The Day I Visited a Mental Hospital

Many years ago, when I was a young twenty-something, I sold advertising for a now defunct radio station – WJAZ, a jazz station out of Stamford, CT. The station’s signal traveled across Long Island Sound and so we had a lot of listeners in Long Island, which meant we also had advertisers in Long Island.

One day, I was driving down the middle lane on the Long Island Expressway headed to see a client when out of nowhere there’s a full muffler in the middle of the lane. There were cars to my left and right and  so there was nothing I could do but go over it and pray for no damage. I ended up with a flat tire.

I could hear the sizzle as the air slowly leaked, but figured I could continue to coast until I came to the next exit. “There’s a gas station off practically every exit in Long Island,” I said out loud.

Along came the exit and I proceeded as planned. However, at the bottom of the exit was no gas station. There wasn’t even a town. I had coasted off an exit that led right onto the property of a mental hospital. Yup.

So I pulled up to the front door and walked into the lobby, where I found a security desk with three security guards. I explained that I had a flat tire and asked if any of them could help me. I said I would pay. Immediately they all started to mumble as to why they couldn’t help. One pointed to his back.

I was shocked. Are you kidding? These guys are supposed to serve and protect. They were strong, burly looking men. And they were too lazy to change a tire that could take 10 minutes?

I told them there was nowhere else I could go and one of them told me to follow the winding road until I got to the end and “Michael” – I don’t really remember his name anymore but that’s what we’ll call him – would fix my tire.

So I followed the winding road. It was a one-lane path that felt like I was in Little Red Riding Hood’s forest or something. At the end I found a one-bay garage. The door was up and I could see that it was a workshop. Michael came out. The security desk had called.

He said “no problem,” I can change your tire. As he pulled the spare out of my trunk, I saw the heavy scars on his wrist. He was not only a worker at this mental facility, he was a live-in patient. I was nervous and sympathetic at the same time.

He changed my tire and I gave him $10, thanked him and went on my way. It’s been more than 30 years, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. He was just one of those unforgettable people that we meet in our life. Every time I get a flat tire, I remember the day I coasted into a mental hospital.

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