Quack Attack

     Dr. Gottswin is a bastard.
     He is incompetent, arrogant, and negligent. There have been many times I have seen him talking about me and laughing behind my back. He doesn’t even hide it. I can hear his voice even when he isn’t at the hospital, mocking and ridiculing me. I am a lowly psych aide and he is Doc Hollywood with a medical license he probably purchased online or in a backward third-world clinic.
     But I ignore him. I know it might be my paranoid schizophrenia, my brain supplanting paranoid delusions that are a product of excess serotonin. Or maybe my ventricles are too big. I don’t really care, Gottswin can be as cruel as he wants to me. But I draw the line when he messes with the children in the psychiatric center.
     There have been many complaints about him. One night he was on vacation and didn’t see his patients all weekend. It is required that a patient’s primary psychiatrist see him at least once a day. Gottswin was in Monterey hitting golf balls onto Highway 99 and adding fat to his saggy belly by drinking beer in the golf cart. He arrived at the hospital at 11 p.m., sun-tanned and drunk. Despite his slushed brain cells, his superiority complex was intact.
    He lurched down the hallway toward the latency unit. Me and Charlie were sitting there, finishing our charting and making rounds in the childrens’ rooms every half hour to make sure they were safe. Gottswin staggered down the hall and Charlie asked him what he was doing.
     “Going to see my patients.”
     Charlie: “Not at eleven at night you aren’t.”
     “I’m their doctor. I can see them when I want.”
     “Nope. They’re asleep. Do you have any idea how hard it was to put twelve belligerent kids to sleep? Damn near impossible. You’re not going to reverse all the work we did.”
     “Don’t give me this bullshit, Charlie. Get out of my way.”
     I got angry. “There’s kids over here.”
     Gottswin glared at me. “No shit, Sherlock. Who clued you in?”
     Me: “Don’t cuss. It’s a bad influence.”
     “Tough fucking crapping shit.”
     Charlie stepped between us. “Assess the kids in the morning or I’ll write an incident report.”
     Gottswin cursed under his breath, then stumbled away. “I’m their doctor,” he yelled over his shoulder, loud enough to wake the entire unit. “I decide if they’re dangerous or labile. I prescribe the medications that stabilize them. If one of them commits suicide or jams a salad fork into your kidney, it will be your fault. The family will sue you and so will I.”
     This wasn’t the only time Gottswin upset me. Once he was taunting a kid named Kyle. Kyle was ten and I liked him. He was admitted to the psych center for Tourette’s syndrome, ADHD, and depression. Kyle wanted to go home, but Gottswin wouldn’t let him. He kept insulting Kyle, saying, “Your mother says you throw tantrums. Big, violent, craaaazzzy tantrums. Here you’ve been an angel. You’ve been honeymooning. But you know what? I’m on to you. I know what you’re capable of. And you’re not leaving this hospital until I see one of your huge, epic tantrums. Understand?”
     Kyle understood. So he reared back and kicked Gottswin in the groin.
     I almost laughed. Gottswin fell down, moaning and clutching his scrotum. When the pain subsided, he demanded I put Kyle in restraints.
     “I can’t do that,” I said.
     “What? I am his doctor and I am telling you to restrain him!”
     “Why? He’s perfectly calm.”
     “He just kicked my nuts in!”
    “He’s not out of control, so I can’t restrain him.”
     “You’re an idiot.” Gottswin went to get the leather straps so he could pin Kyle down in the Quiet Room. When he asked for help, no one moved. He stood in the nurses’ station, staring at Kyle with buckled leather restraints dangling from his hands. Kyle stared back at him. After a moment, Gottswin flung the straps on the floor and stormed toward his office.
     “Major infraction, Kyle,” he shouted. “Your true personality is coming out. I see the little monster behind your eyes. And guess what? You just earned yourself another week here.”
     A cowardly parting shot.
     Like I said, Gottswin is a bastard.
     But bastards get knocked down eventually. At the time I didn’t realize it was me who would sucker punch him.