A resident in psychiatry at the Yale school of Medicine is on leave after he was charged with two counts of illegal possession of an assault weapon. According to the police incident report, he appeared to be intoxicated, was bothering patrons at the restaurant Dolci, and then "began yelling that he 'loved violence' and that he wanted 'to kill everyone.'" His attorney's explanation for the "arsenal of firearms, ammo, and gear/food items" found in his client's home is that he "grew up in the West and has an interest as a collector."--Yale Alumni Magazine
I ain't never fully understood my rejection from Harvard Medical School. The interview seemed to go mighty fine and I thought my personal essays revealed the complex currents that course through my personality. I recall asking the receptionist at the Harvard Admissions Office if I might photocopy a receipt for a sniper rifle and her asking for my full name and ten cents, but beyond that I have no insight.
Just the other day, while working with post-traumatic stress disorder patients at the Veterans Administration Hospital in West Haven, I emphasized that the human psyche is an extraordinarily fragile mechanism. Then I got Larry, who has a plate in his skull, to set off the metal detector in the Proctor Wing while Stevie and I raced to the cafeteria and shot soda bottles, three windows, and a food service worker in the arm (luckily for her (and unluckily for us) she ducked). I may not get another crack at her now that that tattletale of a bartender at Dolci called the cops on me.
So I breached the peace? So I carried a pistol without a permit and toted a firearm under the influence of drugs and alcohol? So shoot me.
Where I'm from in Texas, gettin' rowdy's just all part of a Saturday night. Yale's damn lucky I'm from the West. If I was from the East (as in Middle East), this'd be all over Twitter: "Whooee, we got us a terrorist down on State Street!" The whole University'd be in lockdown: bullhorns, flak jackets, the works.
These people out East are wusses: gotta have a fern by their heads to drink a beer. Act like they ain't never seen a gun. I grew up with guns: ate my damn cereal with a Luger in my lap. And I been collecting right up until the day I aced the MCATs: .45 Long Colts, 5.56 NATOs, .38 S&W Specials, .357 MAGs, .38 Supers, .22 LRs, and .455 S&Ws. Not to mention 45,000 rounds of ammo (a good part of which is hollow-point).
Do you know those cowards didn't even have a warrant? Nobody touches my assault weapons without a warrant. Last time somebody did that, I blew up her cat with a bicycle pump. She boo-hooed plenty but I later heard she sold the critter for vivisection to the psych. lab.
You know what New Haven needs? A tank. Not a sensory deprivation tank where you can lie in the dark and think violent thoughts and focus on events from movies like a tongue bein' ripped from a live person's mouth, but a real, honest-to-God tank. The kind you see rollin' down the aisles of a Wal-Mart in east Texas on a Thursday afternoon and nobody bats an eye. The kind we're deploying to Iraq, Afghanistan, and, hopefully, Haiti.
I never realized how much I hated preppies till I came to New Haven. My medical school advisor told me: "If you accept a residency spot at Yale and become a psychiatrist, most likely you will run across some preppies." Run across is right: in my tank. I'd love to flatten a few of them as they scurry like rats, fumbling with the Davenport College gate combination locks late at night. Especially the ones who use the escort service. You mean to tell me you're Mr. Valedictorian/Swim Champeen who's climbed Mount Everest and you need a ride 'cause you're scared? A guy like that back in east Texas? We stick a pole up his ass and roast him. If I see one more goddamned building covered in ivy, I'm gonna blow it up. And not with no bicycle pump.
You know what I'd like to do with those wimps at the Drama School? Waterboard 'em in cow piss and then make 'em watch an entire season of their "work." Since when do face painting and ballooons have a place in theater? And if I want to see a nekkid lady, I'll get me a "Penthouse" or pick up some gal at Dolci.
Now they done put me on administrative leave. Didn't even have the guts to tell me in person. Sent me an email asking me to turn in my ID and lab coat. I wrote 'em straight back: "Say it to my face."
But they all scared 'cause I drank a tad too much and said I wanted to kill everyone. They actually take me seriously. How am I gonna kill everyone? Six-and-a-half billion people? I ain't even got enough ammo for the lobby of a hotel in China.
And now my lawyer's telling me we gotta work on my psychological profile. "We"? I'm a goddamn psychiatric resident at Yale. I think I can do my own profile! I'll just have me a dip into the "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" and give myself a platter of auditory hallucinations, paranoid and bizarre delusions, and a side order of disorganized speech and thinking with significant social and occupational dysfunction.
In the meantime, I'm gonna get me a slick suit for my arraignment. Probably that sharp pin-striped number down there in the window at J. Press.
