I said I was not a doctor, but an old friend. I purposely left out the part about being a writer but reminded him of all the nights we had spent together passing the pipe. His response was: “I hate drugs. Fuck drugs. Don’t gimme any more drugs.” But when I brought up facts I’d gleaned from his encyclopedic monologues, he brightened up. “Yes, Farinelli! One of the greatest, if not the greatest, stars of his time. Like a Caruso. Everyone knew him. But what was his brother’s name? See, I can’t remember that. Farinelli’s brother’s name. I knew it once. Fuckin’ Farinelli! Say, did you know that Caruso was in San Franscisco during the earthquake? Walked through the rubble in his bathrobe.”

As far as I could tell, John bore me no ill will, whether he recognized me or not. All of his venom was saved for his “imprisoner,” the doctor. John said there were details of his former life that he did remember but could not divulge and that because of “my other life” as he called it, there had been an ongoing conspiracy (which involved his doctor), to keep him locked up. I vaguely remembered Jack telling me of rumors that John had had an “other life.” Could it be possible that John was being kept here against his will? Maybe he had been a spy?

I stayed for about forty-five minutes. John grew restless, migrated toward the window, as if on the lookout. I left him at the window.

I sought out John’s physician and baldly asked, “Why is John locked up like this?”

“And you are…?”

“An old friend. Richard Morris.”

“The Richard Morris? The writer?”

“Yes.”

“Wow! I read your short stories in college. John said you two were friends. But with John you can never be sure.” I didn’t have time for this, though it was significant that John had admitted knowing me. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Mr. Morris, you saw him. It’s pretty obvious.” The doctor’s mild face matched his voice. “He’s in a very excited state of mind, I’d be too if I were locked up.” “John runs the risk of hurting himself. Or others. Obviously Brigitte took part in the decision to place him here.” “He says he doesn’t know ’Gitte. Brigitte.” “He says a lot of things.” “But can’t Alzheimer’s be treated? Or slowed down or something?” “Alzheimer’s?” “John has early onset Alzheimer’s.” “John doesn’t have Alzheimer’s any more than you or I.” “Then why is he in an Alzheimer’s ward?” “He isn’t in an Alzheimer’s ward.” “But he has trouble remembering things.” “Mr. Morris, let’s back up a sec. Where do you think you are?” “A nursing home. Assisted living, whatever they call it these days.” “Mr. Morris, your friend was brought to us five years ago in an agitated state. Under observation it became clear that psychosis had rendered him incapable of handling his own affairs. We tried medication, we tried counseling, even electroshock therapy. Occasionally there would be a slight improvement, but eventually he would return to this delusionary state in which he insisted he had forgotten essential aspects of his own life. Often this was accompanied by a form of catatonia. We eventually made the diagnosis that John suffers from a perpetually mutating form of shizophrenia, shifting from hebephrenic to catatonic to paranoid manifestation. He is totally detached from reality and obsessed with ‘remembering’ things that don’t exist. He does this to a point of distraction. The bottom line is, he can no longer take care of himself.”