Mental Hygiene

A Novel By Timothy Dean Martin

PART ONE

"There must be some way out of here,

– Bob Dylan, "All Along the Watchtower" 1968

CHAPTER ONE

The tailpipes of Michael Murphy’s ’65 red Mustang convertible played a

backbeat to the rock and roll on the car radio as he waited at the main gate. It was a

hot, sticky South Carolina March day, and he was stuck in yet another line. The long

indoctrination in boot camp, and his ability to see the futility of pushing back, kept

him from honking his horn.

He was owned, a draftee, an ill-trained Psychological Social Work Technician,

As a Southern California upper middle class, handsome white boy with a particular

gift of manipulating circumstances, Murphy held a clear idea of how lucky he was to

be stationed in the land of magnolias and rednecks.

Some asshole in a VW van honked behind him. The guy obviously didn’t

understand how things worked. Murphy waved and pulled up to the guard shack,

unflappable. The MP at the gate asked for a copy of his orders, giving his best

hostile stare and icy military manner. Murphy turned down the radio.

“Do you know where you are going, Specialist?” he barked.

“I think I can find my way. Is the back gate straight ahead?”

“Move along,” the MP answered. Not to be outdone, he flipped the copy of

the orders into Murphy’s lap. Murphy gunned the engine and turned up the radio,

entering the fort that would be his home for the remaining fifteen months of a

twenty-four month draft.

Fatality statistics hung over Fort Jackson like a funeral wreath made from a

spring bouquet. Everywhere Murphy looked as he drove down the fort's main drag,

Marion Avenue, he saw troops who probably wouldn’t be alive the following

summer, lots of smiling soldiers on a pleasant early spring day. There was no getting

used to it. He just kept his eye on the ball and tiptoed through the system.

It was 1967 and most of his fellow draftees were already in Vietnam. Murphy
imagined, and rightly so, that some of them were already dead. The Vietnam War

was killing about a thousand U.S. troops a month, and Congress had just authorized

four and a half billion dollars per year to finance the slaughter. Vietnam was the

ultimate place to avoid.

Murphy’s guidance counselor in high school once told him, “Bad stuff

happens to everybody.” Murphy’s parents, on the other hand, were advocates of the

saying, “Good things happen to good people.” Murphy’s own opinion was that good

things AND bad things happen to good people unless they manipulate those things to

suit their own ends. It's better to report the bad news than to be it.

The Mental Hygiene Clinic was down a long driveway just off Marion

Avenue, across from Hospital Headquarters, isolated enough from the main hospital

building to suit its reputation. Although the Clinic was part of the hospital, its

personnel were only attached, or lent out in civilian terms, to Hospital Company.

Mental Hygiene was officially assigned to Headquarters Company, which wanted

nothing to do with shrinks. As if to prove the point, Headquarters Company was

located several blocks away from the Clinic. This was the perfect situation for a guy

like Murphy, a way to slip between the cracks and remain unscathed.

The one-story building that housed Mental Hygiene ran perpendicular from a

front inside hallway lined with windows on both sides. Murphy parked in the mostly

empty parking lot in front of the building, got slowly out of the Mustang and paused.
Last stop and then home. With no more hesitation, he bounded up the five steps and

walked into the structure.

Murphy opened the Mental Hygiene door just in time to see a soldier wildly

dive over the counter of the waiting area and attach his hands to the receptionist’s

enormous breasts. The WAC squealed loudly, flailing her arms. With three quick

steps and a lunge, Murphy grasped the waistband of the attacker, his feet slipping out

from under him, and they both fell back into the waiting area. The attacker landed on

top of him with a thud and then began to laugh.

The soldier sat up. "You interrupted my date, man. Who are you?"

He had to be a patient. Gazing around the reception area from his seat on the

floor, Murphy observed three other troops waiting for appointments, trying their best

to avoid eye contact with either him or his rumpled cohort. The WAC receptionist

grinned and straightened the front of her blouse in a very provocative manner.

Murphy finally mustered up an answer. "I’m Specialist Murphy, pal. Don’t

you think that you ought to wait for a cheap feel like the rest of the patients?"

"Yes, if I was one, Murphy.” The soldier stood up and casually dusted himself

off. “I’m Jimmy Leary from Manhattan Beach, California. The Army’s holding me

captive against my will. Oh, I also work here."

