you’re playing tricks with me!”

         With her hands on her hips she studied the solution over the tops of her horn-rimmed spectacles. “I knew it!” she said. “Right! That’s it! Trousers down and bend over while I get the cane.”

         “Wait, wait,” said John, holding his hands out in defence. “I think I know what I’ve done wrong.”

         “You’ve got one more chance, Doe, and then it’s thrashing time.”

         John looked at his solution and absentmindedly bit at the nail of his thumb. An element of the bizarre was needed here. A touch of the maniacal. Just a pinch of lunacy to keep the hounds at a safe distance.

         After several deep breaths and squinting at the problem with a tilted head, John hesitantly lifted the chalk and added:



                                       %lemon



         He looked at his teacher.

         Mrs Greenhorn, nostrils flared no doubt in anticipation of the scent of fresh blood, examined John’s addition. “Percent lemon?” she said. “Interesting. Interesting. But where are you going with this, John, WHERE ARE YOU GOING WITH THIS!? Do you even know yourself? Get it right, Sonny Jim, boyo, m’lad, or it’s a standing dinner for you tonight!”

         John, his face white as paper, looked again at the board, and wrote hastily:



                                               curd

         

         “Yes!” laughed Mrs Greenhorn, clapping her hands. “Yes! That’s it! Right there! Ooh yes, yes, YES! Oh God, YES! YES!” She put a hand on John’s shoulder. “I knew you could do it! And you did! Ooh, you’re such a delicious little boy, I could eat you all up! And now you’ve figured it all out I imagine you’ll go on to become the school genius and everyone will kneel down before you at the school prom. You’ll be a city-wide sensation!” She waved an arm at the class full of sleeping students as if to prove her point.

         John smiled and gave a sigh. It looked like he was finally getting somewhere.

         But in fact this system of adding a touch and a half of surreality to his answers only worked about half the time.



         When he was 18, he was arrested twice. The first time was for saving a person’s life, and the second time for telling the truth before sunset. Both times he was found not guilty, thanks to an excellent prosecuting attorney, who was also quite mad. In the life-saving incident, John persuaded a man not to kill himself by jumping off a bridge onto the tracks of an oncoming train below. Fortunately for John this happened on a Wednesday morning, and the prosecuting attorney pointed out that the other case they’d just looked at involved a man doing something on a Wednesday morning, and he’d been found innocent. So John should too.

         The second case, when John had said out loud to someone on a busy subway train that the Earth went around the Sun, and not the other way round, was a harder nut to crack. Eleven witnesses had testified that he’d said it, and he admitted saying it. But then again, the prosecuting attorney ( the same guy – brilliant, but mad ) came shining through. At the time John had uttered the words, it was exactly 8:45 pm in Lisbon. Five minutes after the recorded sunset. So by that rote, John was innocent. And to top it off, speaking the truth before sunset wasn’t even a crime in Portugal. So, in fact, John ought to be compensated for his trouble in the courtroom today, here, Your Honour.

         John was let off, but he wasn’t compensated. Just told not to do it again.



         When he was 27 he tried to organize a group of rebels to overthrow the government and restore a kind of sense to the country. Proper education, a decent health system, a good voting structure, laws that made sense – he had so many grand designs, he just needed the manpower to get results.

         “Okay, men,” he said to his armed guerrillas outside the parliament building. “This is it. Now, you all know what to do. Jeff, you and Hugh wait near the gate and make sure no-one gets in or out. Mick, you, Barney and Ladstone go round the back, tie up the guards and sit tight until I call you on the walkie-talkies. The rest of you come with me.”

         One man raised a hand.

         “Yes, Tommy?”

         “Uh, about that hamster…”

         John sighed. “I thought we’d discussed that.”

         Tommy looked around. “I just, I just still think we should have, you know, brought it along for moral support or something.”

         “No,” John said. “I don’t think so. No hamster, no beef jerky, and no inflatable aliens. We’ve been through all this.”

         Tommy looked dejectedly down at his boots. “I just thought, if we had a hamster and we were faced with, you know, angry militia types, then it might be able to save us.”

         “Tommy, you have to accept the fact that hamsters do not save people. They run on wheels, shit on your hand, and get stuck behind skirting boards. Those are hamsters’ only skills. Now let’s go.”

         “But …”

         The rebellion failed.



         John, then a fugitive from justice, managed to outwit the authorities and remain at large for ten years, until he was finally taken into custody after a fourteen hour shoot out from inside the shed at the bottom of his garden.

         Again, he saw the inside of a courtroom, and again he found himself accused. This time of “Trying to make the world a better place.” But luckily, again, the prosecuting attorney happened to be a crazily inept wonder, getting him off on a, ironically, an insanity plea.



         John was given a psychological evaluation, found to be off the chart, according to several respected sanity tests of the time, and thrown into a padded cell at Honey Dew Mental hospital for the Deranged, Mad, and just plain Bananas.

         But one day he met a guy in the canteen.

         “Hey, aren’t you the John Doe who tried to overthrow the government 10 years ago?” the man asked.

         John nodded. “Yes. That was me.”

         “Wow,” said the man, shaking his head in wonder. “That was something else. A good idea too.”

         “Really?”

         “Sure. Except what you should probably have done, was wait until you’d found a group of men who were a bit more …” he tapped his left temple and whistled through his teeth.

         “Like,” John looked hopefully at the other man, “You?”

         He nodded. “Sure, sure. I would have done it.”

         John grinned. Finally it seemed like he’d found someone who made sense.

         “But what you should have done, also, was start small, taking over something like, say, a prison, or a –“

         John clicked his fingers. “A mental hospital!”

         The two men smiled at each other. Then looked around.

         One of the orderlies was busy spinning plates on sticks, and another was engrossed in flicking the ear of a patient in a straight-jacket.

         “Ready when you are,” John said.

         “Okay,” said the other man, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do it. One, two …”

         “Three!”