ángel

Ángel is a big, big dude: a magnified person. 

He stands with an orderly in front of the hospital entrance. Next to Ángel, the orderly looks like a child but, with an incongruously full dark beard, maybe more like a hobbit.  

The orderly looks down at a Post-it note stuck to his palm and then checks my license plate. As I roll to a stop, he approaches the passenger side and opens the rear door. 

“Santiago? For Ángel?” 

“Yes. That’s right,” I reply. 

He pushes a plastic tote full of belongings into the back seat, turns to Ángel, and then, looking up with a grin, opens his arms wide, inviting a hug. As Ángel tentatively wraps his big arms around him, the orderly says something in gringo Spanish. I can’t make out the words, but I hear his laugh—so hearty it sounds almost hysterical. Meanwhile, over the orderly’s shoulder, Ángel’s big round face shows nothing. They separate, and Ángel folds himself into the car. Shutting the door, the orderly taps twice on the roof, like cops do when their colleagues are about to pull away with a perp.

Big Ángel immediately begins to cry: “I not ready.”

“You’re not ready? Did you forget something? I can wait while you go get it.”

“No. I not ready. They kicking me out. But I not ready.”

“Do you mean you’re still feeling sick? Should I go ahead and start driving?”

“No. Not sick. Yes. I not ready. You can drive. But I not ready.” 

Confused, I pull away, but too slowly, as though Ángel’s bones were all broken and the slightest bump would shatter him like a precious plate.

“Ángel, there’s water there if you want some.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He takes a little bottle of water, opens the cap, and takes a sip.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, and you don’t have to tell me, but why were you in the hospital?”

“I hearing voices. I came in on Monday because I was hearing voices. And they didn’t do nothing for me. I still hearing them. I so scared.”

Tears overfill his eyes and stream down his cheeks.

“What? That’s awful! How could you be in the hospital for three days, and they didn’t do anything for you?”

“They did, but it no working. I still hearing the voices. So I ask to see the Big Boss.”

“The big boss? What do you mean? Like a manager?”

“The Big Boss! The Big Boss!”

“Oh, right. I get it.” I don’t. But I ask, “Did you get to talk to the Big Boss?”

“No,” he wails. “I keep telling them. And they act like they don’t know who I mean. I keep saying, ‘Let me see the Big Boss. He know me.’ But they didn’t do nothing. And I tell them today, I not ready. I need to see the Big Boss. But they just say no, you need to go to this other place today. I don’t even know where.”

“The place where I’m taking you?”

“Yes. What is it?”

I swipe to the destination on the app. It looks like a clinic of some kind. I tell him.

“Oh no. I know that place. No. They don’t do nothing there.”

“Want me to take you someplace else?”

“Where?”

“Home?”

“No. I scared to go home.”

“Okay. I understand. Has this happened to you before? The voices?”

“Yes.”

“A lot? For how long?”

“I don’t know exactly. Years. I didn’t used to hear them. I used to be normal. Then I left Puerto Rico because mi mamá was here and she was sick and needed help and my sister was supposed to take care of her. But then she just left with some guy. So I quit my job and moved here to help.”

“That was so kind of you. What a good son!”

He nods at me in the rearview mirror.

“I love mamá.”

Then he shakes his head. 

“But when I got here, it was too much. I couldn’t get work and we didn’t have no money. I didn’t know what to do. I met some bad people and sold drugs. That was bad. Then I felt bad and I took the drugs myself. That was bad. Those drugs. That was my bad mistake. I know. And then I began to hear voices.”

“Oh god. I am so, so sorry, Ángel. It sounds like you didn’t have easy choices. Did you ever get medicine for the voices?”

“Yes, but that’s why I came to the hospital. Because the medicine wasn’t working no more and I told them that. And they didn’t believe me. So I said I had to see the Big Boss to explain. But they wouldn’t let me. And today they say I have to go, but the voices don’t stop talking.”

“That sounds so scary!” 

I struggle to get the sentence out, my voice crumbling. A knot has formed in my throat. Now, it slowly loosens as I look in the rearview mirror. My eyes blur. I see him staring out the window, his lips quivering, his face stained with dirty, dry riverbeds of tears. His eyes look puckered and worried like he hasn’t slept ever. 

He nods.

“Yes. Very scary.”

We are pulling into a strip mall, and I locate the clinic sign and pull up by the front door.

“I wish there was something I could do besides drive you to this stupid place. Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to wait?”

“No, it’s okay. You been very nice. Thank you. Can I keep this water?” He holds up the half-empty eight-ounce bottle.

“My god! Of course! There’s another one right here if you want to take it.”

“No, this is good. I don’t want to be greedy.”

Then he gathers his belongings and, clutching the little bottle of water, shuts the door and shuffles toward the clinic in his hospital slippers.  

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