It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Ewwww,” I say. “You’re Irish?”

“Half,” says Humble.

“Could you be quiet? I’m trying to watch the film,” the Professor says.

“Oh, don’t start. You don’t care about this movie; Cary Grant’s not in it,” says Humble.

“Cary Grant was a real man. Don’t you say anything about him.”

“I can say whatever—”

“What’s that guy doing?” Bobby asks.

“He’s sucking that girl’s blood, can’t you see?”

“I thought she was a vampire, though.”

“So? Vampires have blood.”

“Vampires ain’t got no blood,” says Human Being. “Vampires ain’t got nothing but green running in their veins, and green means money.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Humble says. “If you drink blood, how are you not going to have blood?”

“I met a lotta vampires in my time, and their blood was always green. Been sucking me dry in their little temples.”

“What temples?” Becca asks. “I go to temple. You better not be talking about the Jewish people.”

“I’m Jewish too,” says the Professor. “That’s why they tried to insecticide my house.”

Noelle walks toward the TV from down the hall, wearing a long black skirt and a white top with little frills around the shoulders, locking eyes with me. I look around; no seat for her.

Dad notices as soon as she becomes visible. He leans over and gives me a look:

So is this why you’ve been feeling better, son?

I shrug.

She comes up to me. “There’s nowhere to sit.”

“Here!” I stand up and point at my armrest.

She sits down right in the middle of the chair. “Ooh, you warmed it! Thank you.”

“No, I meant—where am I going to sit?”

She pats the armrest.

“Darn, girl.”

I sit down and we watch Blade slice up some more vampires. Topics discussed among the audience include surgery, the moon, chicken, prostitution, and jobs in the Sanitation Department. Dad leans back and lets his eyes fall; I had a feeling that would happen. As soon as I see him breathing heavy and steady I get up, go to Smitty, and I tell him that it’s after eight o’clock.

“You want me to kick out your own Dad?” he asks.

“I need to be independent,” I say.

“All right.” Smitty walks down the hall with me. “Mr. Gilner—I’m sorry; visiting hours are over.”

“Oh, hm!” He gets up. “Right. So, Craig, you’ll bring this back tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

“Thank you for getting here and getting help.” He hugs me. Smitty backs away. It’s a big hug, and long, and right in front of the television, but no one says anything.

“I love you,” I mumble. “Even though I’m a teenager and I’m not supposed to.”

“I love you too,” Dad says. “Even though . . . eh . . . No. I don’t have any jokes about it. I just do.”

We separate and shake hands and he makes his way down the hall, waving without looking back.

“Good-bye Mister Gilner!” a chorus of those paying attention calls out.

I dip down next to Noelle, whisper in her ear. “That’s one; I gotta settle one more thing, and then I’ll see you in my room.”

“Okay.”

I walk down the hall and pop into my room, where Muqtada is putting his distinctive shape in the bed, turned toward the window, in his continuous dead reverie.

“Muqtada?”

“Yes.”

“You remember how you wanted Egyptian music?”

“Yes, Craig.”

“I got some for you.”

“You did?” He pulls his top sheet aside. “Where?”

“I got a record over,” I say. “You know we’re watching a movie, right?”

“Yes, I hear. This sounds very violent, no good for me.”

“Right, well, in the other hall, by where the smoking area is, I asked Smitty to put the Egyptian music.”

“And he did this thing?”

“It’s ready to go on right now. You want to hear?”

“Yes.” Muqtada pushes the sheets aside in a gesture of hope and strength and determination. It’s tough to get out of bed; I know that myself. You can lie there for an hour and a half without thinking anything, just worrying about what the day holds and knowing that you won’t be able to deal with it. And Muqtada did that for years. He did that until he needed to be hospitalized. And now he’s getting up. Not for good, but for real.

I walk with him out of the room, passing Smitty at the nurses’ station and nodding at him. He opens a door behind his desk and goes in to turn on the turntables, changing the PA music from the normal funky lite FM to the sounds of deep plucked strings, and rolling over it, a voice of dangerous clarity and yearning, hitting three ascending notes and then bending one beyond where I thought you couldn’t bend a human voice, sounding like a man drawn out and smacked to vibrate around a little.

“Umm Kulthum!” Muqtada says.

“Yeah! Uh . . . Who’s that?”

“This is Egypt’s greatest singer!” he yells. “How you find this?”

“I have a friend whose dad has some records.”

“This I have not heard in so long!” He’s grinning so much I think his glasses are going to fall off.

Armelio is playing solitaire in the back of the hall, by the smoking lounge. “You’re out of your room, buddy? What’s going on? Is there a fire?”

“This music!” Muqtada points up to it. “This is Egyptian!”

“You Egyptian, buddy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m from Greece.”

“The Greeks, they took all our music.”