"Thanks, Murphy," the WAC interrupted. "My name is Specialist Denise Lang

and this asshole is always trying to feel me up. Thank you for saving me."
 “So, Murphy, are you the new guy? Welcome," Leary extended his hand.

The blond-haired Leary was a solid five feet eight inches and half a head shorter than

Murphy, but he shook hands like a much bigger man. He looked like a surfer. “I’ve

got a reputation to uphold, and she loves it.” He nodded to Murphy and smiled.

Murphy chuckled. "Thanks for cluing me in. Who do I report to, the

ringmaster?”

"You report to Sergeant Gonzales,” Leary said. “He’s the NCOIC here, and

the only guy in the Clinic with no psychology background. Also, I suspect that he’s

borderline retarded, but that’s purely subjective."

"Anyway, he’s out to lunch." Lang wiggled as she spoke. "I’m about to take

lunch myself. If you want, I’ll show you around the base."

Murphy paused longer than politeness would dictate, and then answered, "I

think that I’d better stick right here until the Sergeant gets back. Maybe some other

time."

Lang wiggled again, looking him up and down. "Any other time at all."

That’s an interesting affectation, Murphy thought.

Leary gave him a quick tour through the Clinic, walking down a long hall past

several offices that were unoccupied except for desks full of paperwork.

“Everybody’s out except for me. I’m on lunch watch,” Leary explained. “Even

mental health gets a lunch break.” He laughed.

and a couple of long naugahyde couches along the back wall. "This is where we have

meetings," Leary said. "Major Green, the ultimate guy in charge, rarely has meetings.

But Gonzales loves to have them. Isn't it interesting that the lower the IQ, the more

meetings one wants to have? By the way, I bunk here with the Major’s blessing. I’m

sure I can work out the same deal for you. There’s an extra couch.”

“Sounds good,” Murphy replied. “I’ve got no particular fondness for barracks

life.”
 CHAPTER TWO

"So, I understand that you're from Los Angeles which means that Sergeant

Gonzales won’t like you."

"I'm very likeable, Major Green,” Murphy answered.

Major Bert Green, who arrived back from lunch before Sergeant Gonzalez,

immediately ushered Murphy into his office and made him feel totally at ease.

“Sergeant Gonzales can wait to chew on you,” Green said as he sat down.

Green possessed the humor and sophistication that comes from living in an

urban center all of one’s life. A New York City native, he had the air about him of

someone who was used to telling the truth, regardless of the political fallout. Murphy

wondered how that worked in the Army, but supposed that truth and politics worked

more easily for Majors than Privates.

"Well,” Green continued, "the fact that Gonzales doesn't like Californians is of

no special consequence. I suspect that he doesn't like New Yorkers either, but my

rank keeps him from saying that. I like that about being a Major."

Murphy smiled at Green’s candor. Looking around the office, he noticed the

usual framed degrees and certificates, a photo of Green’s wife in a silver frame, and a

basketball carelessly tossed on a side chair. Not much else, all very temporary.
"Thanks for the encouragement, Major. I really try to not get on anyone's nerves at

first meeting.”

"What about later?"

"I'm a draftee, sir.” Murphy wondered if a wisecrack was really necessary this

early in their relationship. He made a mental note to watch his mouth for the rest of

the meeting.

Murphy’s comment didn’t seem to be ill taken by the Major. "Good point,

Murphy, but I’m curious. How did you manage to get yourself drafted?”

“It was purely situational, and I doubt that I will ever make a similar mistake

again. Suffice it to say that I found myself without a student deferment at the wrong

time.”

“Do you like basketball, Murphy? I really need you to like basketball."

Green's eyes slid to the ball on the side chair.

“Yes, I do. I love basketball,” Murphy lied. “Why do you ask?"

"Some of the enlisted men and officers play almost every day at the gym. We

are one player short since Conroy mustered out. You may take his place.”

"I just love basketball, Major," Murphy reiterated with as much enthusiasm as

a veteran player. The truth was that he could hold his own in most sports, and noon

basketball with officers sounded like a way to add advantage to his overall situation.

Green rose from behind the desk and began to pace around his office slowly,
at one point pausing to pick up the basketball. The Major tossed the ball smartly in

Murphy’s direction and smiled at his one-handed catch.

