Rancho Los Amigos (Short Story)

Slim heard the mail truck park in front of his home, and he knew today was the big day. Monday mornings brought a sense of sadness into Slim’s life. He used to do things on Mondays. Now his Mondays were filled with mental reminders to clean the room and feed the cats. Things barely capable of being accomplished. The medication put him in a never-ending lethargy, and he stopped taking those repressive submarines about a week ago. They started talking to him again around day three, but Slim knew he was strong. He could handle the voices. He’d fight off the entire world if he had to. It’s all just a mental game. Slim was 24. He had pale, white skin, black circles under his eyes, and his widow’s peak formed a dark “V” into his forehead. Slim’s name was not used for an ironic effect. Sim was razor blade thin. He heard the mail truck door slide open and crash shut. He peaked his sleep-deprived eyes out the window between the wall and the violet curtains hanging in his mother’s living room. The mail man walked up the concrete pavement to his mother’s mailbox, pushed in a handful of advertisements, and looked at Slim hiding behind the window. Slim squinted his eyes showing the mail man that he knew exactly who he was, “Fucking sleeper cells. They think they can control our minds, and there’s nothing we can do about it. They probably have the damned machine right there in the mail truck, “Slim said. The cat meowed. Slim hurried into the garage where his mother left a full can of gasoline for the lawnmower. He picked up the red container, twisted off the cap, took a whiff of the sweet-smelling gasoline, and searched for the barbecue lighter his mother hid from him. He had always liked lighting things on fire, and his mom was getting creative with her hiding spots. He finally reached underneath the water heater, and felt the cool plastic handle between his fingertips. The gas can in one hand, swashing the flammable liquid back and forth, he picked up the lighter and flicked it a few times. The heat from the small flame burst onto his face. Slim flicked the lighter a few more times, hesitated, then he turned toward the door leading outside. The warm morning air made Slim’s spine shiver. He paused, looked directly into the sun, and quickly cupped his eyes with both of his hands like a child playing peek-a-boo. When he opened his eyes again the only thing in his peripheral was the mail truck. The blue and white truck was etched deep into his mind. He thought of the sky and outer space. He did not hesitate after that. Slim sprinted towards the mail truck and slid open the heavy metal door. He scanned the cockpit. Everything looked normal. Slim entered the cockpit, opened the back door, and stood hunched in the truck shocked. “Mail!? Letters, envelopes, advertisements!? Where are they!?” Slim cried. Slim scattered the letters and advertisements onto the floor of the mail truck until a decent sized pile formed. He opened the gasoline can, and thoroughly soaked the letters and advertisements. Then he moved to the cockpit and soaked the front seats. Slim threw the gas can into the back. He glanced through the front windshield and made eye-contact with the mail man. Slim quickly stepped outside and lit the driver seat. He ran over to the passenger side and lit that on fire Slim threw the gas can and the lighter into the truck, slammed the door closed, and ran inside of his mother’s house. The interior instantly went up in flames. The mail man ran towards the mail truck, but stopped before he reached the truck to dial 911 on his cellphone. The neighborhood was usually quiet. It was on e of those communities built along the California hillside. Half-a-million dollar houses planted in the desert valley. An artificial community with superficial values. There was a mall nearby and a gas station a few miles up the freeway. No churches, no community, no foundation. Slim liked living secluded from the rest of the world. He could not be around crowds at all. He always felt as if people were staring at him. The only connection Slim had with the outside world was through his mother who was an Englihsh professor at the community college down the hill. She always encouraged Slim to read and take classes at the college, but Slim hated reading. It was sort of like the pastor’s son syndrome. Slim began hearing voices when he was in high school. Around the same time, he began experimenting with drugs. His favorite was meth. It was affordable on a high school student’s budget. Sometimes he would buy a twenty-dollar bag of ice from Pable, Slim’s classmate dealer. The two would skip class to get high in the abandoned houses near school. Pablo and Slim called their secret group “Ice Club.” The number one rule about Ice Club, Pablo used to say, is “there is no ice club. If you tell anybody, I’ll smoke you.” They’d both laugh hysterically. Slim woke up th next morning on a slab of concrete wrapped in a paper-thin plastic blanket. The brick walls were almost yellowed as if people used to smoke in the cell, light shined through a barred windown above the empty top bunk. Slim slid his feet into an orange pair of slippers, and took a leak in the steal toilet in his cell. He looked out the small window in a huge yellow steel door, and surveyed the pod area. The outer walls were lined with yellow steel doors, and each one had a different number on top. There wwere two gray tables in the center, gray carpet covered the entire pod area, and about twenty beige plastic chairs were pushed underneath the tables. Two round clocks faced each other on opposite walls, and they both read 6:15. There was a guard area behind a gray wooden barrier with two blue shirted guards behind it. Above the guard