The Man with No Shoulders

There is a new patient from Side One sitting at the piano. He gracefully plays a subtle melody with one hand, smiles to himself, a slight smile, as from some inner delightful secret he shares with himself. Now the left hand starts, picking up the melody in perfect counterpoint, lightly, softly, delicately. I move over to stand beside the piano, he glances at me, nods his head in recognition, plays on.

Stops.

“Lovely,” I say. “I don’t recognize the composer.”

“It’s my own twisted plagiarism of Bach,” he says, looking up at me.

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes. I am kidding. It’s just something I do, fool around with little twisted melodies, I mean I do the twisting.”

“Well you certainly have a sweet touch, and more than a little technique under those fingers.”

“I used to. Not anymore, not really. Once I was a real student of the piano. Long ago and far away, in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Actually, I don’t exist anymore.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Colin. Who are you?”

“I’m Frances. I work here. What are you doing here?”

“I’m cracked.”

“It doesn’t look like that to me.” I pat him on the arm. “How would you like to go on a team with all women?”

“What would I do on a team with all women, I’m a man! People think I’m a woman because I have skinny arms and no shoulders.”

“It isn’t that. I think you’re interesting, I like you a lot. I just want you on my team.”

He looks at me with his perpetual small smile, the slightly upturned corners of the mouth. I have it too, but not all the time. I think he has it all the time, even when he is alone. But you’re never alone here. You can’t even close your bedroom door. You can’t even pull the curtain.

Colin was in the hospital a very short time. I never did find out what his problem was. Rumor has it that he had been a very influential businessman who had secretaries and flew around in private airplanes. He seemed too sensitive, to me, for that kind of life. He had the wrong personality. I doubt the rumor is true, but you never know. I enjoyed him while he was there. We would play the piano for each other, admiring each other’s musicality. It seems so strange that this cultured man, an accomplished musician, polite, sensitive, and witty, would be locked up in a psychiatric hospital.