A fleeting journey into New York’s infamous mental ward

A stranger stood behind me. I tried to be oblivious. My knees pressed up against the bar and my feet rested on the metal ledge at the base of the stool. I left my black jacket on because I couldn’t shake the chill from outside. The stranger watched me as I waited. The ice cold winds from outdoors left my hair disheveled and my face tingly upon my reintroduction to warmth.

I was waiting for my friend Stephen. The man that owned the bar at 29th and 1st was kind enough to let me wait inside. It was 11:30 p.m. I felt bad for not ordering a drink, but the owner didn’t seem to mind. He was tending bar and occupied filling people’s orders. He was Greek and had enough gel slicking back his hair to withstand a hurricane.

The stranger behind me spoke to the bartender. “Can you break this into dimes, quarters and nickels?” he asked in a deep voice. The owner leaned across the bar and took a dollar bill from his customer and handed him the change. Relieved, I watched him go, then glanced at my cell phone. “Where are you, Stephen?” I muttered, shifting my weight anxiously.

The seven other bar stools to my left were vacant and one stool away from me on my right sat the owner’s nephew, whose hair sported the same ice cream sundae look. Thankfully a copy of the New York Post lay between us. I knew one direct glance at him would land me a sexually charged stare-down. I gazed down at my phone waiting for it to light up. It refused.

The phone at the bar rang. The owner picked it up. He tapped the counter in front of me. “Is your name Donna?” he asked, his accent heavy. I smiled and shook my head no. Two minutes later he asked me if I was sure my name wasn’t Donna. I looked up. I was sure. He spoke to the phone again, angry now. “If you call again, I’m calling the police. I’m looking at you right now, I see you man,” he yelled, slamming the phone down.

He motioned out the window. “Look at this nut, he’s right there on the payphone and he’s calling to talk to her!” the owner said. His nephew and a few waiters looked at me.

“Me?” I asked.

“Yeah, you. This crazy bastard. He’s at the payphone outside, he’s looking at you through the window,” he explained. My body went stiff. I didn’t want to turn around but I did. It was the stranger that stood behind me who had asked for change.

“I know this guy,” the owner said. “He’s one of those crazies from Bellevue a few blocks down.” He tried to comfort me by laughing. “He likes you. He thinks you’re pretty. When’s your friend coming?” he said.

Hopefully it would be any minute now. I was only a twenty minute walk from home but this was unfamiliar territory. My sense of reality felt warped. I felt trapped and vulnerable. Finally, a few minutes later, my friend Stephen arrived.