“Let me say that what I offer is a privilege, Murphy,” said Green. “You see,

Gonzales has a strict rule about lunches. He insists that no enlisted man may take

more than an hour, but we play ball for more than an hour. Then there is the

mandatory steam bath afterwards, and finally a casual bite to eat. I like a more

civilized approach to lunch, not unlike what I was used to in my private practice in

New York.”

The Major sat down at his desk and put his feet up. “Anyway, Gonzales cannot

touch anyone who is with me at lunch. It's a way for you to get exercise and stick it

up Gonzales' ass as the same time. By the way, I didn't just say that." Green put a

finger up to his pursed lips.

“And I didn’t hear it,” Murphy replied with a straight face, secretly loving

everything he was hearing.

“I’ll give you three weeks. Get your feet wet with the patients, and then I’ll

expect to see you on the court every weekday at 12 noon. Don’t schedule interviews

that’ll make you late."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, down to the dirty business of shrinking, military style. The object of

this Clinic is to evaluate referred inpatients and outpatients, concentrating on their

you following me?" asked Green.

"I think so. You mean, if they can point the gun at the right guy, then they're

fine.”

"Well, more or less.” Green fidgeted in his chair, uncomfortable with what he

was about to say. “As you may know, they're drafting anything that's still warm

nowadays. There’ll be people you meet, not even patients, who’ll scare you to death.

We're not interested in finding more subjects. There’ll be patients who are in dire

need of long-term therapy, with excellent prospects of recovery. Forget that fact. We

are in the processing business here.” He sighed. “If we can patch them together or

medicate them to health long enough to ship them to the next stop, good."

“With all due respect sir, that sounds cruel and unusual,” Murphy blurted, and

immediately wondered why he had volunteered his opinion without being asked.

"Look, Murphy, I'm not saying that I approve of this. I'm just a Jew put in the

unfortunate, ironic position of following orders. I try to play a lot of basketball and

fuck my wife regularly. That’ll work for me for two years and four months more.

Then I'll be back in New York being incredibly pious about having served my

country. Now, let's assign you a caseload. Each of the Psych Techs is assigned to a

number of Basic Training Companies. The Companies refer patients to us on a form

that will be placed in your in-box up front by Lang. You've met her, right?"
 Murphy nodded, remembering Denise Lang's enormous boobs and that little

wiggle of hers all too well.

"You call the Company that sent the referral and set up an appointment with

the First Sergeant to see the trainee. At your appointment with the trainee, you take a

psychosocial history using this multi-page form." He handed Murphy a six-page

sample so he could follow, then pointed to the first page. "You see that it has the

salient points on it. It will help guide you to one of three basic courses. First is to do

nothing. The guy is faking or the company wants to get rid of him for some other

reason. Second, you think that with a little medication the guy will calm down and

thus be sent on his way to wherever, no shrink appointment needed.” Green's grin

had disappeared. “If that's the case, see one of the shrinks and get him to write an

appropriate prescription. Understand?"

Murphy was amazed, a little intimidated. “You mean, give a guy meds

without him seeing a doctor?"

"Yes, Murphy. Don't look so shocked. Wait until you’ve seen how many

patients we run through here per week. We would never have the time to see all the

marginal guys."

Green continued talking, without enthusiasm. “The third course of action is to

set up an appointment so a shrink can evaluate your trainee." He sighed. "This can be

done through Lang. The shrinks see patients two mornings a week. Follow-ups are
scheduled between the shrink and Lang so make yourself available to do so."

Major Green rose from behind his desk and walked over to Murphy, placing

his hand on Murphy’s shoulder like a father. "It is both easier and harder to do your

job here than I can possibly explain to you,” he said softly. “Feel free to ask

questions, sometimes you’ll need to ask more than one person. Keep your cool. If

you start to think everybody is out to get you, you'll probably be right," Green said,

as he lifted his hand and laughed. "Any immediate questions?"

"No, Sir." Why ask the obvious?

•••

Murphy stood in front of Sergeant Gonzales' desk at attention. Gonzalez cast a

wary eye, and took an unusually long time before saying, "At ease, Murphy. Sit

down."

Gonzales reminded him of a pudgy bullfighter. You don't really have to be

very smart to stab bulls, Murphy mused. But then again, if you fuck with the bull,

you can get the horn.

