An orange bird flies overhead in a padded foam room.
Theo, a 25-year-old Vietnamese American, blinks.
The bird is gone. He sits alone in the corner, dressed in a scuffed-up straitjacket, banging his head against the wall. He lays on his back, rolls onto his belly, the floor cold and hard. The lights blind his face, the phosphorescent lamps flickering, swaying back and forth. Theo sobs without embarrassment, tucks his knees to his chest. The more he struggles, the more the restraints tighten around his wrists. The pain in his left shoulder stings and itches.
The doctor had punctured his skin with a hypodermic needle. He remembers hitting the ground, as though he’d been punched in the jaw.
Theo reaches over with his chin, cracking his neck. He touches his collar bone, just grazing it. As he inches across the floor, his foot falls asleep, and now it feels like he’s dragging a lead weight. From his waist, he twists and turns, undulating his body, an instrument that’s failing him. His belly rumbles, like a lion sighing.
The door opens.
A young white man, dressed in a white medical coat, walks inside, a clipboard with a notebook under his arm. He twirls his pen between his fingers, putting it behind his ear like a cigarette. He pulls up a folded chair, sits, and crosses his legs. “Hello Theo, my name’s Dr. Z.” He taps his laminated name-tag. Dr. Z reaches forward with his arm, smiles at Theo, and sticks out his hand. His lips form an “O”.
Theo stares at him, his face blank and deadpan. “Sorry, my hands are tied.”
Dr. Z blushes, glancing away before his face drops. “I apologize. That was inappropriate.” He clears his throat and whistles.
“When can I leave?” Theo asks, gesturing his head towards the opening behind the door.
Dr. Z gently closes the door and it closes shut. “Soon Theo.”
Theo laughs.
Dr. Z grabs his pen, clicks it, and scribbles on his notepad. “Did I say something funny?”
Theo shrugs.
Dr. Z nods and continues to scribble.
“Stop writing.”
Dr. Z looks up at Theo and shakes his head. He sets his pen against the page and writes more.
Theo huffs, stands up, and goes to the corner, and bangs his head against the wall. He screams. “Stop your goddamn writing.”
Dr. Z clicks his pen, fits it behind his ear, and tucks his notepad/clipboard under his chair. He walks over to Theo and pulls him away from the wall. He fishes into his pocket and grabs a hypodermic needle, and then stabs it into Theo’s shoulder.
Theo’s eyes roll back, his vision blurring and darkening.
When he wakes up, Theo is lying on a bed. He’s not wearing a straitjacket and he isn’t in the padded room anymore. He groans, holding his shoulder, the pain still there. The new room is spacious. There’s a table and a chair in the center. And across from the bed is a Plexiglas wall.
Behind the wall, Dr. Z is talking to Theo’s sister Gloria.
Gloria isn’t listening. She bites on her lower lip, until she feels pain. Then she clenches her teeth and stares at Theo through the Plexiglas. “So, can he be cured?”
Dr. Z holds out his palms, takes a sharp intake of breath, and cringes.
“Can you give me a better answer than that?” Gloria said, turning back to face Dr. Z.
“Theo has been diagnosed with Cuckooism. He’s a cuckoo.”
Gloria makes a disgusted face. “Come again?”
“Theo is a cuckoo.”
Gloria laughs. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m being honest. He’s a cuckoo.”
Gloria snaps her fingers at Dr. Z. “My brother is a Cuckoo?” She puts her hand on her hip and snarls. “Theo is not a cuckoo. He’s my brother. He’s a human. He’s a good person.”
Dr. Z sighs. “Let me give you the skinny. He’s a cuckoo. A nutjob. He’s crazy. Complete looney tunes.”
Gloria rests her face against her hand. She breathes in deeply and slowly. “What’s wrong with being looney tunes? How can you expect Theo to be sane? I’m not sane either.”
“I wish you didn’t tell me that.”
“Why? Wait. Stop. No stop that. What are you doing?” Gloria says, backing up against the Plexiglas. Her body presses against the wall, like a hand indentation in the sand. She yells and flails her hands forward.
But Dr. Z clamps her shoulder with his massive hand, a hypodermic needle in his hand, the sluice squirting from the tip. His eyes water with tears. Snot bubbles from his nose. “I told you earlier Gloria. Only the sane can survive in the real world.”
“Nothing is real in this world,” Gloria says, head-butting Dr. Z in the face.
Dr. Z cries, clutching his eye. The needle drops from his hand. He staggers and falls against the floor. “You are a Cuckoo too. Just like your brother.”
Gloria picks up the needle and jabs it into Dr. Z’s back.
Dr. Z lunges forward, his body shaking back and forth. His vision blurs and fades to black.
Dr. Z wakes up in a chair, wearing a straitjacket.
Theo is wearing a white medical coat. And Gloria is wearing a white medical coat. They’re sitting in folded chairs, their legs crossed, notepads propped up on their knees. Theo frowns. Gloria clicks her tongue.
Dr. Z slides off the chair, his knees hitting the floor, as he drops his face into his lap. He screams and cannot stop screaming.
Gloria grabs Dr. Z by the collar, yanks him up, and sets him down on the chair. “Now, now. Mr. Z. Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”
“Where is here?” Dr. Z asks, glancing away from Gloria. He looks around the room. It’s white and padded and cramped.
“You’re in Cuckoo World,” Theo says, his lips pursed.
Dr. Z sobs.
Theo scratches the side of his head with his pen, clicks it, and scribbles on his notepad.
“What are you writing? Please stop writing. Quit it, please,” Dr. Z says, lolling his head back.
Theo shakes his head and keeps writing. “Dr. Z, you’ve been diagnosed with sanity.” He puts his hand to his mouth and yawns. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thoughts Gloria?”
“Well, he’s clearly sane. I don’t think he can be cured,” Gloria says, her hands placed on top of each other. She stares at Dr. Z taps his forehead with her pen. “Yup he’s gone for good.”
Dr. Z flinches and recoils from the pen, shrinking into his straitjacket. A trace of blue ink smudges his left cheek. He shakes his head back and forth. “This can’t be happening. I’m in a nightmare. None of this is real.”
Theo turns to Gloria. And she turns back to Theo and they both laugh.
“You’re right, he’s…,” Theo says.
“…Absolutely…” Gloria says.
Theo chuckles. “…Sane.”
Theo stands up. Gloria follows him and they both leave the room. The door shuts behind.
Dr. Z gets up from the chair, kicks it down, and shuffles over to the corner of the room. He bangs his head against the wall. He knocks himself unconscious.
When Dr. Z wakes up, he covers his mouth and gasps.
The ceiling of the room is covered in orange and yellow feathers. A hundred yellow and orange cuckoos flap their wings, cooing, and flying over Dr. Z, circling over his head like a gigantic halo, their beaks and talons aimed at his eyes.