Nuthouse

Fall, 1969

The end.

It was supposed to be a beginning. That’s what she’d told him. An awakening. A fresh start. A maiden voyage of the mind to uncharted realms where anything was possible … where everything was comprehensible. She was four years older. A junkie. Wrote poetry about driving stakes into her arm, being drenched with sweat, riddled with despair. Her name was Christy. Four years older. A very old twenty-one. Ridley never thought at the time how peculiar it was for a junkie to be the one to turn him on to acid. He was too young to know. Even though he thought he’d already lived a lifetime in seventeen years, he would soon learn on this cool October night that everything he knew, everything he’d experienced, everything he’d squeezed into seventeen years on this planet didn’t add up to one goddamn thing.

Ridley’s awakening was on a cold concrete floor. In actuality, a sudden, abrupt jolt back into the other consciousness … that state commonly known as Reality. There were thick leather restraints securing his arms tightly against his abdomen. He stared at what would become his hands as they were transformed from bone to sinew… molecules seamlessly melting and merging … grisly and decayed flesh trying its best to become what it had been before. The grand finale of his personal eight-hour horror show.

A figure stood over him. Slowly, cautiously he looked up. Their eyes met. It was a cop. A big guy. Muscular. Mexican. Baby-faced. A clipboard in his hands. Standing above studying the teenager sprawled there on the floor as if he were some kind of life- form from another dimension … a visitor from a distant galaxy. The officer didn’t know what to expect upon this young stranger’s awakening. Behind his brusque, by-the-book manner were kind, compassionate eyes--the eyes of a big kid barely out of high school himself.

You okay? the cop asked, then immediately looked down at his clipboard.

Mr. … uh … Mr. Ridley?

Guess so… the young stranger muttered almost inaudibly.

The only thought Ridley had at that moment was how odd it sounded to be called Mister… definitely the first time ever. His mind was in survival mode, on automatic pilot, not yet having begun to piece together the hundreds, perhaps thousands of terrifying particles of fear … the multitude of moments in time seared into his psyche that would soon become the signposts of a night-long voyage through hell. Hearing the policeman say his name seemed just as foreign as being referred to as Mister. He felt like a raw, crude piece of garbage cast aside… road-kill jettisoned by the universe onto this cold concrete floor.

Where am I? How’d I get here? His retrained hands felt a lukewarm wetness. Shit, I pissed in my pants! The words came out on auto-pilot. He looked up and saw the officer’s black and white name tag. GARCIA.

Have you finally settled down? the cop called Garcia asked.

I, uh… I dunno. I guess, uh, I…

Garcia lowered himself down to one knee.

I’m taking off these restraints. Do you understand, Mr. Ridley?

Yeah, uh…sure…

Do you think you can sit up? Garcia asked, having removed the thick leather straps.

For a long moment, the officer’s words seemed strange and disjointed. Nothing made sense. The cold floor. The bright yellow light shining above. The sounds coming from the young cop’s mouth. His voice. His words. A mouth forming a question. All so foreign. All so familiar.

How the hell did I get here? Ridley asked, pushing his body up to a seated position. Why was I in those things? He pointed to the restraints.

For your own protection. You were having seizures.

Garcia was studying him like a specimen in a laboratory. He seemed incredulous, searching for an answer, poking around the pre-dawn landscape for some kind of explanation of what he’d witnessed since just after midnight.

What was it like? the cop inquired, not in the least bit trying to disguise his curiosity with standard police procedure.

The seventeen-year-old Ridley stared straight ahead, never answering the question … beyond the officer, beyond the pale green walls of the interrogation room (if that’s what it was), collecting fragments of memory from the cavernous reaches of the bottomless pit he’d explored … as deep as any poor soul would want to venture … the seventh circle of the void where human fear transforms itself into primordial terror. With a hunched back, bared fangs and a maniacal smile … an uninvited guest who decides to stay for a month, a year … perhaps for a lifetime ….

For Ridley, something ended that night … lost like a sandcastle beneath the crashing waves … a sunny Andrew Wyeth farmhouse leveled by a tornado of stench, cinder, and darkness.

…

From that night on, the world as he knew it would never be the same.

