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composite tile
floor in a long side hall was smeared in thick paraffin wax and the
blanket-wrapped block was pulled up and down the hall twelve hours a day. One
Chicano from La Colonia in Watts was on "the block" for thirty days
for getting high on phenobarbital.
    The most brutal punishment was hanging someone by the
hands from the overhead ventilation ducts. The miscreant wasn't actually lifted
off the floor, but he had to stand on the balls of his feet, or let the weight
fall on his arms and wrists. After ten minutes it was torture. In fifteen the
victim was usually screaming. The attendants preferred old-fashioned beatings.
Maybe they liked the workout it gave them. Knowing that I only had a ninety-day
observation case, I tried to remain inconspicuous. One night about two months
into my sojourn, I was standing at my window, looking across the grounds. A
hundred yards away was a female ward. A youth named Pee Wee in the next room
was yelling out the window to his girlfriend. The attendant in charge at night
was named Hunter but he was called Jabber. Unknown to me, he was hurrying from
door to door, peering through the little observation window to catch anyone who
dared to yell across the nuthouse grounds at night.
    I
turned from the window at the sound of the door being unlocked behind me. The
Jabber came in with the shivering energy of a badger. Without a word, he
punched me in the face with both hands, short punches from someone accustomed
to using his fists. Both hit me flush, one in the mouth, one against the jaw. I
tasted blood from my lip being cut by my teeth, and a bolt of pain announced
the dislocation of my jaw. He rocked on the balls of his feet, hands up,
leering. "I'll teach you to yell, you little scumbag."
    He danced in and punched again. I ducked and went down
on the bed, leaning away and covering my body up. It was hard for him to get at
me with his punches, so he began to stomp and kick my calves and thighs,
muttering angry curses. I knew that fighting back might get me killed.
    They could get away with anything. I'd seen
brutalities that would never happen in reform school, or even a prison for that
matter where there are procedures for hearings. This was a hospital. We were patients being cared for.
    The Jabber left after that. I could feel my eye
swelling shut. And the bedding had been torn off. I pulled the cot away from
the wall and began to straighten the blankets.
    My door opened again. The Jabber stood there, rocking
back and forth on the balls of his feet, a facsimile of Jimmy Cagney. He was
twirling his key chain like an airplane propeller. Behind him was a big
redheaded attendant and a patient with special status because he did some of
their dirty work. The Jabber came around the bed to where I stood and began to
punch me around again.
    I'd been choking back my fury. He was in my face, his
eyeglasses sparkling. He sneered at me and bunched his muscles to strike again.
This time I punched first. My fist smashed his glasses. The glass cut him above
one eye and across the bridge of his nose. Blood poured down his starched white
shirt with its black snap-on bow tie. Because his knees were backed against the
bed, the force of the punch sat him down. I tried to hit him again but the
redheaded attendant got an arm around my neck from the rear and pulled me back.
My fingers were tangled in The Jabber's shirt front, which tore away from his
body, leaving the shirt collar and the bow tie.
    As
the redhead choked me, the patient goon lifted my feet off the ground. Someone
got on the bed and jumped down on my stomach. Someone else smashed a fist into
my face six or seven times. They were full-force punches by a grown man. When
they had all left, I could barely breathe. Anything more than a tiny sip of air
sent a bolt of pain through my chest. My right eye was completely shut. I was
spitting out blood from my lip, which had been cut wide open against my teeth.
    At midnight, when the shift changed, my door