“Who’s there?” the woman replied automatically.
“Eddy.” His eyes were completely serious.
“Eddy who?” she said. Her voice had become weary; this was the third time he’d told the joke. In a row.
“Eddy idea how I can cure this cold!” He roared with laughter. She observed him until he was almost choking on his own saliva, and then got up and patted his back. He lifted his red face up to hers and tried to plant a kiss on her cheek.
“Not today, Ted. Not today.”
Ted grabbed her arm before she could walk away. His eyes searched her face, trying to find her eyes.
“Maria,” he said. “Knock knock!” Laughter was already bubbling on his lips, along with projectile spit. His grip tightened on her arm.
“Who’s there?” She yawned; it had been a particularly busy day, spent juggling between difficult patients and Ted’s awful jokes.
“No, no don’t look tired. It’s not Eddy!” He began to rock back and forth in his chair. She automatically grabbed it tight, so it wouldn’t fall.
“It’s… it’s Dean!”
“Dean who?” Maria wondered whether she should pretend to laugh when the punch-line came. A glimpse at his unsettled chestnut eyes, his red face, and his flabby tummy – which was bursting his chequered shirt at the seams – determined her answer. Perhaps if she didn’t laugh he would let her go.
“Dean Dean Dean!” His eyes had switched from disturbed to blank; a sign of over-excitement. Maria prised his hand off her wrist. His fingers had left red marks on her olive skin.
Maria observed, hands on hips, as he continued to shout. She was about to fetch another helper to help her deal with him when tears began to stream from the man’s eyes. He balled his hands into fists and began to punch the air.
“Go away, Dean!” he shouted. Maria knelt down next to him: this was real emotion. His eyes were upset; filled with terror. He’d been in the mental institution for three years now, and he’d never played up like this before. She firmly grabbed hold of his hands.
“Ted,” she said softly, “Who’s Dean?”
Ted shook his head violently.
“You’ll be sick if you carry on doing that,” she said. Regardless, he continued. The drab lounge was filled with a few other patients, but they were too trapped in their own minds to notice the commotion.
“Dean, Dean! Deany the Meany.” He froze, hands clutching the sides of his chair. His eyes adopted a certain distance. “Ted, Ted, still wets his bed. Mother’s a whore; Father’s an egg-head. Ted, Ted, so fat and so weak, oh Ted; soon you’ll be dead.” It was a disturbing little chant; sung with absolute concentration. Maria was taken aback: Ted never said more than one harmless sentence at a time. It was as if he’d memorized the words by heart.
“Did Dean say that?” she asked. But Ted’s ears were turned inwards; for them the outside world was barely audible. He allowed his body to relax into the chair.
He was finished for the day.
But she wasn’t. Something had intrigued her. She made her way along the sterile corridors, past doors leading to various offices. She stopped outside the documentation office and knocked on the door. A young man opened it, looking flushed and dishevelled.
“What can I do for you, Bomba Latina?” he asked.
Paul was like a child who was desperate for a toy. Except he was a man. And that toy was sex. Maria had learnt over the years to treat him with firmness. She took one step into the small, dark room.
“Show me Ted Way’s file,” she said.
“I don’t have the authority to do that.” He shifted onto the other foot and took hold of the door frame, smirking.
“I’ve been working here seven years, Paul. And this is important.” She stared at him, waiting.
“How can I say no to such pretty eyes?” he sighed dramatically. With a wink he turned around and headed towards the metal lockers that surrounded the room. He returned with a thick folder; Ted Way printed in big font on the front. He handed it to her, brushing his hand against hers.
“Don’t tell anyone I’m doing this,” he said. “It’ll be our secret. How about we close the door, so no one sees you?” His smirk widened until it was a full-fledged grin.
“No thank you.”
She flicked through the folder, stopping at a certain page. She read it quickly, then neatly prised the page out and folded it in her pocket.
“I’m just borrowing,” she said, in response to Paul’s raised eyebrows. He nodded.
“Bring it back soon.”
When Maria got back to the lounge, Ted was muttering to himself. She sat down opposite him.
“Ted.” She took the folded piece of paper from her pocket, and read it again. “Dean was your boss when you were working as a construction worker, correct?”
He jerked his head forward, which could have been a nod or a twitch. It was unclear.
“And he bullied you for all the fifteen years you worked for him?”
“Knock knock,” Ted muttered.
“Apparently that’s what made you depressed. And mentally unstable.”
“Who’s there,” he said.
“It’s all here, on this piece of paper. You attempted suicide twice; set alight to your own flat several times.” She needed verification.
“Nobody,” he continued. None of what she was saying was going in. But she persisted.
“And you were too scared to stop working for him,”
“Nobody who?” he said.
“So you killed him?” It was too hard to believe.
Ted stayed quiet. And then smiled. It was only afterwards that Maria understood his joke.
Spoiler
My prompt: Your story is about a construction worker in a mental institution telling bad jokes.
Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed :]
Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed :]