1

Fall, 1970 - One Year Later

Night of the Living Duck

The State Mental Hospital was an imposing presence at 24th Street and Van Buren, comprised of a group of shadowy, dark brick-and- mortar buildings, three of which had been standing since 1887 when they were collectively known as The Insane Asylum of Arizona. It would take thirty-five years for the facility to be renamed the Arizona State Hospital. A medieval-looking stone-and-mortar wall surrounded the majority of its one hundred sixty acres, supposedly protecting the public from the over two thousand cast-offs of society who lived there.

Since he was a young boy growing up on the outskirts of town, Ridley had heard wild stories about the State Hospital and some of the inmates who had called it home, including the infamous Winnie Ruth Judd, the Trunk Murderess. Back in the thirties, Winnie shot and killed two women in a fit of jealousy, dismembered them then stuffed their heads, lower legs, and torsos into a large black steamer trunk. Her victims’ upper legs were crammed into a more fashionable valise. Two days later, she boarded a train for Los Angeles with the steamer trunk and valise containing the body parts. The foul smell emanating from her luggage turned out to be Winnie’s downfall. A few months later, she was convicted of the crime, but later was found to be mentally incompetent and was committed to the State Hospital at 24th and Van Buren.

In fact, very few people around town ever referred to the State Hospital as The State Hospital. If a bum with a crazed look in his eyes was stumbling down Adams Street downtown, someone would invariably say, That guy should be at 24th and Van Buren! As a kid, if Ridley was caught acting out by his parents or teachers… doing a Curly Howard impersonation or twisting his face like a demented fool… he’d be warned, Better watch out or you’ll end up at 24th and Van Buren.

In early September, all it took was one phone call and Ridley was indeed headed for 24th and Van Buren … the State Mental Hospital … although it had nothing to do with what had happened the previous year--his encounter with Officer Garcia and the sudden shearing away of his mind’s innocence. Over the past eleven months, so much he experienced was instantly transformed into a terrifying reminder of that night the previous October. His eighteenth birthday came and went. He’d left college, not even completing his first semester. He tried his best to disappear, to fade into the woodwork. At first his phone seemed to ring all the time, but he never picked it up. After a couple of months had passed, it rang less and less. However, on that afternoon in early September, Ridley surprised himself by answering his phone immediately--almost automatically--when it rang. It was Pete Murray. Of all people, crazy Pete Murray, constantly stoned Pete Murray. A genuine lunatic, balls-to-the-wall partier and at times a true pain in the ass. But at that moment, Ridley felt as if a lifeline was being thrown to him as soon as he heard Murray’s crazy, lunatic, most-likely-stoned voice.

How the fuck you doin’, Rids? Pete broke the silence like a sonic boom.

I’m okay…I guess.

O-kay! What kind of weak, mealy-mouthed answer is that! What the hell’s wrong with you! Right now, I’m standin’ here by a big-ass oak tree at Encanto Park. Birds are chirpin’ everywhere! Goddamn ducks are walkin’ up to me like I’m St. Francis of A-fuckin- sissy! Been feedin’ 'em a righteous mix of French bread and some mighty fine bud! Have you ever bonded with a duck, Rids? I mean really bonded?

No…

Then you gotta get down here! You owe it to yourself to cleanse your mind off whatever shit you got in it and join me in this communal experience between man and duck … or duck and man. Whichever way you wanna look at it. It’s far-out, man. Far-fucking- out!

Ridley didn’t respond.

What the hell’s wrong with you, anyway? Pete said, obviously frustrated Jesus, I’d have a better conversation with a corpse at the morgue! At least I wouldn’t expect some dead motherfucker to say anything to me! His voice suddenly lowered, a bit concerned. Hey, you okay, Rids?

I haven’t talked to you in a while, have I...? Ridley quietly replied.

Been a few months, I guess. Got a job. Full time. That’s why I’m calling you. I thought--

I had a really bad trip on acid, Ridley broke in. It’s been kickin’ my ass for almost a year now.

Acid! Pete giggled. Why didn’t you tell me? That’s one subject I’m an expert on. Might say I've got a Ph.D. in LSD! Hell, man, I’ve had five hundred, maybe a thousand trips, mostly good, bodaciously good, I might add. Some so-so … a bit edgy. A few borderline bad, I suppose. A couple, yessiree, I would certainly label bad … whoa, not just bad, but bad-bad … as bad as it gets. Scared the livin’ hell outta me. Snakes and scorpions and all kinds of weird-ass demons. Even shit my pants on one of 'em. Thought I was never comin’ back! You gotta ride the beast, baby. Remember, it’s all in your mind.

