A Trip From Alice

A Trip From Alice(Jeff Glazier) A Trip From Alice By Jeff Glazier



It was a nine o’clock appointment. The rooms were close to the hospital psychiatric ward – too close, Emma thought. Like any doctor’s rooms there was an atmosphere of quiet repression. She’d been experiencing that at home. It was probably why she started drinking heavily. The receptionist apologised, but there may be a delay. There was another man waiting. They exchanged polite acknowledgement. He was in his mid-forties she estimated, a little unkempt, badly needed a haircut and was dressed casual to scruffy. He was smiling at her. “You’ve got to be mad to come here.” He whispered. “You’re a first-timer aren’t you? I can tell.” Emma returned a self-conscious smile. “I’m Len,” he got to his feet, a little unsteadily she noticed, and offered his hand – the thumb was missing. He sat down again, rather heavily. It was either drink or medication – probably drink. Emma was reluctant to engage in conversation with him and picked up a magazine. “I’ve been coming here for a year or more. . . . on and off.” Emma lowered her magazine.
“Has it done you any good?”
“Don’t know, no idea where I’d be if I hadn’t? Started coming after this happened.” He held up his thumbless hand.
“And how did it happen?”
“A circular saw – I’m a furniture maker, many in the trade have missing thumbs . . . or fingers.” Then he added as an aside, “especially if they drink . . . I told myself that it would never happen again though.” Emma frowned.
“What, you mean you wouldn’t drink anymore?”
“Don’t be silly . . . I just wouldn’t make any more furniture . . .”
The receptionist attracted his attention. “The doctor will see you now.”
“This won’t take long, it’s just a catchup, get another prescription.” Emma turned to the magazine and looked at the glossy airbrushed lives of the people in it.

Len was right, he emerged only twenty minutes later. He glanced in her direction. “See you around.” Emma couldn’t think where, but waved goodbye all the same.
Dr Steven Van der Westhuizen got up from behind his broad desk, shook her hand warmly then beckoned her to sit on a chair positioned by the side of his desk. There was no couch to lie on. He returned to his chair, black leather with a winged back. He was a large man, with a fresh reddish face. His eyes were a soft blue-grey. “Call me Steven please.” His voice was comforting, reassuring. “I see that you’ve had a good selection of SSRIs over the last . . . three years now. Tell me have you experienced other depressive times in your life?”
“Yes, when my children were born. Baby blues they called it.”
“Popular term – and nothing in between then and now?”
“There have been other incidences.”
“Your father suffered I understand.”
“Yes, brought on by stress at work.”
“As your last episode was?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, how did your father deal with his stress?”
“I’m not so sure really, little was said about it. There is a stigma.”
“Misguided.”
“Nevertheless it exists.”
“How did your mother deal with it?”
“Not so well – didn’t understand it. To her only if bones were broken or blood was pouring out did you have a problem.”
“A bit like your husband? Has he encouraged you to seek help?”
“Yes, I don’t perform, that impacts on his life.” The discussion continued for some time. At the end of it the doctor thought that her condition was categorised as bipolar two and mood stabilisers prescribed. “One thing that I must stress is that alcohol abuse will be counterproductive, may even have adverse effects. Try to keep to government guidelines. A number of my patients seem to ignore this.” He looked disapprovingly over the top of his wire rimmed glasses. He suggested that she report back after a month.
Emma left with a new prescription, but with little renewed hope. She was about to get into her car when she glanced across at the one next to it. The driver was slumped across the front seats. She looked closely, there was no movement, he looked dead. She recognised the back of the man’s scruffy head. She tapped on the window – no response, she tried the door, it was unlocked. She prodded the body, then again. The body moved, as it did a bottle rolled onto the floor. Then it spoke. “Go away, I’m sleeping.”
“You’re not thinking of driving are you? – Why don’t you let me take you home?” Len hauled himself upright.
“My wife would love that. You could take me to my club though.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Pig and Whistle, it’s where we all hang out.” He was coming to quickly now. “Actually there are three places that I hang out: AA meetings, the Pig and Whistle and here, of course – mostly with the same crowd. Drinking on an empty stomach, that’s the problem. The Pig and Whistle doesn’t open ‘till ten. I had a bit of time to kill.”
“I thought you went to AA to stop drinking.”
“It’s supposed to help, but it’s not foolproof. Are you going to take me or not? It isn’t far.”
“Well, I don’t really know . . . and I must pick up my prescription.”
“What’s Alice given you?”
“Alice?”
“Alice Van der Westhuizen, the shrink you’ve just seen – we call him Alice.” Emma took her prescription out of her bag and gave it to him.
“Carbamazepine and Lamotrigine . . . not that great on their own, but I know Shoot can do wonders with them.”
“Who’s Shoot?”
“He’s the barman, concocts incredible shooters, the Pastor says they’re the best.”
“The Pastor? Is he a real Pastor?”
“Of course, he owns the place and we’re his flock. Come and meet them, they’re really nice people. We really got together after the suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“Yeah, no one expected that. We look after each other now, make sure everyone’s happy.” Len was suddenly persuasive.
Emma first picked up her prescription, then found herself driving down roads that she’d never been to before. They stopped at the end of a long street that was heading for the industrial area. “Here we are.” Len led the way.