"Where are you from?" Gonzales asked.

"Los Angeles, Sergeant."

"I don't like L.A.", Gonzales growled. "Queers and Mexicans that don't

deserve to be in the U.S."

"I'll never mention it again, Sergeant."

straight into the air. Suddenly, he was right in Murphy’s face. Murphy could smell

the onions Gonzales had for lunch.

"I don't need any smart assed LA comments from you, boy! I'll get your ass

shipped to Nam and you can tell jokes to the Viet Cong," Gonzales yelled.

A smile crossed Gonzales' face, the kind of smile Murphy hated. Silence

prevailed. That smile signaled a certainty that anything Murphy said would be

chewed up and spit back at him. Just as Murphy was wondering if the oxygen supply

was going to run out between them, Gonzales took a step back and sat down in a

starched heap. Murphy was finally able to relax, and he struck the best toreador-at-

ease pose he could muster.

"That little asshole Leary has told me that he’s gotten approval from Major

Green for you to bunk in the Clinic conference room instead of at the Headquarters

Company barracks,” Gonzales snarled.

This was news to Murphy. “I’ll be keeping an eye on the both of you. You

are still in the Army, despite views to the contrary,” Gonzales continued. “You’ll

have a desk in the third office on the left with Leary and Bloom. You report

tomorrow at 0800. Specialist Lang will assign your duties at that time.”

Murphy turned to go, having taken about as much as a grown man could take.

He'd walked only two steps when Gonzales said, "I don't like you, Murphy."
 It occurred to Murphy that Gonzales was the first person to say that to him

since he'd been drafted.

•••

Murphy was sweating through his khakis. It was only 10:00 AM, but the

temperature was already in the mid-nineties, humid, and he was captive to the

moment in the dayroom of Company B-5-3.

A skinny Private Davies sat across from Murphy at a card table. They had

finished the preliminaries: where are you from, mother, father, and the rest of the

domestic details. Davies said he was from Mississippi. Murphy thought about how

good a beer would taste. Davies was raised in the Nazarene Church and was

brimming with religious guilt and temperance. Murphy tried to conjure up a sea

breeze. Davies’ latest sin had landed him in front of an unlikely confessor, and he

was finally about to reveal this sin. Murphy was oh so glad.

God knew the company commander didn't want to deal with Davies. The

Request for Psychiatric Evaluation stated only "Sexual Deviate", and was neatly

signed at the bottom by First Lieutenant Brown. When Murphy arrived at the

company, the lieutenant had refused to see him. The first sergeant had giggled and

ordered the troop to be brought to the dayroom. Davies arrived in a very depressed

and painful looking condition.

"So, Davies, why don't you talk about why you’re here? Nobody else wants to
talk about it, so I guess it's up to you," Murphy said, broaching the subject at hand.

Davies fidgeted. "Like I said 'afore, I was raised a Nazarene. We was taught a

very strong right and wrong about 'most everything, especially sex things," Davies

said in a mountain singsong quiet voice. “Well, I got me a girl back home that I'm

gonna marry after I get outta Basic. We neva’ done nuthin' on account 'a she's

Nazarene like me an' we knew we could only kiss 'till we was married.”

"It's my sixth week 'a Basic now an' I was gettin' pretty excited about what's

comin' up an' everything,” Davies continued. “We was out on the camouflage range,

you know, where some of us go out and hide in the weeds and then pop up every

once in awhile, an' the others try t'see us.

“Anyway, I was layin' there in the weeds an' I was thinkin' about my girl an'..." he

paused and looked down at the floor.

"So, what happened then, Davies?” Murphy asked.

"Well, I never done it before, an' I started doin' it there in the deep weeds," he

mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Well, I started playin' with myself." Tears started rolling down Davies

cheeks. "I never, never done it before. It's a sin an' I know I got caught because it's

wrong. An' now I'm prob'ly goin' ta hell." Now he was sobbing.

"Calm down, Davies.” Murphy kept a straight face. “Let me get this straight.
You got caught the first time that you ever masturbated?"

Davies nodded, still sobbing.

Leary would love hearing this story. "How did you get caught, exactly?"

"Well, I was just sorta' swept up in it, you know, an' I didn't hear 'em call my

number ta pop up. So the Sergeant out there in the field came a lookin' for me.... an’

he tripped right over me!"