"But everything’s in your mind!"

All I can say is you gotta ride the goddamn beast, Rids… or that motherfucker’ll eat you alive!

At that moment, the words Ridley heard Crazy Pete saying somehow clicked in his brain. All the shrinks he’d seen over the past year didn’t really get it. But somehow it seemed as if Pete did. He’d been there too, Ridley thought.

Now forget about all this acid bullshit, Pete said. Let me tell you about the job I got. What a trip! You won’t believe where I’m working! he chuckled. Guess! Guess where I got a job!

I dunno…

C’mon, Rids…guess!

Ridley remained silent.

I’ll give you a hint. It’s the perfect place for us refugees from the strange Land of Lunacy and Psychedelia….

Uh … the State Hospital? Ridley replied jokingly with a somewhat nervous laugh.

That’s RIGHT! Pete howled loudly, Fucking-ass right! I can’t believe you got it on your first try! The looney bin! Good ol’ 24th and Van Buren! I’m a Mental Health Worker at the State Hospital. It’s official. Been there three, almost four months now. Ain’t that a kick in the ass, man?

Ridley laughed. Jeez, they must hire anybody.

"Right again, Rids! They hire anybody! That’s why I thought it’d be the perfect job for you!"

I don’t know if I could handle it.

Listen, asshole, Pete jumped in. "If you’re gonna ride the beast, there’s no better way to do it than to throw yourself into a goddamn den of 'em! Hey, man, right now I’m workin’ the P.M. shift on the M.R. Ward. My best buddy there is a patient named Robert. Robert’s a really cool pinhead. A fucking pinhead! Do you know what a pinhead is, Rids?"

Uh, hey, Pete, I really don’t think I could--

Yes you can! In fact you’re gonna give 'em a call tomorrow! A lady named Donna in Personnel is expecting your call in the morning before eleven. Don’t let me down, man.

What the hell are you talking about? Ridley said, a strong hint of panic in his voice. You call me after almost a year and expect me to--

I need a partner. A comrade-in-arms. Everybody else is away at school or totally full of shit. Hey, I’ve got big plans at this place. Got a lot of connections … you know, people in high places.

You’re full of shit, Pete.

No, I’m not full of shit! Pete shot back. What I’m tellin’ you is the God’s-honest truth! I’ve set it up where I’m being transferred to night shift on Pima Ward. That’s Adult Psych. Night shift is a fuckin’ breeze, Rids. By midnight, all the patients are sleepin’ like babies. It’s party time! I guarantee I can get you on the same shift as me if you make that call tomorrow. Hey, man, write the fucking information down. The lady’s name’s Donna. Here’s her number … 257-3604. Got it?

Yeah, Ridley sighed, I got it.

Hey, buddy, I gotta split. I’m totally out of change and this pay phone’s gonna cut me off any minute. Just promise me that you’ll give Donna a call!

I dunno, I--

Promise!

Okay, okay! Ridley reluctantly agreed. I’ll make the call!

You can’t believe what’s happenin’ here, Rids, Pete giggled uncontrollably. I’ve got three, four, six … maybe a dozen righteously stoned ducks headed straight for me! Can you hear 'em? All my bread-and-bud mix is gone. But they want more! They fuckin’ want more! More, I tell you! They want more! It’s like 'Night of the Living Duck'! Help me, Rids! Help me! Can you hear 'em? Can you hear 'em quackin’? Aaaarrrrrrgh! Goodbye, Rids! Oh, untimely death!

Bye, Pete, Ridley said, laughing. Man, you’re a fucking idiot!

Just remember to make that call!

I will, Ridley sighed. Don’t worry, I will.

2

The Interview

Ridley made good on his promise to Pete and spoke with the lady named Donna in the State Hospital’s Personnel Department at nine- thirty the next morning. For the better part of an hour before making the call, he rehearsed over and over what he was going to say. He didn’t want to seem too timid or shy, too nervous or apprehensive, too dull or too distant. He didn’t want to reveal much--not much at all--certainly not enough that she might sense what a mental train wreck he himself had actually become. How so many times over the past year he felt like he belonged in a goddamn insane asylum himself … along with all those poor bastards at 24th and Van Buren. By nine-thirty, Ridley’s shaking, sweaty hand could barely dial the phone. Surprisingly, the lady on the other end, Donna in Personnel, immediately told him she was expecting his call.