area was large banner that read Welcome to Rancho Los Amigos in blue and white. Slim saw that the guards were watching him, and he pushed the metal button inside his cell. A raspy voice came through the speaker behind the steel plate on the wall, “Get out of your window.” “When is breakfast?” Slim asked. “You have an appointment with the psychologist at seven, so you can have your breakfast now if you want it.” the female guard said. “Yeah,” Slim said. “Sit on your bunk, and we’ll bring you your breakfast,” She said. Slim sat on his bunk when the door clanged open. The female guard’s black hair was tied up in a ponytail. She wore skinny blue jeans and blue and white running shoes. She was in excellent shape. Slim noticed the male guard watching behind her as he held the door open. As she came closer to hand Slim his lunch, she said, “Hi, Manuel, my name is Mrs. Garcia. How are you feeling today?” “I know what’s going on here,” Slim said suspiciously as he grabbed the brown paper bag out of Mrs. Garcia’s hand. “You’re safe, Manuel. You did a very bad thing, and we’re here to help you through it, okay,” Mrs. Garcia said. “Stop calling me that, my name’s Slim,” Slim said. “Enjoy your breakfast. They should be here soon to take you to see the psychologist,” Mrs. Garcia said. Slim opened the brown bag and devoured the cold sandwich, apple, and 2% milk. Hot lunch was served at seven am, and Slim hoped he would make it back in time for powdered eggs and grits. Seven a.m. came quickly. A young guard with a muscular physique escorted Slim to the psychologist. Rancho Los Amigos consisted of four large buildings with four pods like Slim’s in each building divided by thick glass windows and electronic doors. The only things setting it apart from a prison were the huge water tower in the middle of the grounds, the grassy areas with trees in the center of the four buildings, and the inmates. Every inmate was clinically insane. Some were murders, others were burglars, some were arsonists like Slim, and there was probably not a crime in the entire law code that was not committed by an inmate in Rancho Los Amigos. The non-violent criminals were separated from the violent criminals, and Slim’s pod was a low-level security pod. Excerpt for the constant suicide watches, things in pod 1 were easy going. The nurses came twice a day to distribute medication. Paxil, Seroquel, Abilify, Risperdal, Zyprexa, Valium, Activan, Saphirs, Vraylar, Klonopin, Xanax, and other medication for non-psychotic diseases such as diabetes. Mostly, people were given Seroquel, and placed into an artificial hibernation. Nights of dreamless sleep haunted Rancho Los Amigos for years, but the meds kept the inmates malleable. And, on the bright side, the new class of medications didn’t cause the twitching and brain seizure side effects, and things like lobotomy and shock therapy were no longer ethically accepted. Slim was escorted down a long hallway, and guided toward a door that said Doctor. The young guard pulled out a key chain of heavy keys and unlocked the door. “Sit down,” the guard said pointing at a row of chairs normally found in a doctor’s office. The guard handed a redheaded nurse behind the circular reception desk a manila folder, and stood in front of the door near Slim. After a few moments, the nurse behind a blue and white reception desk said, “Manuel Crank, the doctor will see you now.” Slim walked into a small room with a metal desk with a plastic plant in front of it, two cushioned chairs, a chaise lounge against the back wall, and a gray-haired man with a moustache. Slim read the placard on the desk, Wilson Drew, PhD. The psychologist had shoulder length gray hair, a caterpillar moustache, and a sharp pointed nose. He wore a blue short-sleeve button-up with a train design on the top, faded blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Dr. Drew talked with a hint of southern slang that was difficult to ignore. “Well, Mister Crank, it looks like ya’ got yur’ self in a bit of trouble, huh.” Dr. Drew said. “I know what’s going on around here,” Slim said then sort of chuckled. “The only thing goin’ on around here is a man who burnt down a mail truck, Mr. Crank,” Dr. Drew said. “I aint saying nothing. I know my rights. I didn’t eant to talk to the cops, and I’m definitely not talking to a damned puppet for the government,” Slim said crossing both of his arms on his chest. “Are ya’ still hearin’ voices, Mr. Crank? Why did ya’ decide to stop takin’ your medication, huh? Is there anything ya’ wanna’ talk about?” Asked Dr. Drew. I hear them all the time, the same as everyone else. As a matter of fact, I just want to ask you one question, why don’t they just leave us alone and let us live our lives? Huh, Dr. Drew?” Slim said desperately. “We do wanna’ leave ya’ alone, Mr. Crank, but ya’ can’t go burning down people’s property, and ya’ gotta’ take your medication. I’m gonna’ prescribe ya’ two hundred milligrams of Seroquel every twelve hours. Ya’ make sure ya’ take em’, kay, and don’t go givin’ my nurses a hard time. Here, take one now,” Said Dr. Drew passing a pill and a cup of water across the desk to Slim. Slim missed the hot breakfast, and he slept until his door clanged open for lunch. “Step to your doors,” Mrs. Garcia said as the stocky guard walked around the pod looking into the cells and examining each inmate. Slim stepped to his door, and sat at a table next to a short, bald guy with a toothpick sticking out of his ear. He had such a voracius hunger, and he devoured his lunch within a few minutes. The bald guy looked at Slim, and said, “For what are you in here?