Mad Hatter
Based on this image.
At six, she brings him his tea. Steaming amber stuff dressed with two cubes of sugar and a small plastic cup of yellow pills. Today, like all days, he’ll stare out the window, slowly sipping until the sun is swallowed by the trees. He'll sip until the tea is barely warm. This time of year the leaves obstruct any view of the ground, but his eyes will focus beyond and through them, perhaps seeing something others can't. Never a word is spoken, nor his mouth opened except to sip.
But today he feels like talking.
The nurse puts the tea and pills down on a tray. When he speaks, she blinks in surprise.
“Where is my hat?” he asks, but she stares. “Judy, dear, where is my hat?”
The startled nurse hurries off, crying “Doctor! Doctor Munn! He’s speaking!”
The doctor is at his side in minutes.
“Mr. Dodd?” He’s flushed. The man in the chair does not turn his head, or change the far-off focus of his eyes. The doctor's excitement wanes as it becomes apparent that nothing more will happen. He turns to go, frowning.
“Where is my hat, Judy? I can’t find it.” Dodd’s voice is haggard and stripped, like an old screw in rotting wood. Doctor Munn stops.
“I don’t know where it is, Arthur. Why do you need it?” Playing the role of Judy, the doctor slowly turns back to his patient.
“To cover up the little men.”
Munn steps closer to the old, crumpled figure in the chair by the window.
“What little men?”
A pause. Then, the old man’s face turns to Munn’s. His far-reaching eyes seem to delve into the doctor’s very existence.
“They’re rigging a sail up there. If I don’t cover it up, they’ll fly me away. Out there.” He turns back, and raises an arthritic finger to the window.
The doctor ambles back to his office, nodding and noting on a clipboard. Progress.
Behind him, the aged patient in the chair is silently opening and closing his mouth. He’s calling “Judy!” but she’s left him. A rogue tear drops down his cheek and still the little men on his crown hoist, heave, and assemble.
At six, she brings him his tea. Steaming amber stuff dressed with two cubes of sugar and a small plastic cup of yellow pills. Today, like all days, he’ll stare out the window, slowly sipping until the sun is swallowed by the trees. He'll sip until the tea is barely warm. This time of year the leaves obstruct any view of the ground, but his eyes will focus beyond and through them, perhaps seeing something others can't. Never a word is spoken, nor his mouth opened except to sip.
But today he feels like talking.
The nurse puts the tea and pills down on a tray. When he speaks, she blinks in surprise.
“Where is my hat?” he asks, but she stares. “Judy, dear, where is my hat?”
The startled nurse hurries off, crying “Doctor! Doctor Munn! He’s speaking!”
The doctor is at his side in minutes.
“Mr. Dodd?” He’s flushed. The man in the chair does not turn his head, or change the far-off focus of his eyes. The doctor's excitement wanes as it becomes apparent that nothing more will happen. He turns to go, frowning.
“Where is my hat, Judy? I can’t find it.” Dodd’s voice is haggard and stripped, like an old screw in rotting wood. Doctor Munn stops.
“I don’t know where it is, Arthur. Why do you need it?” Playing the role of Judy, the doctor slowly turns back to his patient.
“To cover up the little men.”
Munn steps closer to the old, crumpled figure in the chair by the window.
“What little men?”
A pause. Then, the old man’s face turns to Munn’s. His far-reaching eyes seem to delve into the doctor’s very existence.
“They’re rigging a sail up there. If I don’t cover it up, they’ll fly me away. Out there.” He turns back, and raises an arthritic finger to the window.
The doctor ambles back to his office, nodding and noting on a clipboard. Progress.
Behind him, the aged patient in the chair is silently opening and closing his mouth. He’s calling “Judy!” but she’s left him. A rogue tear drops down his cheek and still the little men on his crown hoist, heave, and assemble.
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