One of our Mental Health Workers, Peter Murray, speaks very highly of you, Mr. Ridley, she announced. Peter believes that you’d be a valuable addition to our team.

Uh, yes, ma’am, Ridley responded. From what Pete… I mean Peter… told me about the position, I’m … I’m very interested in it.

Ridley couldn’t believe his ears … the fact that Donna in Personnel was talking to him because of Crazy Pete Murray’s reference … a deranged lunatic who just the day before was communing with the chirping birds at Encanto Park … getting a bunch of ducks stoned on grass … the self-proclaimed Ph.D. of LSD. Jesus!

All applicants for the available Mental Health Worker positions are interviewed every Wednesday at ten a.m., she said. Is this Wednesday good for you, Mr. Ridley?

Sure. That sounds fine.

Do you know how to get here?

Uh, I think so…

Take the main entrance off of Van Buren. The first building on the right is Administration. Room 113. First, you’ll fill out an application and the psychological profile. Then, the interview. You shouldn’t have to wait too long. With such a glowing recommendation from Peter, I don’t anticipate you’ll have any problem with the customary procedures.

Thank you, ma’am, Ridley said politely, cringing inside at the thought that Donna in Personnel and Crazy Pete were apparently on a first-name basis. As he recalled, Pete had told him he’d only been working there three or four months. What kind of master bullshit artist is this guy? Ridley wondered to himself. And what’s this about a fucking psychological profile?

We’ll see you on Wednesday! Donna in Personnel said cheerily.

As Ridley hung up the phone, he was suddenly overtaken by a feeling of impending doom. Everything was fine until he heard the lady say the words psychological profile. Somehow he knew that would be the kiss of death. The state of his fragile and fractured mind could very well be exposed for the entire State Hospital staff to see. Instead of hiring him, they might decide to commit him right there on the spot. Instead of becoming a Mental Health Worker he might actually become a patient himself! His first instinct was to call Pete … to find out what this psychological profile bullshit was all about. Then he remembered what Pete had told him a couple of days earlier … how he had to ride the beast or else the beast would eat him alive. There was no doubt that Pete was indeed a little crazy, possibly even a borderline lunatic. But at that moment in time Pete’s words made perfect sense to Ridley. Their meaning entered his consciousness like a powerful storm of strength, trouncing his trepidation, defeating his doubt, going toe-to-toe with the terror that had plagued him for so many months. He decided to face his fear head-on ... at least where the job at 24th and Van Buren was concerned. He’d be there on Wednesday and whatever the outcome, he’d let the chips fall where they may….

3

The Transfiguration of Mrs. Potato Head

That Wednesday at ten when Ridley arrived there were probably fifteen or twenty other applicants in Room 113 of the Administration Building at the State Hospital. At first glance, he thought all of his fears might be unfounded. At least five of the applicants were long- haired, bearded freaks. He actually saw two of them taking long, deep tokes off a joint outside the building before they went in. There were three old ladies ... grandmotherly types. No way those geezers could handle this kind of intense, mind-fucking job, he thought to himself. A couple of the potential employees looked unkempt, kind of hobo-ish, like they’d somehow accidentally wandered in off of Van Buren Street. Dirt under their nails. Dressed like shit. Look more like patients than Mental Health Workers, he laughed under his breath. No hope for those losers, either....

And, of course, there had to be one asshole in the crowd ... a true, genuine, blue-blooded Bostonian asshole ... busy as hell primping himself ... dressed to the nines in his stylish Brooks Brothers suit and tie. Looked like a buttoned-down, Ivy League executive hey-boy from Harvard Square or Park Avenue … definitely someplace a lot fancier than this godforsaken hellhole. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut about his family’s house on the Cape or studying abroad … all kinds of highbrow shit. "What’s that guy doin’ here? Ridley wondered. If they hire him, he’s in for a rude awakening. One minute with Robert the Pinhead and that fancy-pants dude'll waltz right out the door. Gone! No guy like that’s ever gonna survive in this place…."