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” Slim said drowsily. “That’s fine. I’m Shakespeare, and I’m in here because the government is controlling my mind. I stole a rack full of pseudoephedrine, and the cops found my meth lab in my mom’s garage,” Shakespeare said. Slim’s face turned red. Slim smiled. ”Man, were you cooking in San Bernardino county? I probably smoked some of your stuff,” Slim said. “Nah, I’m from Hollywood,” Shakespeare said. A fat man with orange hair leaned over to Slim, and said, “Man, holmes, don’t let this puto lie to you. He’s from La Puente and his name is Sammy. My name’s Paul, but you can call me Pumpkin Head, holmes.” Pumpkin Head reached over to shake Slim’s hand, and Slim cringed. “It’s cool, ay. I get it, no hard feelings.” Pumpkin Head put both of his hands in the air. “I told you who I am, Pumpkin Head. If you do not believe me, then that is your fault.” Shakespeare said as he stood up to throw his tray in the garbage. The nurse distributed medication after dinner, and the pod was given recreation time until lights out. They were given the option to go outside, but the entire pod chose to stay inside to watch television and write their manifestos (color). The trio sat at a gray table, and Slim found it hard to stay awake. The nurses gave Slim three times the recommended dose, and Slim had no idea. He was lethargic, and he really did not care about the voices much or the conspiracies he’d conjured up with Pablo in the Ice Club. He just wanted to sleep until breakfast. The entire pod was in the same state. Shakespeare struggled to change the channel on the television with the remote. A few of the inmates were sleeping there in the pod area with their heads on the table. The few in front of the television sat in their plastic chairs, mouths wide open, drool dripping down their orange jumpsuits, and the two guards sat behind the guard area talking and laughing like they were at a tea party with the dead. Shakespeare walked in to his cell for an early lights out, and Pumpkin Head leaned over to Slim, ”You wanna’ hear something funny, holmes? That foo’ Shakespeare took a class at a community college, and since then he got this idea in his head that he was Shakespeare reincarnated or some shit, holmes. That foo’s real fuckin’ crazy. You wanna’ hear the kicker, holmes. The kicker is he only got a C-. That fool didn’t even pass the class, ay. Aaaaaaaahahahahahahaha,” Pumpkin Head broke out in laughter. Slim looked at Pumpkin Head, nodded a few times, then went to his bunk. The leaves fell slowly from the trees outside of Rancho Los Amigos, and the tree branches became like sharp, shattered bones. It rained occasionally, but the clouds never left. Rancho Los Amigos never changed, only the faces were different. Slim was sentenced to 5 years at Rancho Los Amigos, and he was getting used to the routine. He felt a serotonin rush with the nurse’s visit, and the Seroquel evened him out. The waist band on his orange pajama pants was getting tighter and tighter around Slim’s hips, and he asked for a larger size. Aside from the drugs, Slim looked forward to the meals. The powdered eggs were unsalted, but the texture could be found in an y diner across America. The grits mixed well with the packaged peanut butter, and Slim loved spreading the combo across the dry wheat bagel. He washed it all down with the 2% milk. Sometimes, there were steamed potatoes for breakfast with a hint of Cajun seasoning, or instead of grits there was oatmeal. On Sundays, there were pancakes, and Slim saved a little bit of the syrup packet to mix in with the oatmeal or Corn Flakes. Lunches were always cold and always the same, but Slim didn’t mind. They gave them cold cut meats on a submarine with cheese, lettuce, and tomato, a side of apple sauce, and always the 2% milk. Other days they served peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the softest wheat bread, carrots and celery with a side of ranch dressing, and a bag of barbecue chips. Many of the inmates opened the bag of barbecue chips vertically, and drenched them in the ranch dressing. The 2% milk cleansed the pallet, and each bite was like the first. The dinners were always the best. Slim wished he could shake the chef’s hand some nights, and he prayed to God that they would let him learn to cook. White rice smothered with kidney beans and red tomato sauce, with a side of green beans, lima beans, and hominy all mixed up, a wheat roll used to scoop up the remaining sauce, and always the 2% milk. Slim would never forget spaghetti nights or hotdogs and beans nights. The food was something to look forward to everyday. “Hello, Mom,” Slim said. “How are you doing, Manny?” She said. “Ok.” Slim said. “Well, Manny, you messed up big time. You have to deal with the consequences of your actions. I’m just glad you didn’t kill anybody. I read up on Rancho Los Amigos, and it’s a really good facility. They help lots of people,” She said. “I’m tired, Mom. Thanks for visiting,” Slim said, then stood up to leave. “Don’t leave already. Have you been receiving the letters I’ve sent to you? You have to make this time productive, Manny,” She said. “Bye, Mom,” Slim said. “I love you, honey. I’ll visit again around Christmas time,” She said. Slim paused a moment, and then said, “Mom, see if you can send me some kind of commissary. Honey would be perfect. Those big ol’ bags of sugar, and cylinders of salt would be perfect as well. you know the ones with the yellow logo of the little girl with the umbrella over her head.” “I’ll see what I can do, Manny. Please sit and visit with me for a while,” She said. Slim was escorted back to the pod. He was greeted by Mrs. Garcia, ”Hey, Slim you’re just in time for meds, and dinner is right around the corner. Welcome back.” Slim smiled for the first time in a while.

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