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LETTERS FROM LEELANAU

This is ridiculous. I'm sitting across from my longtime psychiatric counsel, Dr. Rao Kinaru, and he's practically rattling the sheepskins off the wall. We're in the midst of yet another giant squabble concerning my firm resolve to forego some newfangled head elixer he wants me to try. Something called Neurontin.

"Christ, Rao, I'm already in a veritable coma due to this other shit you've got me taking," I grouse. "You must understand there's a point where serenity lops right on over into embalm-ment."

Making this doubly exasperating is the fact that I've just told Dr. K how well I've been doing of late. All it ever seems to earn me is further positioning betwixt the crosshairs of this little quickdraw's pharmaceutical stungun. Panicky? Try some Klonopin. Downcast? Take your Desyrel. Irritable? Gulp an Ambien. Happy? What are you...fucking nuts? Consume all of the above and find a warm corner of the bomb shelter to fetal up in.

"There are no side effects with Neurontin," Dr. K assures me.

Obviously, he's just recalled my tirade of a few months back when, after fixing me up with another mind-bondo gloom eraser called Celexa ("Does Chrysler also make this in a sedan?" I'd moaned), I had a series of bad reactions that caused me to bolt into his office & holler him out for turning my mind-body-&-soul into a kind of frantic dragstrip passing lane not normally traversed by 43-year-old sadsacks of my ilk unless they were sprinting to a lingerie show in a hockey bar or perhaps reenacting the firebug lunacy of using Vick's Vapo-rub as a masturbation lube. O christ, and to think there was actually a time in my life (1973, Powers Catholic High School, left wing stairwell next to the religion quad) when I used to shell out big money for that sort of lousy adrenaline hell. I guess we mighta been wrong to blame our Jesus hair for keepin' us off the basketball team.

"You're absolutely right," I tell my dapper Indian shrink. "There'll be no side effects with Neurontin because I won't be taking any Neurontin."

This rebuff earns another approach. "You must ask yourself this question, Ben. Are you feeling as good as you did back in 1986 -- before you came to see me?"

"C'mon, that's hardly fair. You know as well as I do I can't remember anything from last spring -- let alone '86. Hell, move onto something more recent."

Dr. K asks if I have experienced any more episodes of suicidal thought. I explain that all of those old self-ruinous fantasies have finally dissipated. A smile spreads across my psychiatrist's face. He feels victorious, his pill mantra validated. I am, after all, still alive.

"It was the Paxil, wasn't it?" Kinaru gleams. "I knew this would work for you."

If it worked for anything, it was only to give a very temporary turquoise hue to the water in my toilet basin. Though I didn't have the heart to tell him, I'd flushed the Paxil samples he'd given me as soon as I'd arrived home. It wasn't anything pharmaceutical that finally made me realize

that offing myself was not an option. It was my family -- mainly my daughter and my mom. I knew that I couldn't kill myself with them around. They loved me too much. Just my luck: all I wanted to do was suck a deer rifle in a relatively guilt-free frame of mind, and here the love of two wonderful women was holding me back. Or, was it? I struck on a plan. Why not have my mom and daughter killed? Yes, not only would it teach them a hard lesson in overbearing love, it would get them outta the way so I could off myself without any burdensome onus of guilt! Alas, I got cold feet when the Goth bastard up the block demanded all of his money up front.

"I'm sure it was the Paxil," I lied.

"Very good. Now tell me about the status of the movie."

Ah, the movie. This had quickly become one of Dr. K's favorite topics of discussion ever since he'd read a newspaper account of my two-day safari around Flint with actor Matt Dillon and director Richard Linklater. They had come to my hometown last winter to meet with me and visit some of the locations which were featured in my book Rivethead. A film version of the book remains on the burner with Linklater planning to direct and Dillon slated to play the lead role. Of course, that's assuming they ever find a damn production outfit to finance the thing.

"I haven't heard a word," I tell K. "It's becoming very disheartening. As we've discussed before, without a studio to pick up the back end of that option payout, I'll be lucky to survive the year."

As screwy as it was, this wasn't the first time I'd found myself discussing business affairs in a psychiatric setting. I recall an even more absurd example back in the early 90s when Dr. Kinaru had placed me in the nut ward of a local hospital in order for me to chill out. I remember being told

I had a visitor. I waited as an orderly was summoned to accompany me to the psych ward visitor's lounge

.I'd no more than turned the corner into the lounge when a short guy in a tennis outfit lunged out of his seat and wrapped me in a bear hug.