At about ten-fifteen a matronly, no-nonsense-looking woman with a bright red pasted-on smile walked into the room, requesting that everyone be seated. She reminded Ridley of Mrs. Potato Head.

Good morning! the woman said cheerily as she handed out the applications along with the dreaded psychological profile forms. Make sure that all the information you provide is correct and current … address, phone number, previous employers, Social Security number, names of three references and their contact information. I’m sure you’re all quite adept at filling out an application for employment, aren’t you! Her pasted-on smile widened, transforming her from Mrs. Potato Head to Carol Channing. "After you’re finished filling out the application, proceed immediately to the six pages of questions you’ll find stapled together beneath the application. It's very important in our hiring process that you answer all of the questions. Everyone should have a sharpened pencil on the table in front of them. Pens are not accepted. With your pencil, make sure you fill in the circle to the right of each answer you choose completely … no x's or check marks. Are there any questions?"

Uh, yeah, one of the stoners said, his bloodshot eyes half closed. What’s all this shit about? He held up the six pages that were stapled together.

That questionnaire is a necessary function of our employment process, the woman replied, her bright red pasted-on smile transforming itself into a Bette Davis/Baby Jane sneer. It helps us know who you are....

Hey, man, are we in fuckin’ high school here? the stoner grumbled under his breath. He pushed all the papers away, stood up, and bolted toward the exit. Don’t gotta take no bullshit test for a goddamn construction job! He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Are there any other questions? the woman asked, her voice a bit more timid than before.

No one dared say a word. The tension in the room was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Almost in unison, everyone started filling out their job applications. For Ridley, the application was no problem. This was all charted territory. He had been working since he was fifteen years old as a dishwasher, busboy, pin-setter in an old-style bowling alley ... even a couple other odd jobs. He had all the required information written down on a sheet of paper he’d stuffed into his pocket before leaving home. In fact, he listed Pete as his first and primary reference. After talking with Donna in Personnel, Ridley realized that apparently none of the staff at 24th and Van Buren had any idea of what a crazy sonofabitch Peter Murray actually was. So, insane as it sounded, his ace-in-the-hole at getting the job was probably Pete’s recommendation, whether he liked it or not.

As for the dreaded psychological profile, it turned out to be much ado about nothing. All Ridley’s fears about exposing the mental skeleton in his closet disappeared as soon as he saw that it was not only a multiple choice test, but a multiple choice test for idiots. The kind of lame-ass test they might pass out to bunch of freshmen in a high school psychology class or on the same level as the test you take to get your driver’s license. Even worse. Questions like:

1. Your next-door neighbor plays very loud music until two or three a.m. night after night, disturbing your sleep. At 6 o'clock every morning, you have to get up and go to work, but you feel exhausted because of the constant noise-making next door.

The best way to respond to the problem is:

A. Immediately confront your neighbor and angrily give him a piece of your mind.

B. Loudly blast your own music until 2 or 3 a.m. to show your neighbor what it feels like to be disturbed in such a way.

C. Call the Police Department and report your neighbor is a drug-dealing child molester.

D. Talk to your neighbor, calmly telling him how his loud music is affecting your sleep and try to resolve the problem

All that it took to ace the test was even the smallest modicum of common sense. There were ninety multiple choice questions on the six pages, at least seventy of which were just as obvious as the one about the noisy neighbor. The other twenty required a little more thinking, possibly having two answers that might be considered correct, depending on the perspective of whoever came up with the stupid psychological profile in the first place. At one point, Ridley caught himself thinking way too much, pondering one particular answer much too deeply. What the hell am I doing, he suddenly thought. This is a goddamn test for idiots! I shouldn’t be thinking. I should stop thinking and let my idiot-brain take over! He laughed as he filled in the circles with his pencil, answering all the remaining questions.

A few minutes later after everyone in the room had completed all the necessary paperwork, Mrs. Potato Head returned and picked up all of the applications and psychological profile exams. She looked down at her watch, then up to the clock hanging crookedly on the wall over the office doorway.

It’s exactly ten … fifty… two. The words slowly slithered out of her bright red, pasted-on mouth. We’ll take a break until eleven- fifteen. That’s enough time for you to visit the boy’s or girl’s room, have a cigarette or buy a Coke. She pointed to the exit. There’s a vending machine just outside to the right. Maybe you can take the time to get acquainted with each other. Some of you might be working together sooner than you think! Mrs. Potato Head's smile widened and once again she became Carol Channing. At eleven- fifteen when you come back in, Mr. Saldana will speak with you about the demands of the position … and, of course, about the benefits as well. Are there any questions?