So, it was through these peculiar circumstances that Emma was introduced to the unusual members of the Pig and Whistle. She didn’t say anything about it when she got home, took a bit of a risk driving too, but they did give her the secret cocktail to sober her up. It was the first time that she’d really laughed in years.

Access from the street wasn’t obvious, the front of the building was overgrown with wisteria and the sign above the door read Seven Day Adventists. “Are you sure this is right?” Len gave a reassuring nod.
“We had to move to new premises after the fire, and there were one or two other irregularities, no licence; stash of drugs that the police found, that sort of thing. – Good cover this place eh?” He looked behind briefly as if to check that they weren’t being followed. They entered a small, smoky dimly lit bar.
A small cheer rang out as Len walked in. The motley collection of what looked like the dregs of humanity sized Emma up. Well, they looked like that at first. After a couple of shooters, the first taken very reluctantly but on the insistence of the Pastor, they all seemed to alter into fine, good-looking, intelligent upstanding members of the community. ‘All a matter of how you look at things’ – that was one of their favourite expressions.
They were untidily spread around the horseshoe shaped bar. Behind it stood Shoot, the master mixer, the scientist. Emma later learnt that he was a qualified chemist. He had the most bulging eyeballs that she had ever seen in her life. Behind him were a startling array of bottles and optics upon a mirrored wall.
Shoot, or the Doctor as he was sometimes called when conditions of the patrons were particularly bad, was pivotal to the wellbeing. The chalkboard list displayed the favourites: Liquid Lobotomy, Brain Damage, and Brain Eraser topped the list. Shoot offered help with her next choice, first he asked to see her prescription. He wasn’t so impressed. “Can’t really do much with these,” he explained with the seriousness of a practitioner. He reached for a well thumbed reference book, and licking his finger with purpose he flicked through the pages. “The stuff that you’re on works best with . . . Horny Bull, Cumshot Two, oh, and all four variations of Gorilla Fart.” He seemed quite pleased to enlighten her with that. “Pretty recreational really – bit soft.” He continued turning the pages. “ . . . If I were you I’d move on to the better antipsychotics, Ziprasidone Clozaril and Stelazine. They’re great in Liquid Cocaine and Brokendown Golf Cart, but then that would stand to reason wouldn’t it?” Emma could only nod in agreement.
“So you add the drugs to the drink then?” Shoot looked at her, mystified by the question.
“Of course, that’s the whole point.” He waved the book in front of her. “And this is the work of several years of experiments I’ll have you know, there’s been a lot of trial . . . and error. Next time you visit Alice just chuck in words like: delusional and manic, and tell him that you think people are watching you.” With that he casually glanced in the mirror behind him. “He’ll give you much better stuff. Alice loves handing out the drugs – don’t know what we’d do without him.” Shoot was distracted by one of his patients. She watched as he listened, made his diagnosis and then mixed. He turned to his eagerly waiting patient and dispensed his medicine. Shoot returned his attention to Emma. “That was a Nuclear Kamikaze – Smirnoff no.21, Triple Sec, lime juice, and a high dose of Thorazine. That will fix him up.”
Whatever it was in the welcome drink Emma didn’t know but an incredible feeling of wellbeing washed over her, a light heartedness that she’d not experienced for many years. And suddenly everything was funny, and everyone around her was laughing. And there was always the caring watchful eye of the Pastor.


It was late in the afternoon when she emerged. The last shot would get her home safely, Shoot assured her. He warned her not to have another drink that night – might spark something off. She believed him. The memory of the afternoon receded and reality began again – and all those questions from her husband?
Emma woke in a disbelieving panic in the night – the only way she could possibly prove what she’d experienced that afternoon was to revisit the building hidden by wisteria somewhere on the road to the industrial estate. And she did that at the earliest opportunity.
Instead of her book club meeting two days later she found her way there. And from then on she took every opportunity to elevate her mood in her new club – even bunking off several PTA meetings.
In the ensuing months Alice Van der Westhuizen adjusted her prescription, now she’d provided some really good stuff for Shoot to work with. He’d little experience with Ziprasidone or Zyprexa before, and was particularly pleased with the results when mixing with Absinthe and Drambuie, it would be his own new creation and called it Flaming Baboons Titties Revisited. Shoot seemed to be fond of primates. Emma had found a taste for his Monkey Balls. That was made from rather innocuous banana schnapps, tequila and strawberry cream liqueur. She liked the creamy ones, like Lewd Lewinsky, but that was more for the men. She had had quite good effects from Double Chocolate Dirty Orgasm, but only after Sex On The Beach.

