THE ANGEL

I am an Angel. I have wings. I soar through Heaven.

Mortals have trouble believing who I am. Thinking that they can contain me , they have put me in a ward at Bronx State Psychiatric Center. To whimsy them, I play along, lining up daily at the nurse’s station to take my dose of Thorazine and other assorted pills, looking dumb in the meetings with Dr. Wade, appointed my psychiatrist., even occasionally throwing a fit to get locked up in the funny room, where I take an obligatory shit on the floor. I must be playing my part well because my stay in the ward continues.

Of course I can leave at any moment I care. I am , after all ,an Angel. Sometimes I make myself invisible. During these times, as a prank, I stick my middle finger up at everyone who passes. I tell you, I keep bursting into titters!

I do have to mention the one and only time that I lost my seraphic presence, when Dr. Wade addressed me as Warren Poole. “I’m not Warren Poole,” I calmly corrected him.

That’s your name, “ Dr. Wade looked me straight in the eyes. In his white hospital frock, he could have been mistaken for an Angel, himself. “You’re a schizophrenic, a person with two personalities. Warren Poole is your other personality.”

“You must be trying to pull my leg, Doctor. You must be thinking of someone else.”

“You don’t remember who Warren Poole is? The person who put your mother, Flora, in the hospital with serious knife wounds?”

“You have the wrong dude,” I had to gently correct him. These mortals occasionally can be so dense.

“Take a look at these photographs.” Removing news clippings from a folder, he handed them to me.

Glancing at the individual pictured in handcuffs, he bore a striking resemblance to me. Then my temper flared. How could an Angel possibly be accused of such a dreadful, unspeakable offense? Losing control, I leapt at the doctor, clutching him by the jugular.

There’s no denying I let go of my seraphic presence all right. Not that I didn’t have to make amends. Two giants pounced on me from behind, pulling me off Dr. Wade. As they placed me in a strait jacket, I heard the doctor muttering something about a lobotomy, whatever that is. I was then transported to the padded funny room.

What does it matter, though, where they take me? Although I squat in my fetid straight jacket, I am free for eternity, soaring boundlessly through the stratospheres in Heaven. I am an Angel. I have wings.

Robert Gamer is the author of five novels and one short-story collection. He has worked as an aide at the Bronx Psychiatric Center, served as a bartender in Harvard Square, and spent many years teaching high school special needs students. His unique life experiences serve as the foundation for his fiction and political commentary. A native New Yorker, Robert has lived in Stockbridge and Boston and traveled extensively throughout Europe. He currently resides in New England with his wife and enjoys being close to family, with three of his five children living a 20-minute drive away. A committed political and environmental activist, Robert's life story is as compelling as the fiction he crafts.