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Page 21
Nobody's crazy in this institution. They're just feeble in their minds.
Let me tell you something funny. There's about a dozen high-grade girls
that set the tables in the big dining room. Sometimes when they're done
ahead of time, they all sit down in chairs in a circle and talk. I sneak
up to the door and listen, and I nearly die to keep from laughing. Do
you want to know what they talk? It's like this. They don't say a word
for a long time. And then one says, "Thank God I'm not feeble-minded."
And all the rest nod their heads and look pleased. And then nobody says
anything for a time. After which the next girl in the circle says,
"Thank God I'm not feeble-minded," and they nod their heads all over
again. And it goes on around the circle, and they never say anything
else. Now they're real feebs, ain't they? I leave it to you. I'm not
that kind of a feeb, thank God.
Sometimes I don't think I'm a feeb at all. I play in the band and read
music. We're all supposed to be feebs in the band except the leader.
He's crazy. We know it, but we never talk about it except amongst
ourselves. His job is politics, too, and we don't want him to lose it. I
play the drum. They can't get along without me in this institution. I
was sick once, so I know. It's a wonder the drooling ward didn't break
down while I was in hospital.
I could get out of here if I wanted to. I'm not so feeble as some might
think. But I don't let on. I have too good a time. Besides, everything
would run down if I went away. I'm afraid some time they'll find out I'm
not a feeb and send me out into the world to earn my own living. I know
the world, and I don't like it. The Home is fine enough for me.
You see how I grin sometimes. I can't help that. But I can put it on a
lot. I'm not bad, though. I look at myself in the glass. My mouth is
funny, I know that, and it lops down, and my teeth are bad. You can tell
a feeb anywhere by looking at his mouth and teeth. But that doesn't
prove I'm a feeb. It's just because I'm lucky that I look like one.
I know a lot. If I told you all I know, you'd be surprised. But when I
don't want to know, or when they want me to do something I don't want
to do, I just let my mouth lop down and laugh and make foolish noises. I
watch the foolish noises made by the low-grades, and I can fool anybody.
And I know a lot of foolish noises. Miss Kelsey called me a fool the
other day. She was very angry, and that was where I fooled her.
Miss Kelsey asked me once why I don't write a book about feebs. I was
telling her what was the matter with little Albert. He's a drooler, you
know, and I can always tell the way he twists his left eye what's the
matter with him. So I was explaining it to Miss Kelsey, and, because she
didn't know, it made her mad. But some day, mebbe, I'll write that book.
Only it's so much trouble. Besides, I'd sooner talk.
Do you know what a micro is? It's the kind with the little heads no
bigger than your fist. They're usually droolers, and they live a long
time. The hydros don't drool. They have the big heads, and they're
smarter. But they never grow up. They always die. I never look at one
without thinking he's going to die. Sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy, or
the nurse is mad at me, I wish I was a drooler with nothing to do and
somebody to feed me. But I guess I'd sooner talk and be what I am.
Only yesterday Doctor Dalrymple said to me, "Tom," he said, "I just
don't know what I'd do without you." And he ought to know, seeing as
he's had the bossing of a thousand feebs for going on two years. Dr.
Whatcomb was before him. They get appointed, you know. It's politics.
I've seen a whole lot of doctors here in my time. I was here before any
of them. I've been in this institution twenty-five years. No, I've got
no complaints. The institution couldn't be run better.
It's a snap to be a high-grade feeb. Just look at Doctor Dalrymple. He
has troubles. He holds his job by politics. You bet we high-graders talk
politics. We know all about it, and it's bad. An institution like this
oughtn't to be run on politics. Look at Doctor Dalrymple. He's been here
two years and learned a lot. Then politics will come along and throw
him out and send a new doctor who don't know anything about feebs.
I've been acquainted with just thousands of nurses in my time. Some of
them are nice. But they come and go. Most of the women get married.
Sometimes I think I'd like to get married. I spoke to Dr. Whatcomb about
it once, but he told me he was very sorry, because feebs ain't allowed
to get married. I've been in love. She was a nurse. I won't tell you her
name. She had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and a kind voice, and she
liked me. She told me so. And she always told me to be a good boy. And I
was, too, until afterward, and then I ran away. You see, she went off
and got married, and she didn't tell me about it.
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