Infectious Smile

The green light was on. The people crossed the street, brushing shoulders and taking glances. On one side of the street, a traffic enforcer looked at the traffic light digital timer as it ran from sixty. And then he looked at the pedestrians. The digital timer flicked zero. The red light was on. The motorists suddenly beeped in deafening succession. The traffic enforcer’s eyes fell out. He gritted his newly brushed teeth. He raised up a whistle to his shaking lips and blew the air that came from his throat.

In the middle of the street, a man was swinging his arms in a manner of swimming while walking in slow motion. It was as though the street was flooded with invisible water. Water that could have drowned the vehicles and the motorists, who were angrily waiting for him to get out of the way. His steps took forever to finish. And the motorists were clucking their tongues as they shook their heads. He didn’t bother with the honks and the yells of curses.

Upon realizing the failure of a whistle tied around his neck, the traffic enforcer spat it. “Hey, you! Fool!” he hollered, “get out of the way.”

The man stopped. His right foot was suspended in the air. His arms stretched out, hanging like an eagle’s wing. He looked down at the concrete cement as if making sure that his way was cleared of glass shards that could sting his shoes. He was like a statue. And it was like a scene in a movie that was paused, and the watching crowd, the motorists, were bored and craving for it to resume.

“Fool!” The traffic enforcer was halfway to him.

Smiling, the man turned his head to him, but unstirred in his body position. The traffic enforcer stopped. Their eyes met. The traffic enforcer groped the club at his right side. His eyes fastened on the man’s taming smile.

Everything stopped as if time paused. Two people in the middle of the street couldn’t hear the honks and shouts of disgrace. They were there in a minute of absolute peace of mind. Then the traffic enforcer broke that peacefulness. “What are you doing, pal?” He delivered his question in a comforting tone, like a song lulling a baby in a cradle.

“I’m swimming,” the man mumbled. And so he continued swimming.

The traffic enforcer had finally drawn out the club. He hoisted it to his right. The mouths of the motorists hung open again. His left hand snatched it. He set it on his left side. And held it like an oar. He began paddling while slowly following the man.

“Hurry, pal, I’m going to catch you,” said the traffic enforcer. He laughed like a child satisfied with a chasing game. “Look, I’ve got a canoe!”

They clogged the street for almost an hour. No motorist could cross. The man and the traffic enforcer were chasing down there in the middle of the street like a cat and a mouse in a sea of honks and beeps and curses.

In the afternoon, after the initial psychological checkup, the head of the Metro Development Authority summoned the traffic enforcer’s wife to inform her they would take him to an asylum for a further checkup on his condition.

“I don’t really know what happened to him,” said the wife after they had given her a few minutes with him. “He never acted like that before. And I’m pretty sure his relatives do not have any mental disorder.” She covered her wet face. “Oh, God,” she said in sobs, “I could not even talk to him. He won’t speak.”

“I’m sorry, Missus,” said the head of MDA. “We found him this morning in his post with this patient of schizophrenia, who escaped from the City Asylum yesterday. They were provoking public commotion and causing traffic.”

The wife wept.

The man, a fugitive from a mental institution, was back again in the City Asylum, with his new friend, the traffic enforcer. In the same ward, with six other patients with mental illnesses, they sat in front of the gray-haired psychiatrist.

“What do you want to do in life?” asked the psychiatrist to the first in the row.

The bald patient squinted his eyes as he looked up. He touched his forefinger to his chin. He looked at the psychiatrist directly in the eyes. “I want a chalk.”

“What will you do with it, Robert?” said the psychiatrist.

“I want a chalk!” he shouted. He raised his hands up like a rallyist on the street, clamoring for justice or cessation of corruption in the government. “I want chalk! I want chalk!” He looked around at the other patients, who smiled and nodded rhythmically to his yell.

The psychiatrist knew Robert would go into a frenzy if he wouldn’t get what he wanted. He gestured at the orderly named Patrick, standing like a sentinel by the closed door.

Patrick moved out, frowning. He didn’t like his job compared to his previous job in a bar as a bouncer. He didn’t like it more because the pay was low and he had to deal with crazy people, who he thought were not good for him because they might infect him with their mental sickness. With that, he indulged himself through physically hurting those patients who would go amuck. But, of course, he did it with absolute secrecy. He didn’t want to lose his job as well.

When Patrick came back to the ward, there was chaos. The traffic enforcer went berserk, smashing chairs away and hitting some patients who had been shouting and crying. The psychiatrist had sneaked out of the ward. Patrick put down the sticks of chalk on the psychiatrist’s desk. And he jumped onto the traffic enforcer and jailed him around muscled arms. Two other orderlies arrived. They dragged the traffic enforcer out and took him to the next room. They tied him to the bed and injected him with antidepressants.

Patrick stayed and waited for the two orderlies to go out of the room. He looked around. “You fool!” His firm fist sank into the traffic enforcer’s stomach. He expected his face to twist in pain. Instead, the traffic enforcer smiled. A thoughtful, gentle smile. Their eyes met. Patrick’s abusive stone heart softened into cotton. Dazed, he turned away. His feet took him back to the ward where the six patients sitting on the floor like children looking at an artist in front of them.

Robert was drawing a door on the wall painted with light blue. He finished his masterpiece by shading the knob. He turned to his audience. “Who wants to go out of this sick place?”

They all eagerly shouted ‘me’. Some didn’t stop shouting.

“You can, now!” shouted Robert like it was a starter pistol shot to start a race.

They all stood up. They rushed toward the imaginary door, yanking down or pushing others out of the way. Once they got near, they tried to catch the knob, gradually erasing it on the wall.

“Enough!” Patrick yelled at them. “Fools,” he murmured. He lifted his empty right hand. He leveled it across his eyes. The thumb clipped with the forefinger. And he moved his hand like he was holding a small invisible pendulum. “Don’t you see I have the key?” He laughed hard.

They chased him as he ran away, taking the invisible key to the artistically drawn door on the wall.

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