One of the grandmotherly-type ladies, a bit on the rotund- side, couldn’t resist putting her two cents in.

No human being should have to sit in a chair like that for an hour! she complained, pointing at the folding chair she’d been sitting on, My back's feelin' like it just went through the Veet-nam War 'cause of that awful chair!

When do the interviews start? one of the long-haired freaks broke in. How long are we gonna be here?

Not long, the woman in charge assured him. Mr. Saldana shouldn’t take much time at all. You’ll probably be out of here by twelve ... maybe twelve-fifteen at the latest. She looked over at the older lady to address her complaint. I’m sorry about the chairs, ma’am, but that’s all we have to offer at this time. And your name is…?

Millie. Millie Porter, she replied. Millicent on the application.

Alright, Millicent, I’ll make a special notation about your complaint about the chairs and personally deliver it to Mr. Cokely’s office. Mr. Cokely is the Head of Administration.

On her way across the room, Mrs. Potato Head searched through the pile of paperwork she’d secured on a clipboard she was holding until she found the older lady’s application. She paused for a moment, removed a pen from the top of the clipboard and wrote something on the front page. Probably a note in great big letters saying 'DON’T HIRE THIS OLD LADY!' Ridley thought to himself, having observed the situation, 'SHE’S A REAL PAIN IN THE ASS!'

What about the interviews? one of the freaks asked again just as Mrs. Potato Head was slipping out the doorway into the office area. He looked straight at Ridley, searching for an answer to his question. Aren’t we supposed to be interviewed?

I dunno, Ridley replied. Maybe all we’re gonna get is a speech from Mr. What’s-His-Name. He smiled quizzically "What … do you actually want to be interviewed? I’d rather get out of this place as fast as possible."

Yeah, I guess you’re right, the freak agreed, still appearing a bit confused, It’s just that the lady on the phone told me-- Maybe they’re understaffed, Ridley broke in as he and the freak exited the room with the rest of the applicants and entered the small courtyard outside. You know, a couple of 'em might’ve called in sick and they decided to just go with our applications and that bullshit test and the speech this guy’s supposed to give us.

I hope not… the freak said with a worried expression on his face.

Why? Ridley replied, lighting a cigarette. Suddenly he realized that the freak he was talking to was totally stoned.

That test was hard, man! I don’t think I did very good on it. Didn’t even answer some of the questions. He bummed a cigarette from Ridley. It was like they were tryin' to trick us. Sometimes A seemed right, then B seemed righter … then C or D seemed even righter than A or B. Like they were tryin' to mind-fuck us or somethin'….

Yeah, I uh … I see what you mean, Ridley said, slowly moving away as if he was hoping the freak’s case of idiocy wasn’t contagious.

4

A Moustache Coming Unglued

By a little after eleven-fifteen all of the job applicants had returned to the room and taken the same seats they’d had a few minutes earlier. The old lady who had lodged her complaint with Mrs. Potato Head groaned loudly as she lowered herself into the chocolate brown folding chair, then proceeded to voice her displeasure, a blend of quiet mumbling interspersed with few somewhat louder curse words that everyone else in the room couldn’t help hearing. At eleven- twenty, a short, stocky man with too much Brylcreem in his hair and a bushy black moustache entered through the office door with a manila folder tucked under his arm. He seemed uncomfortable, somewhat edgy, possibly perturbed ... like he was still thinking about the argument he’d had with his wife a couple hours earlier … or feeling the effects of a late night out with his buddies playing poker and drinking beer. Whatever it was, the man who introduced himself as Mr. Saldana looked as if he’d rather be anyplace but here, surrounded by such a motley crew of applicants. He opened the folder, laying it out on the table in front of him, then removed a pack of Pall Malls from his lime green shirt pocket. The color of his shirt, Ridley observed, was almost an exact match to the industrial green paint on the walls of the State Hospital room where the job applicants were seated.

Ridley knew he’d seen that color before … that sickly shade of green. That’s it, he recalled. The walls of the fucking Phoenix Police Station! Immediately, his mind raced back to that autumn night almost a year earlier. He felt