There are a few ways that a person can keep from laughing. Murphy tried to

hold his breath. It didn't work. When he finally couldn’t stand it, the laughter came

out in great guffaws, Murphy doubling up, his own tears running now. Davies sat in

amazement, wondering at that moment if Murphy was the Devil.

After Murphy began to calm down, he asked, "What happened next?"

Davies eyed him cautiously and said, "Well, the Sergeant picked me up by the

back of the shirt an’ dragged me back to where the company was standin’, with my

pants all open an’ everything, screamin' that I was some kinda' faggot or somethin'.

Then he dragged me back ta the Company area an’ had me wait in the First

Sergeant’s office ta see Lieutenant Brown. Lieutenant Brown wouldn't see me. He

just told the First Sergeant ta get me outta ‘His Army’ as soon as possible.

“Since then I've been confined ta the company area. What's gonna happen ta

me? Are they gonna tell my girl and my folks?" Davies began to moan.

Murphy made his best effort to compose himself. "Davies, everything is going
to be OK. First of all, although I don't want to argue about religion with you, what

you did out there in the grass is not thought of as a sin by most of the world's male

population. Maybe your timing and the location can be questioned, but that's about it.

Could you wait right here? I've got to go talk to somebody and I'll be right back.”

He walked outside, took a couple of deep breaths and made a beeline for the

Company Commander's office. The First Sergeant was sitting at his desk and looked

up when he entered.

"First Sergeant, is the CO in and may I see him?" Murphy asked.

"Let me check." The First Sergeant stuck his head around the doorway for a

second, paused, and then announced that the CO could see him now.

Murphy walked in to First Lieutenant Brown's office and started by saying,

"Hi. I just saw..."

The lieutenant screamed, "Hi? What do you think you are doing walking in

here like you're back on the block and addressing an officer in this manner? First

Sergeant, remove this man from my office. Find out who his OIC is and get him on

the phone!"

"But, Sir..." Murphy stammered. The First Sergeant was already at Murphy’s

side, pointing his finger at the way out. So he left.

All the way back to the Clinic Murphy alternated between worrying about

Davies and himself. When he left the Company area Davies was looking out of the
dayroom window with a horrified expression on his face. Murphy’s only chance was

that Major Green, not Sergeant Gonzales, got the call regarding his military gaffe.

He pulled his car into the Clinic parking lot and hurried inside, getting about

three steps before he heard Gonzales' voice.

"Lang, is that Murphy?"

Specialist Lang looked up and smiled, licking her red painted lips. She

answered, "It most certainly is, Sergeant Gonzales."

"Murphy, get in here," barked Gonzales from his office. Lang winked as

Murphy walked by.

"Murphy, I thought you were going to try to get along with me, but obviously

you had other plans," Gonzales growled, as he stood and started circling him.

"I'm really trying, Sergeant Gonzales,” Murphy answered stammering. “But

I'm just having trouble with some of the formalities, and I never thought..."

Gonzales interrupted him, shouting, "Murphy, leaving your bedding out on the

couch in the back meeting room is not a formality! It's careless, unmilitary, and won't

be tolerated again! I let you and that other Californian, Leary, sleep here because my

superior officer says it’s OK, but that privilege will have to end if you can't keep a

military barracks back there. Understood?" Gonzales asked.

"Yes, Sergeant. Is there anything else, Sergeant?" Murphy asked in his most

military voice.
 "No! Get out and go play basketball with the Major," Gonzales said, with

sarcasm in his voice. “He told me this morning that this is your first day at his little

gym party.”

As Murphy passed Specialist Lang's desk she handed him a folded piece of

paper and said in her sweetest voice, "Have a nice lunch, Murphy. I wish I could go

along," and gave him another wink.

Outside, he looked at the note. It read:

"The 1st Sgt. From B-5-3 called and I could hear some officer screaming in

the background. They asked for Major Green or Gonzales if Green wasn't in. I told

them that both of them were out and I'd give the note to Major Green to call when he

gets back. Did I do right?

Let's have that lunch. – Denise"

Murphy folded the note and put it in his pants pocket. He’d be having lunch

with Lang one of these days. Until then, he needed to get over to the gym and make

some time to talk to Major Green.