It's good having the only Shovel in the room.

Then it happened.

The elder statesman of the bunch, the one that said absolutely nothing during my initial and secondary “assessments” finally spoke up. He beat around the bush a little and then went into reciting the same diagnosis that Mr. Sirhan was given by whoever was in charge of such duties back in his day. He spoke at length about deep seeded hatred for human life and what being a sociopath meant. He was beating around the bush, I assumed because he liked to hear himself talk, touching on the answers Mr. Sirhan gave, but never specifically identifying it as such. Now, I gave the exact answers that Mr. Sirhan gave, to the letter, and matched them up with the ink blots, with the exception of the first ink blot and the last ink blot. I switched the answers up just for the hell of it, and I guess that’s what threw them all off the path. These guys collectively rambled on and on for a good hour or more, mostly about how therapy could make any person (me) better and how any life could be changed for good. I guess this was where the rubber finally met the road, meaning they wanted to charge my insurance instead of the hospitals, as the doctors I sat in front of laid out a long, lengthy path for me to traverse before I was deemed “well”. I guess they smelled new Porsche(s) and Mercedes Benz(es), and my wellness would be an even trade. Or, at least a new J.Peterman bag, all compliments of MY insurance company.  They had no idea that they weren’t getting so much as a dirty pair of my skivvies, if I had a say so.

The boys concluded their spiel then asked me if I had any questions. I chuckled a little, and when I did, the middle-aged dude (they all sat youngest to oldest-so he was the middle dude) immediately asked me, somewhat annoyed, “What is so funny, Mr. Hall?”, him tapping his fancy gold Mont Blanc fountain pen on the mahogany table he was parked behind. I sat with my elbows on my knees and intently looked each one of them in the eye; taking a few seconds to be sure each one was prepared for what I had to say. I asked them collectively “How much weight was placed upon my answers to the Ink Blot test, administered by ‘Junior’ there, and the collective conclusions you have apparently agreed upon concerning my sanity, are connected to that specific test and my resulting answers?”

A moment of silence...

“C’mon boys, how much weight?” I asked again, this time a little more obtuse.

It was as if I was asking a child to confess to how many cookies he had nabbed before dinner resulting in his loss of appetite. I noticed that four of the five gents immediately looked down at the papers in front of them, a stalling tactic for sure. They released the eye contact I had carefully established at the beginning of this charade I was a party to and founder of. The elder statesman, the obvious Rorschach expert piped up, “We carefully weighed the answers you gave and came up with a quantitative matrix concerning your mental well-being…” I cut him off and said “How much weight?” I asked again, somewhat annoyed by the chicken shit this old dude was trying to fertilize my cornfield with. I had determined that none of the gents sitting at that table knew I had given the Sirhan Sirhan answers by then. Three of the Doctors looked over at the youngest member of the team, the administrator of my ink blot test, and it became obvious that he had done my “write-up” and had missed the boat entirely. This was almost too good to be true. The full force of my Psychology minor I attained at Troy University had just paid for itself. I have used that particular degree on some minor and a few major levels purdy much every day since I had graduated. But that particular day, it was on stage, singing and dancing like a reality show contestant shooting for the million dollar grand prize and it had the votes. The months spent toiling on the football field I had exchanged for that minor had reached it equalization point.I was using it all up right then and there.

Key the twangy guitar music and let the screwing begin.

I mustered the most indignant voice and attitude my limited acting skills could produce. ” I want to know, right now, how much weight was placed on your collective assessment of my mental capacity, my ability to cope with my situation, and my sense of well-being as it relates to the answers I gave on the Ink Blot test, and I want…no I demand an answer right now!” That’s when the four older dudes looked at the youngest administrator, the one that gave me the test originally, and did not look directly at me again. That poor dude felt the weight of their icy stares then nervously began to shuffle through his papers searching for an answer that might first satisfy me and get his bosses off the proverbial hook, and me off their asses. I sat ten feet away from the poor guy and I could feel the heat coming off his face. His discomfort originating from being thrust center stage, nervous and in the spotlight, a position I had apparently placed him in. He stuttered and stammered for a few seconds, hoping to get help, any help, from the senior doctors sitting with him, but that help he so desperately sought would not come that day. They had hung his ass out to dry. It obviously came with being the last name on the door or lowest face on the psychology totem pole.

After a few uncomfortable minutes that seemed to be, for Doc Junior, like hours, I finally said it. “It is obvious to me that the entire weight of your assessment was placed on my ink blot answers, am I correct?” The younger doctor finally answered, “I would say that 90% of my write-up was weighted on that test and your answers.” I guessed the final 10% of his assessment was based on my looks…but I digress. I heard a collective sigh from the older doctors, then the Oldest Doc began to speak in what I assumed was his version of an authoritative voice. The approach was a lame attempt at digging all their butt cracks out of the hole they found themselves in. At that moment, I had a firm grip on the only shovel in the room.

I finally said it: “It was the Sirhan Sirhan answers, wasn’t it…” I said half jokingly.

“Excuse me?” one of the other doctors replied.

“It was the Sirhan Sirhan answers that threw you boys off wasn’t it?” I said again. I then told the boys “I gave the same exact answers that Sirhan Sirhan gave when he was administered the Rorschach test back when he shot R.F.K., afterward of course. I just transposed the first and last ink blot answers to throw you guys off a bit and see if you were paying attention to what you were doing”. I sat there with a shit eating grin on my face that would have made the Cheshire Cat in “Alice in Wonderland” jealous and piss off most dentists, pleased that I had actually screwed with these boys and gotten away with it. Well, let me tell you, that royally pissed off the two older guys and they simultaneously slammed their file folders shut, obviously un-amused. One fellow got so red-faced I thought he might explode right there on the spot via spontaneous combustion, fueled by embarrassment.

Right then we all had one thing in common. None of us wanted to be right there any longer.

Friday means we’ll wrap this story up, but Monday brings more Hospital adventures! I was there for almost two years, so, like I said; “You stay in one place too long, and something bad is bound to happen.”