"Benno-Man! Tell me you're okay, Benno-Man," the visitor howled. It was my book agent, David Black -- the only person on earth who ever referred to me as Benno-Man.

Then again, I was hot back then. So hot that my agent had flown all the way from Manhattan to McLaren Regional Medical Center in Flint to check up on me. Ah, those were the days: book tours, fancy hotels, mini-bars, limo rides, a middle-aged Jewish go-getter who thought enough of me to jet over 800 miles to swab my bonkered brow. I never had an idea of what a Benno-Man really was. All I know is that my agent no longer calls me that. In fact, he no longer calls.

After assurances that I was feeling better, David launched into this manic rap on the progress of the book. I wasn't catching all of it, my attention being sidetracked by the silliness of our little confab. The more I examined what was taking place, the more it began to resemble a scene from a Mel Brooks movie.

Across the aisle, various friends and relatives were busy comforting a couple of my fellow loons. "Yes, honey, your cats are well cared for." "Yes, son, we were able to convince your boss that it's merely a thyroid problem."

"Don't worry, dear, the children still remember you and send their love."

Meanwhile, I sat there drugged and bemused, absently nodding along as David sang his song. Benno-Man this. Benno-Man that. Today Show's in. We're at #14 this week. Gotta get back with Letterman. Feelers from Castlerock. Three more college dates. Man, you look good. Benno-Man? BENNO-MAN?...

The news that the film was still on hold seemed to annoy Kinaru. He suddenly sat up in his chair and lost his customary grin. I'd seen this happen before and it was never a good thing. With that pencil-thin moustache of his and those black bean pupils, he looked truly ominous when he didn't smile -- not unlike some bizarre facial melding of Ghandi, Sal Mineo and Richard Ramirez.

"These people have tunnel vision," Dr. K exclaimed. "I mean no disrespect to Matt Dillon, but these people must do one thing. They must hire Tom Hanks! He is the only man who can play this role!"

It was easily the most animated I'd seen K since I'd told him I was rooting for Pakistan in the World Cup. He continued, his voice getting steadily louder.

"I have seen all the movies Tom Hanks has made. He is a genius! This is your life story. You must explain this to the producers and directors. Tell them you only want the best. You want Tom Hanks!"

"Well, I don't know. Actually, I think Matt Dillon might be a more logical--"

"Okay, I see. You don't want movie to be successful. Is this what you are telling me? What else can I think? I never even heard of Matt Dillon before he came to Flint. How many Academy Awards has this man earned? Trust me, you go with Tom Hanks. Everyone loves Tom Hanks!"

Poor delusional Rao. I was half-tempted to fling him over the leather sofa and cram a fistfull of crushed-up Inderal down his yap. Instead, I foolishly continued to reason with him. I say foolishly because, for as long as I'd known Dr. K, he'd always been intrigued by the notion of celebrity. I believe he yearned to be one of those shrinks-to-the-stars. Trouble was his practice was bogged down in one of the most luminary-free lunchpail burgs on earth -- Flint, Michigan. All he had was me: a literary has-been grappling to milk one final payday out of his chap-teated cash cow.

"Look, Rao, it's just not as simple as saying 'I want Tom Hanks.' Even if the decision was up to me, which I can assure you it isn't, there's the financial aspect. This is a small-budget film. Eight million tops. Tom Hanks only makes big feature films."

"This talk is vulgar! Tom Hanks is a genius. A genius is not motivated by money. You make this movie with Tom Hanks and there will be millions of dollars for all!"

At this point, Kinaru's intercom sounded. "Dr. Kinaru, your 4:30 appointment is here." It was time for Rao to kick into prescription scribble overdrive. As he did, I could see that he'd become quite agitated with our whole topic. His forehead was damp and his scrawl was nothing more than an illegible blur. Somewhere in that ballpoint chaos it stated three refills of Klonopin, three refills of Desyrel, a new scrip for Neurontin, and who knows what else.

Perhaps it would all come out at the pharmacy window: "Mr. Hamper, we seem to be having a problem completing your prescription order."

"That's fine, just skip that Neurontin scrip."

"Well, no, we have plenty of Neurontin available. The other drugs are in complete supply, also. It's just that...well, I don't know if I'm reading this right, but I'm almost sure we don't carry any...Tom Hanks?"

"No problem, just give me the generic equivalent."

"I'm sorry. The generic equivalent?"

"Y'know...Matt Dillon."

Ben Hamper
eganH3@aol.com
8/5/99