It wasn’t that long ago that Emma had felt despair, the whole world collapsing in on her; nothing was right. But now she could see everything in a different perspective. It was as she often heard ‘Just the way that you look at things’. It was clear that in the past everything had been distorted.

Early one afternoon, she could never have remembered what day it was, she was sitting at the bar with Len. Both had come in on a bit of a low. Len was being given a hard time at home and reckoned that he needed a break – get away for a while. Emma knew how he felt. The ever attentive and helpful Shoot was going to sort it for him. He had been working on some new trip shooters. Alice had responded to Len’s request for stronger neuroleptics and was delighted to be given some Halopendol as well as Pimozide. Working late one night, (Emma had the image of some Jekyll and Hyde character surrounded by Bunsen burners and test tubes) Shoot discovered, quite by accident, that when they were added in equal quantities to Doug’s Modified Cement mixer, the effect produced a sort of prolonged trip. With some careful additions the desired destination could be arrived at. Shoot was consulting his notes again. “Now, where would you like to go?”
“Somewhere warm,” Len requested, “get away from this cold easterly.”
“Tropical then.” Emma added. “Palm fringed beaches, that sort of thing.”
“Are you also going then?” Shoot asked her innocently.
“Might as well, save you the single supplement Len, it’s crippling.” Emma offered helpfully, then giggled a bit. She always giggled having a Cordless screwdriver.
“Right, I’ll get to work. You’d better make yourselves comfortable.” Just off the main bar was a lounge. There were a couple of long couches and some comfy chairs. They settled on a couch. Shoot busied himself with a collection of bottles and after removing a selection of pills from the cabinet he ground them up. Several optics were attended to, and with a last check in his recipe book and a flurry of his twizzler he put the two tots on a tray, neatly placed a miniature colourful parasol in each and triumphantly carried them into the lounge.
*

“It’s difficult to sense time on a trip.” That’s what she heard Shoot say when she had returned from it. Len was also on the way back. He looked wide-eyed and startled at Emma, then turned to the barman.
“That was amazing Shoot, had a really great time didn’t we?” It was gradually coming back to Emma – the flight was quick, all a bit of a blur. Vague recollections of getting off the plane. She was hit by the thick humid air, and the smell of hot tarmac. Speedy transfer to the hotel, coconut trees lined the roads, thatched huts flashed past. At the hotel, garlands of flowers, and welcome drinks around the pool. Then barefoot onto the powdery white sandy beach with Len by her side.
“Did it really happen?” Emma asked him disbelievingly
“Do you mean walking on soft powdery white sand? Sure did.” She recalled that they walked in and out of the warm water, rows of fishing dhows were moored offshore in the bright blue sparkling sea. The warm wind swayed the palms by the side of the beach where the traders were selling carvings and bright bold African paintings from huts built from palm leaves.
“I can’t believe it happened.” Shoot just stood with his arms folded wearing a smug grin. Emma was still trying to take it all in, the pictures were evolving in front of her, they had been stored and gradually released. Len had his eyes tight shut, relying upon his mind’s eye.
“That little guy we met – with the big smile . . . he was funny.”
“You mean Dishwasher?”
“Yes, that was his name, Solomon Dishwasher, got his name from his first job working in the hotel’s kitchen. His shop was great wasn’t it?”
“Sure was, under refurbishment, as he put it.”
“Well, at least half the roof was missing.”
“As well as two of the walls. And there was a massage table, under construction. He’d also organise a snorkelling trip, it would be splendiferous.”
“Ah yes, he had such a strange turn of phrase, what did he say? – His pictures were superlative samples of Zanzibar art.” Shoot got excited.
“So you made it to Zanzibar!” then he hurried to his recipe book.
“And when we left he wished us well for the rest of our perambulations, such a funny guy.” Len was laughing. The next few frames of the trip flashed before her eyes.
“We went back to the hotel.”
“To the bar.”
“And cocktail happy hour.”
“That was always extended.”
“Then we went to the room.”
“I may have missed a bit there.” Emma admitted.
“Big room, Arabic furnishings, mosquito net, huge bed.” Emma looked over at Len. He just looked all innocent.
“Len! We didn’t . . . did we?”
“Well it’s coming back to me now – you’ve got huge nipples with lots of little bumps around them in the dark ring – they’re called,” . . . Len searched space “Montgomery glands, amazing what you can recall from anatomy lessons.” Emma brought her hands up to her breasts.
“This is ridiculous . . . I mean it’s impossible . . .”
“Nothing impossible when Shoot gets it right.” Emma suddenly realised that it was getting late, she was beginning to feel like Cinderella, she must return. She got to her feet, swaying a little. Shoot signalled from the bar, he would have to give her something to go home on. She reached into her bag to get a cigarette. Her hand felt what seemed to be a piece of wood. She withdrew it. It was ebony and carved. She recalled that the beach traders were selling them. The carvings were of dolphins and turtles surrounding two names – Emma and Len. Emma glanced across at the Pastor, he was smiling at Shoot with the benovlevence of a satisfied accomplished man.